Tom Olbert

Imagine an alien invasion story with a twist -- a violent twist. Throw in time travel, an alternate universe where entropy flows backwards, humans with amazing mental powers, and a kick-ass love story. That's Twilight's Arc. Prepare to have your confidence in reality shaken.

Tom Olbert's science fiction has previously appeared in anthologies from Mocha Memoirs, Lillicat Publishers, and Vagabondage. His science fiction novel Dissent: Book I of the Nexus is available from Phase5 Publishing. His science fiction novella Star Dancer is available from Gypsy Shadow.

As for the story, I'll let speak for itself.

-- Tom Olbert  

Machine gun fire tore through the human-like figure, nearly blasting its head off.

Joe McMasters lowered the assault rifle.  He took in the damage to the practice dummy, and imagined the effect on a human target.

 “Quite a beauty, isn’t she?” Harrison Prescott, CEO of one of the largest gun manufacturing companies in the country, said with a smile as he took the prototype weapon from Joe and aimed it at the next practice dummy, constructed in the image of a young African American male in inner-city clothing.  Prescott fired, impact after impact riddling the dummy with AR-15 caliber holes.  He smacked his lips and smiled.  “Muzzle velocity, impact, rounds per second … she’s tops.”  He hefted the weapon.  “We’ve managed to reduce the recoil shock for superior accuracy, as I’m sure you noticed.”

“I certainly did, sir.”  Joe greatly admired the self-made tycoon.  He’d never regretted his decision to leave the bureau to join Prescott’s private security detail.

“She’ll be a hot item, once we kill the last few votes on that anti-assault weapon bill.”  He handed the weapon to an attendant.  “Walk with me, Joe.”

Joe followed Prescott out of the testing range into his mansion.  The house reflects the man, Joe thought.  The big game trophies, the rifles on display.  It put Joe in mind of all the dreams of adventure he’d nurtured as a boy when out hunting with his dad.

“Drink?” Prescott asked, pouring himself a Scotch.

“Never on duty, sir.  Thanks, all the same.”

Prescott smiled, dropping ice in his glass.  “True professional, to the last.”  He pressed an intercom button.  “Carter … bring in the Wilcox file.”  A minute later, a young man entered and handed Prescott a thick file.  “Joe, take a look at this.  Back when you were with the FBI, the bureau must have investigated any number of senators.  Take a glance and tell me what your experience tells you about the honorable Senator Wilcox.”

Joe glanced through the file, Prescott’s hand lightly on his shoulder.  Joe wrinkled his nose as he smelled something rancid, like decaying meat.  He twitched, feeling moisture at his shoulder.  The light touch of Prescott’s hand turned into a vice-like clamp just as Carter screamed.  Joe looked up, startled, the file slipping from his numbed fingers and spilling out on the floor.  Carter’s face blanched white, twisted in horror.  Joe’s heart froze. There, where Prescott had stood was a writhing mass of slithery limbs and leathery webbing around a gaping, triangular maw framing several fanged sets of jaws, one within the other, drooling noxious, dark liquid like sewage, spattering onto the papers at Joe’s feet.

Before he could think, the unholy abomination tore Carter’s throat out with one swipe of its monstrous claw.  His numbness passing, Joe drew his pistol and fired.  He fired and fired and fired, the inhuman creature splattering into a nightmarish, howling mass of fluids and pulped, oozing cartilage. Long after the clip was empty, his finger still uselessly pumped the trigger.

They found him on his knees, the smoking gun still clenched in his hand two dead human bodies nearby.

###

Joe McMasters trembled as he put the cigarette between his lips.  Agent Karen Sanders clicked her lighter, lighting it for him.  His eyes were down.  He was pale and trembling, like a man who hadn’t slept in days.  Karen could see her old colleague was mortally terrified.  And Joe McMasters had never been a man who frightened easily.

“That’s your story?” Agent Harv Bradley shouted, slamming his hand on the table top.  McMasters started, looking up.  Bradley sneered, leaning into Joe’s face and taking the cigarette out of his mouth.  “My six-year-old could make up a better one than that,” he said, taking a drag and blowing smoke into Joe’s face.

“Knock it off,” Karen said through clenched teeth, vividly remembering Harv Bradley’s cruelty towards the end of their relationship.

“You’re looking at death by lethal injection.  You know that, right?” Bradley said, close by Joe’s ear.  “Personally, I think they should make it hurt more.”  Joe tried to pull away as Bradley crushed the burning cigarette against Joe’s wrist, just above the shackle.

“Stop it!” Karen shouted as Bradley twisted Joe’s arm.  She heard bones cracking and saw Joe’s face twisting in pain as she drew her gun, taking aim at Bradley’s shoulder.  “I said, stop it!”  He released McMasters and looked up.  The look of hatred on Bradley’s face reminded her of the day she’d told him about the abortion. He slowly reached for his shoulder holster, as though daring her to fire.  Her finger tightened on the trigger.

“Stand down, both of you!” Peter Torres, head of the FBI’s Criminal Investigative Division, shouted as he burst into the interrogation room, two uniformed agents behind him.  “Now!”

Karen holstered her weapon, exhaling in relief.

“That crazy bitch tried to shoot me!” Bradley shouted.  “I want charges filed.”

“He tortured that suspect, Agent Torres,” she protested.  Joe McMasters writhed in pain, clutching his broken arm.

“Get that man medical attention,” Torres ordered.  “You two … outside, now!”  Torres kept himself between Karen and Harv as the three of them stepped into the observation room.  Karen’s heart was racing.  She wiped sweat off the palm of her hand.  “Agent Bradley … ” Torres began in a subdued but angry tone Karen had come to know well.  “May I remind you that as an observer from the National Security Branch, your role here is to observe and advise, not to interrogate suspects?  A full report on your conduct will be sent to the National Security Council and the Department of Justice.”

Bradley guffawed.  “And may I remind you, Agent Torres, that President Riley has given National Security a free hand in this investigation?  The DOJ is definitely out of the loop on this one.”

Torres stood his ground.  “There will be no illegal interrogation techniques here.  Not while I’m in charge of this division.  And the President’s orders do not give you jurisdiction until this matter has been positively classified as a national security threat.”

Bradley ground his teeth and writhed.  “Jesus Christ, how much more proof do you need?  Look at the pattern.  Three murders of connected high rollers.  First, an oil baron, then a high-level lobbyist for oil industry deregulation.  Now a gun manufacturer.  It’s obviously a left wing conspiracy!  Eco-terrorists and anti-gun fanatics closing ranks.”

“Joe McMasters is certainly neither of those,” Karen interjected, Bradley’s voice grating across her nerves.  “All three victims were shot by their own bodyguards.  McMasters told the exact same story as did the security men who shot the other two vics.  Stories corroborated in the first two instances by witnesses…clerical staff, cleaners.  Joe’s description of the … entity … matched the other two accounts precisely.  And he passed a polygraph.  As did the other witnesses.”

Bradley sneered in disgust.  “Murderers and fanatics pass polygraphs every day.  It’s a cover story, for God’s sake!  The bodies of all the victims were autopsied.  Nothing unusual was found.”

“I know Joe McMasters very well,” Karen continued.  “He’s no radical, that’s for sure.  He’s a cowboy by nature, a boy who never grew up.  Definitely a gun enthusiast.  And Harrison Prescott was his idol.  The psych team agrees with me on that.”

“I’m sure,” Bradley said in a familiar tone of sarcasm.  “We all know there are … undesirable elements lingering at the bureau.  Riley’s a bit soft.  But once we have a real man like Cooper in office, there’s going to be a lot of house cleaning around here.  You can take that to the bank … Pedro.”  He winked at Torres.

Torres’s jaw clenched.  “Get out, Bradley.  Before I file charges of my own.”

Bradley shot a scathing glance at Karen as he left the room.

Torres swore as his cell buzzed.  “What is it?  I’m rather busy at the … all right, all right.  Levy wants us in the lab,” he said, putting the phone away.  She accompanied him to the elevator.  He stopped the car halfway down to the basement.  “You know I stuck my neck out when I assured the branch director that it would be okay to have you and Bradley on this together.  I trust Sanders, I told him.  She’s not one to let personal grudges affect her work, I told him -- ”

“You blame me for this?” she demanded.  “Bradley’s a border-line psycho.  They kicked him out of Counterterrorism for being trigger happy and stuck him in Detainee Interrogation because he enjoys hurting people.”

“I blame you for drawing your sidearm instead of calling for back-up, Agent Sanders.”

“He was hurting Joe!  I wasn’t about to -- ”

“You control your emotions, Agent!  You follow procedure.  We have to be careful, especially now.”

She saw the look of worry on his face.  “I take it you’re not pressing charges against Bradley?”

He sighed.  “He’s right, you know.  If Cooper’s elected -- and all polling data indicates he will be -- Riley’s administration will seem moderate by comparison.  You think the courts are stacked now?  Wait ‘till Cooper goes to town.  He may actually succeed in jailing women retroactively for abortion and go back several generations looking for illegal immigration status.  And Bradley and his friends are well connected.  Which means, if we make noise, you could end up in prison, and I could end up dodging cartel bullets in places I doubt I could find on the map.”

Her blood ran cold as he restarted the elevator.

They found Schuyler Levy in the computer lab, noisily slurping soda through a straw.  He barely looked up from his laptop, brightly colored images flashing across his glasses.  Off again in his private world, she thought.  The job was one big computer game to the little weirdo.  In a strange way, she couldn’t help but like him.  “This better be good, Levy,” Torres warned.  “I’m not accustomed to being summoned by my own research staff.”

“Hey, it’s not like I had time to print out hard copies for you, boss,” Schuyler said.  “And I figured you wouldn’t want to wait on this.”  She could see Schuyler was excited, and it took a lot to get Schuyler worked up.  “I think I’ve got a break on the B.E.M. case.”

Torres wrinkled his brow.  “‘B.E.M.’?”

Karen smiled.  “Bug-eyed monster,” she explained.  “That’s what the computer techs are calling the Harrison Prescott case.”

Torres rolled his eyes.  “I’m listening, Schuyler.  Impress me.”

“I ran all the images from the street cams through this new program I wrote, and I think I’ve found the common denominator.  Look here.”  He swiveled the laptop around and pointed to three split-screen images.  “This van was parked within a half-mile of all three crime scenes.  Notice the weird antenna on top?”

Karen squinted at the images.  “What is it?”

“No clue.  It doesn’t turn up in any database.  Definitely not radio, T.V. or sat-com.  It’s either purely decorative or cutting edge.  I’m betting on the latter.  Now as you can see, at the scene of the first incident, at the oil tycoon’s residence, the van’s a delivery service.  In the second incident, at the lobbyist’s office, it’s a T.V. repair unit, and at Prescott’s place, it’s a cleaning service.  All three company logos came back bogus, as did the license plates.  I had the CSI crews check the tread marks at all three sites, and they all matched.  Definitely the same van.  The DMV got us a registration.  It’s owned by a company called Twilight’s Arc.”

He typed in the address of a corporate web page.  A corporate logo resembling a yin-yang symbol filled the screen, a wave of weird, almost hypnotic Eastern-sounding music came through the speaker as the lengthening shadows of a setting sun spelled out the words Twilight’s Arc.  “They’re a small start-up owned by a foreign national and employing some of the brightest young minds in a variety of tech fields.  Their primary focus is developing electrical brain stimulation and neural relaxation technology.  Basically, tech-enhanced meditation techniques.  Several large corporations have poured serious money into their R&D, hoping to come up with ways to alleviate work-related stress, sharpen cognitive focus, and boost productivity.”

“In short, they mess with people’s heads,” Karen said.

“They do.”  Schuyler slurped his soda.

“Enough for a warrant?” she asked Torres.

“I’ll see.”  Torres started out and paused.  “Good work, Schuyler.”

###

Twilight’s Arc seemed in many ways more a spiritual retreat than a place of business.  Nestled in a California valley, it was a green, growing maze of solaria, gardens, and winding wooden staircases with an indoor waterfall splashing over brightly colored rocks.

The cafeteria looked out on a green yard, sunlight streaming through the bay windows.  Karen had been undercover as a clerical temp at Twilight’s Arc for the past week, learning the ins and outs of the place and getting to know the staff.  So far, it had all come up zero.  Leaving the cashier, she tried to hide her disgust at the contents of her tray.  She wasn’t sure how much longer she could subsist on brown rice, curried cauliflower, and bean sprouts.

Her mouth watered as she spotted a plate of greasy cheese burgers and fries being served to a pimple-faced little twerp in a wool hat sitting at a table across the room.  He was alone, except for a distinguished-looking, elderly Indian gentleman, apparently a Hindu, wearing a traditional Sherwani and a skull cap and eating a lunch similar to Karen’s.  Men and women who had ‘security’ written all over them hovered about.  Clearly, no one else was allowed near.

She looked around the caf and spotted Byron Caldwell, the electrical engineer, sitting alone, as he usually did, picking at a plate of curried lentils.  She’d checked that one out.  He had a degree in quantum physics and numerous patents.  All the social skill of a five-year-old and about as much self-confidence.  She’d caught him looking at her more than once.  She’d learned from experience it always paid to dress revealingly on assignments like this.  “Hi,” she said, smiling and stepping up to his table.  “Mind a little company?”

“Uh … no, not at all,” the young man stammered in apparent disbelief.  “You’re the temp, right?  Karen?  I’m…”

“Byron Caldwell, of course,” she said, gushing behind a fake smile.  “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been working up the nerve to say ‘hello’ to you.  I mean, we’re not supposed to fraternize or whatever, but … I’m doing my master’s on electrical engineering, and … you are practically legendary.”

He blushed and turned away.  “Well, thank you,” he said, clearing his throat and tugging at his collar.  “Well, you’ve certainly picked the right place to work.”  He took a sip of water.

“Oh, I know.  The work you do here is fascinating, and the people are amazing.”  She leaned towards him and whispered, “The food leaves something to be desired though.”  She giggled.

“Takes a little getting used to,” he agreed with a nervous smile.

“Say…who’s the schlub getting the royal treatment?” she asked, jerking a thumb at the guy in the wool hat scarfing down cheeseburgers.

“Oh … Our perennial guest of honor.  Mr. X, we call him.  Our test subject, really.”

“What do you test him for?”

“I … really can’t say.  Strictly ‘need to know.’”

“Who’s the fakir with him?”

“Hey, keep your voice down,” he whispered urgently, looking nervous.  “That’s our founder and CEO.  And head researcher.  Aadav Banerjee himself.  Now that’s quite a guy.  Degrees in neurochemistry and cognitive psychology.  Advanced Yoga practitioner.  Real pioneer in cerebral studies.  Working for him’s a dream come true.  In fact --”  He smiled, looking very pleased with himself.  “I got his attention when I personally discovered Mr. X over there.”

“Discovered?  How?”

“I --”  He stopped himself, looking bitterly frustrated.  “Can’t say.  Very secret.  But I can tell you this…I designed the system Aadav uses to work with X.  Revolutionary electrical system.  Real Journal of Science-worthy stuff.  I’m there with the two of them at the dream pool whenever they have one of their sessions.”

“Dream pool?”

“Yeah.  Now that’s a trip, believe me.”  He seemed to hesitate.  “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that.  Strictly confidential.  It’s over there in the maximum security wing.”  He glanced down the corridor. “Only Aadav and I are allowed in there.”  His self-promoting smile came back.  “Aadav needs me in there.  It can get pretty wild.  I’m there every time, checking my instruments, monitoring the energy flow, and making sure everything works the way it’s supposed to.”

“Fascinating,” she said, laying a hand on his arm.  He looked like he might cook in his skin.  She leaned in close, whispering in his ear.  “Tell me more.”

###

Two days later…

Karen used a stolen cell phone to lure a security guard away from his post and slipped unnoticed into the maximum security wing in a stolen worker’s coverall.  She used the app Schuyler had designed for her to hack the security lock and got into the inner section itself undetected.

In the dimly lit prep room adjoining the so-called dream pool, she hung back in the shadows, spying on Caldwell.  He’d finished donning the white insulation suit he’d told her about.  As he’d said, it was like a haz-mat get-up. He tested the oxygen system and prepared to start his job.  Dropping the worker’s coverall and stripping to her bra and panties, she let her hair down and revealed herself to him.  “Surprise!” she squealed, running to him.

He froze, almost dropping his oxygen unit.  “What … ?  How did you get in here?”

“Oh, I just slipped in when nobody was looking.  I figured…maximum security; best chance for us to be alone.”  There was a loud hiss as she disconnected his air hose.  The plastic face plate of his suit steamed over fast.

He protested as she opened the hermetic seals and removed the head covering.  “You can’t be in here!  You realize how much trouble we could get in?”

“Who’s going to know?” she said playfully.  “C’mere.”  She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, full on the lips.  As he swooned, she put the small needle to the back of his neck and pressed the injector.  The sedative worked almost instantaneously.  She lowered him gently to the floor and whispered in his ear as he slipped into unconsciousness.  “Sleep well.  When you wake, you’ll remember only that the session went normally.  After the session, you came back in here to change and dozed off for a minute.”  He moaned as he passed out.

###

The insulation suit was bulky and uncomfortable, but Karen managed.

The dream pool chamber was like a large, darkened auditorium, fluid light rippling across the walls.  Strange, soothing music filled the air.  Steps led down to the brightly lit floor of the chamber.  There, floating on his back, half-naked in a water tank was Mr. X himself, minus the wool hat.  A network of electrodes covered his cleanly shaved head.  His eyes were closed, his eyelids fluttering.  A smile crossed his face.  On the far side of the chamber, she could see Aadav Banerjee looking down from a kind of booth, operating some kind of control panel.

She surveyed the whole set up.  In the half light of the upper sections, she could see tall, thin metallic poles arranged in the pattern Caldwell had described, encircling the tank below.  She kept to the shadows, checking the electrical monitors.  Suffering through excruciating hours of tech talk with Caldwell had told her what she needed to know to give a sufficiently convincing performance. She crept closer, pretending to check her instruments as she recorded everything with her phone.  “Mr. Caldwell.” She nearly jumped out of her skin as Banerjee’s voice came booming through a loudspeaker system.  “Please monitor the energy flow precisely.  Let me know immediately if there is even the slightest fluctuation.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, deepening her tone and lowering the microphone volume in the head covering to muffle her voice.  Banerjee’s order gave her an excuse to check the nearest pole.  She took care to keep her face turned away from Banerjee’s view.  She drew her gloved hand back sharply as her fingers encountered a strange vibrancy in the air around the pole.  She carefully tested it again.  Not like an electric shock.  More a strange, almost soothing kind of tingling sensation.  Caldwell had described his invention as a kind of monitoring system, though he hadn’t said for what.  She reached her hand through the strange, invisible curtain of energy.  Sensing no ill effect, she leaned through, entering the inner circle between the poles.

She gasped.  The tank around Mr. X suddenly transformed into a large pool filled with water lilies that appeared from nowhere.  Next appeared three beautiful, naked young women, likewise materializing out of thin air.  They stroked Mr. X, bathing and pleasuring him as his smile grew.  Karen’s initial shock passing, she thought she recognized at least two of the ethereal nymphs as fashion models she’d seen in catalogs.

“More focus please, Mr. Overton,” Banerjee said in an irritated tone.  Karen glanced up, seeing the old man adjust a control.

The women and water lilies disappeared.  The light dimmed as the pool dissolved into stars and swirling, faintly glowing gases and clouds of dust.  Karen’s blood froze as there appeared hideous alien things.  Writhing, clawed limbs and drooling, fanged jaws formed out of the boiling air, just as Joe McMasters had described.  She reflexively reached for a gun she didn’t have.  Her heart throbbed as she forced herself to keep still and continue recording.

###

Peter Torres sighed.  “You can’t seriously expect me to take this to the branch director.”

“I know what I saw,” Karen said firmly, clenching her fist against the residual trembling.

“None of which shows up on the surveillance vid,” Torres pointed out, holding up her phone.

“It wouldn’t, would it?” she retorted, tapping her finger against the side of her head.

“What have you got, Levy?” Torres asked, glancing over at Schuyler.

“Our wet-dreaming telepath turned up on a missing persons list,” Schuyler said, pushing his laptop forward.  Karen took a closer look at the still image of a young man’s face displayed on the screen.  A few years younger and with a full head of hair, but definitely the mysterious Mr. Overton.  “Rafe Overton. About three years ago, he was a very promising MBA student at NYU Stern School of Business.  Renowned for turning in papers that seemed to mirror the thoughts of his professors.  His promising future came crashing down when the school hosted a guest speaker.  One Charles Matthews, a senior V.P. at Rexxon, a major coal company.  The moment Matthews stepped into view, Overton went berserk; ran screaming out of the auditorium terrified, knocking people aside, and raving that Matthews wasn’t Matthews, that he was some kind of alien monster.

“Overton’s family tried to get him committed, but he bolted.  Six months later he turned up in Vegas, raking in huge amounts of cash playing cards with the boys.  They called him ‘the kid you couldn’t bluff.’  Then, one night in front of Caesar’s Palace, he had another of his psychotic episodes.  He ran screaming down the boulevard, claiming the aliens were after him.  Witnesses saw two guys dressed as uniformed cops beat the crap out of him, hustle him into a squad car, and take off with him.  He was never brought in and the collar was never logged, so it was apparently phony.  The next morning the highway patrol found the fake squad car abandoned by the Interstate.  No clear sign of Overton or the two ersatz patrolmen.  They did, however, find a body, burned beyond recognition.  Flesh, musculature, and internal organs completely incinerated.  Charred bones almost powdered by intense heat.  To this day no one’s been able to figure out how it was done.  It was like the body was put through a blast furnace.  Overton has remained missing ever since.  Until now.”

“Enough for a raid?” Karen asked Torres.

“Is there an outstanding warrant on Overton?” he asked Schuyler.

“Nope.” Schuyler replied.

“Then, forget it,” Torres said.  “We can’t bust them for harboring a fugitive.  Overton doesn’t appear to be held against his will.  And there’s no way to establish a direct link between Twilight’s Arc and Overton’s abduction, if that’s what it was.  Much less with the char-broiled John Doe.”

“Did Overton’s description of the ‘aliens’ three years ago match up with mine?” Karen asked Schuyler.

“Down to the smallest detail,” Schuyler answered.  “And here’s an interesting footnote: Aadav Banerjee has published a number of science articles over the years stating that he believes telepathy is theoretically possible.”

“It’ll take a lot more than that to convince a judge it’s possible to transmit one man’s delusions into other people’s minds,” Torres said.  “And Overton’s ravings are public record.”  Karen writhed, about ready to explode.  “However … Overton just might be enough to get us an extension on the undercover warrant.”  He looked at Karen.  “Up for it, Sanders?”

“I insist,” she said.

###

Karen had tampered with enough files and downloaded enough viruses at Twilight’s Arc to extend the need for her services.  In the course of her IT support, she’d managed to get Schuyler an on-site link.  After another week, he finally cracked one of the company’s firewalls and got Karen into the architectural database and layouts for the sub-structure.  She smiled as the plans for the underground parking garage appeared on her monitor screen.  She quickly mapped out an access route through the ventilation ducts.

 ###

That night …

Karen controlled her breathing, sweating in the darkness as the guard’s flashlight beam passed her by.  In her mask and form-fitting black bodysuit, she was practically invisible.

The guard stooped to pick up the lightbulb she’d unscrewed.  She dropped from the ceiling and grabbed him from behind.  Clamping her hand over his mouth, she injected the sedative into the back of his neck.  He reached for his gun just as he passed out.  Stepping over the man’s unconscious body, she scanned the garage with her infra-red goggles.  And there it was.  The van.  There was no mistaking that strange-looking antenna on the roof.

Picking the lock and sliding the door open, she climbed inside.  She lifted her goggles as the van’s interior light came on.  Complex electrical equipment and control panel.  She recorded everything.  Directly below the roof antenna was positioned a chair.  Directly above the chair there hung down at the end of a cable what looked like a skull cap, reminding her of an old-fashioned electric chair.  Inside the cap, she found a network of electrodes, like the one she’d seen Overton wearing in the dream pool.

“Don’t move,” a man’s voice said behind her in the darkness.  Her blood froze as she heard the click of a gun safety.  “Drop the phone and keep your hands visible.”

She swore silently as she let the phone slip from her hand.  She heard it clatter to the van’s floor at her feet.

“Come down, slowly,” the strong voice said.  As she stepped backward, she glanced over her shoulder and saw the gun in his hand.  Smith & Wesson .38.

“Eyes front!” he shouted.

She pretended to be shaken, faltering and deliberately missing her step, nearly falling as she stepped out of the van.  She pretended to cry, faking convulsions, her head down.  She judged the distance as he stepped forward.  Twisting suddenly, she threw a backward kick, knocking the gun from his hand.  She heard it slide across the tarmac.  She aimed a second kick at the large man’s mid-section.  He shielded himself, rolling with the impact.  And it was on.

They danced a bit, circling each other, looking for openings as they traded blows, blocking and dodging.  This guy was good.  Strong and fast. Ex-service or ex-cop.  She tried to make eye contact, hoping to anticipate.  He hung back at the edge of the light, his face shrouded in shadow.  Smart. She knew she had to take him down fast, before his back-up showed.  She blocked a punch, taking the impact on her forearm.  She grit her teeth and pushed through the pain.  She got the feeling he was holding back.  Didn’t like hurting women?  She saw her chance.  Feinting to the left, she struck right, ducked a punch and slipped up behind him, knocking him aside with a kick.  She slammed the van door, throwing the garage into darkness.

She lowered her goggles as he lashed out blindly, apparently trying to judge the distance from her last position, but finding only air.  She spun, kicked him behind both knee joints, and chopped him twice behind the neck.  He went down, shaking his head, fighting to stay conscious.  She injected him behind the neck with the sedative.  He slumped to the floor, unconscious.  Her head snapped up as she heard voices and running feet.  She threw open the van door, grabbed the phone, and ran for the air duct.

Her heart throbbed in the darkness as she ran, the voices behind her growing louder.

 ###

The next day …

Her run finished, Karen bent over, panting.  She leaned back, stretched, and wiped the sweat from her forehead in the bright sunshine as her ‘co-workers’ from Twilight’s Arc jogged into the parking lot outside the office building.

She looked them over as they stood about, smiling and joking, panting and sweaty in their brightly colored shorts and tops.  So relaxed.  So young.  She’d signed up for the run as a way to blend in with them more naturally.  And figuring the sight of her in sports bra and bike shorts just might loosen the odd male tongue.

“Good run,” a man said.  She started, his voice disturbingly familiar.

“Yeah,” she agreed, turning to him with a smile.  Damn.  Handsome devil.  Tall and strong, sweat gleaming off well-developed, athletic muscles.  Reminiscent of Harv Bradley.  Stay focused, she reminded herself. Let the attraction show; it was part of the cover.  But never let it cloud your judgement.  But damn … it’s been a while.  She recognized this one from her personnel research at Twilight’s Arc.  Mike Jenson, Head of Security.

“Mike,” he said with a friendly smile, extending his hand.

“Karen,” she said, shaking it.  Strong, like Harv.  She remembered what the bureau shrink had told her after the abortion.  That she’d been attracted to hard, domineering men like Harv, subconsciously seeking approval and affection from men who’d reminded her of a cold, hard father whose approval she’d never won, no matter how hard she’d tried.  There hadn’t been anyone else since Harv.  But there was something in this one’s grip and in his eyes that was not like Harv.  A gentleness.  And though she couldn’t put her finger on it … a vulnerability.  Wounded perhaps?

“Nasty bruise,” Mike said, stroking the purple bruise on her forearm where she’d taken that blow in the garage the night before.  “Take a fall?”

“Training injury,” she replied.  “I work out a lot.”

“I can see that.”  He moved, swiftly, and without warning.  A martial arts move.  But she blocked it.  As he’d obviously expected her to.  She silently admonished herself for falling for so obvious a trick.  “Kung Fu,” he noted.  “Very good.”

“Yeah, thanks.  It helps me with concentration, focus, whatever.  I can see you work out a lot, too,” she said, leaning in close and gently stroking the bruise behind his neck, where she’d hit him the night before.  She heard his breathing accelerate as she touched him.  She backed off.  She’d wanted to confirm that the attraction was mutual.  She never liked giving an opponent an advantage.  “Maybe you should ease up a little.”

“I sometimes think I’m not hard enough on myself,” he said.  “Sometimes, I hold back a little, y’know?”  He leaned close by her ear.  “That’s not a mistake I’d repeat.”

“Nor should you,” she replied.

“Catch ya later,” he said, heading into the gym.

“Catch ya later,” she repeated.  Cat and mouse, was it?  Bring it on.

“Hey, was that guy bothering you?” a feminine voice asked.  Karen turned to see another of the runners, a petite, young woman approaching her, a concerned expression on her cute little face.  “If you want to go to H.R., I’m right there with you.  I’ll be your witness.”

Gutsy, for someone so small and soft-looking, Karen thought.  “Oh, no need,” she said reassuringly.  “We were just comparing sports injuries.  Just jock talk.  No worries.  But thank you very much for asking.  I really appreciate it.”

“We women have to stick together, right?” she said with a nervous smile.  “I’m Abbie, by the way.”

“Karen.”  They shook hands.  Karen recognized her as well.  Abigail Bouchard.  She headed up the statistical analysis and logistics department at T.A.  By all accounts, brilliant at what she did, and very driven for one so young.  Rather glum of late, since a young woman she’d been seeing in accounting had moved on to an accounting firm job in New York.  Karen had noticed Abbie hovering about her lunch table the past few days since the break-up, apparently trying to work up the nerve to approach her.

A little Yorkshire terrier came trotting merrily up to Abbie, wagging its tail and looking eagerly up at her.  “How’s Mr. Snuggles, then,” Abbie said, picking up the small dog and cuddling him lovingly.  “You have a good run?  Yes, you did.”

“Oh, he’s adorable,” Karen said, smiling and scratching the pooch behind his ears.

“He likes you,” Abbie said.  “Don’t you?  Yes.  Well … time to hit the showers and back to the grind,” she said with a shrug.  “Uh … see you around, Karen.”

“Abbie …” Karen said, seeing an opening.  “I hope this isn’t over the line or anything, but … would you like to have a drink with me after work?”

Abbie’s face lit up, her big, brown eyes sparkling.

###

That night …

Abbie Bouchard moaned in her sleep, her head resting on a pillow on her sofa.

Karen pulled a quilt over her.  The drug she’d slipped into her wine would keep her out for the next few hours at least.  As Mr. Snuggles took eager advantage of the opened space, hopping up on the sofa and curling up on top of Abbie, Karen found Abbie’s laptop on the dining room table and brought it up.

Having spent the evening pumping Abbie for all the personal information she could think of, she tried all the obvious passwords.  Her home town.  First school.  First girlfriend.  Nothing.  She glanced over at the little Yorkie licking Abbie’s face and typed in ‘snuggles.’  She smiled as the page came up.

Abbie Bouchard had recently been doing exhaustive research on a certain oil industry CEO.  Kurt Vanderhaven.  One of the wealthiest men in the country, he’d poured millions into a number of political campaigns, including John Cooper’s presidential bid.  Pulling strings in D.C., Vanderhaven had fast-tracked a trans-continental oil pipeline and helped suppress numerous science studies on how ecologically destructive the project was.  Karen clicked on a few links, recognizing several news reports of mass protests against Vanderhaven’s company after his private security men had been charged with killing Native Americans and farmers protesting the pipeline.

Karen opened private files, finding extensively detailed floor plans and related information pertaining to Vanderhaven’s private estate.  Alarms, schedules, security perimeters, guard shifts.  The works.  Bouchard had apparently succeeded in hacking Vanderhaven’s private server and others used by his security firm.

Karen inserted a flash drive and downloaded everything.

###

Later, at the Vanderhaven estate …

The golf ball rolled across the thick shag carpet, into the putting cup.  “You’ll forgive my skepticism, Agent Sanders,” Kurt Vanderhaven said, his square-jawed profile silhouetted in the late-afternoon sun streaming through his office window.  “But you’ve seen my security set-up.  With the notable exceptions of Fort Knox and the White House, I’d say this is the safest place in the country,” he said confidently, his six foot, one-inch body framed by the green lawn visible through the window.  “No, strike that,” he said, coaxing another ball out of the bucket with his putter.  “This is definitely safer than the White House.”  He chuckled as he sank another putt.

Karen ground her teeth, trying to hide her exasperation.  “Mr. Vanderhaven, with all due respect … I’ve told you about the other three incidents.  I think it would be prudent if you let us move you to a safe house for the time being.”

“Me?  Hide out like a common criminal?  Not likely.  Besides, I have the utmost confidence in my security team.  You play golf, Agent Sanders?”

“What?  Uh … occasionally, sir.  But …”

“Ever bet on the games?” he asked with a grin.

“Uh … no, sir.  I’m not that good.  But about …”

“Probably your grip.  Here, let me show you.”  He handed her his club and pressed himself against her from behind, his arms around her, his hands on the club beside hers.  “Nice, straight, easy grip, you see?”

She cringed as he nuzzled her neck.  This was the guy she’d come here to save?  “Sir, stop that.”  She tried to gently work herself free, but he proved persistent.  She clenched her teeth, trembling with anger.  She fought the mounting temptation to smash Vanderhaven’s smug face to a pulp.  And she was losing.  She winced, a rancid stench suddenly taking the place of Vanderhaven’s musky aftershave.  A smell like rotting flesh.  Her skin crawled as something slimy seemed to envelop her. She gasped as Vanderhaven’s hands on the club were replaced by inhuman claws.  Fetid breath washed over her, fangs dripping dark fluid onto her shoulder.

She shouted as she pulled away.  There, in Vanderhaven’s place stood the same alien monstrosity she’d seen in the dream pool.  She instinctively reached for her gun, but stopped herself.  “Not real,” she kept repeating.  “Not real.  Not real.”  The hideous creature remained stubbornly visible as it opened a hidden compartment behind a bookshelf and picked up some strange-looking metallic object.  Karen’s eyes shifted as the office door opened.  Vanderhaven’s secretary stepped in.  “Excuse me, sir … I thought I heard …”  The young woman’s eyes widened behind her glasses, her face going pale as she screamed.  The monstrous thing pointed the metal device at the secretary.  There was a strange, shrill hum and a brilliant beam of searing light.  Karen’s stomach turned as the half-incinerated remains of the secretary were blasted, black and steaming, against the crumbling door.  Karen suddenly remembered the burned body on the highway three years before.  That had been real.

The monster turned the energy weapon towards her, that humming sound splitting her ear drums as she dove across Vanderhaven’s desk.  She felt a wave of searing heat as the energy beam narrowly missed her, striking a bronze bust of Vanderhaven.  The bust melted, drops of molten metal searing the carpet.  The smell of searing metal and burned fabric seemed real enough.  Her heart throbbed as the thing moved towards her, its horrid stench choking her.  As it moved, it reminded her at first of a gigantic spider, then of a gargantuan bat.  Every childhood nightmare came back to her.  Dammit, how to be sure?  She touched the half-melted bust, the searing-hot metal burning the palm of her hand, blinding, white-hot pain, straight to the bone.  Real.  The creature raised its weapon.

She drew her gun and fired repeatedly, straight into its drooling maw.  The monster shrieked as it died.  Hidden panels opened in the walls, admitting two more of the creatures into the office.  Her mind was racing as black-suited security men came charging through the door, guns drawn.  “Oh, my God … what in hell?!” one of the men shouted.

Karen fired, killing one of the monsters.  She dropped as the second one fired at her, its energy beam blasting out the window behind her.  The security men opened fire, killing that one.  The security men were suddenly bathed in a blood-red, fluorescent haze.  She gaped, her blood running cold as the men turned to skeletons, as in a gigantic X-ray machine, just as they dissolved into the red light.  As the carpeting caught fire, the red light spread towards her.  She  dove through the window, rolling as she hit the ground.  The office burst into flames behind her as she ran across the wide lawn, making for her car in the driveway.  She froze as another creature blocked her path.  She fired, emptying her clip and blowing the devil apart.  Shadows crept up behind her.  She spun.  Two more of them, coming towards her.  She looked to the remains of the other one and dove for its energy weapon.  She cursed as the alien weapon crumbled to metallic dust in her hand as though designed to self-destruct upon contacting human flesh.

She heard automatic weapons fire behind her.  She looked up and saw one of the creatures die as Mike Jenson blasted down the second one with an Uzi 9mm.  “Come on,” Jenson said, motioning for her to follow him.  She hesitated, not sure what to believe.  “Come on!” he shouted.  “There may be others!”

Acting on blind instinct, she followed him at a fast run across the lawn.  He led her through a hole cut in the electrified fence surrounding the estate to the road beyond.  There was the van with the strange antenna.  A carpet-cleaning service this time.  She almost laughed, her mind awash in a mad rush of shadows.  She didn’t know what was madness or sanity anymore.  Jenson slid open the van door and helped her inside.  Rafe Overton sat in the chair below the antenna, the electric cap on his head, a lost, dreamy look on his face.  Byron Caldwell sat at the control panel, manipulating dials and switches.

“Shut it down, Caldwell,” Jenson ordered, climbing in and shutting the door.  “Roll!” he shouted.  The driver hit the accelerator and pulled out fast, tires screeching.

Karen slumped against the door, her breathing rapid, her head spinning, her body covered in sweat.  She half expected to wake up any second.  But the pain in her hand remained stubbornly real.  It was official.  The world she thought she’d known was now her nightmare.

###

Soon after, at Twilight’s Arc …

The medical salve was a cool, soothing balm on the palm of Karen’s hand.  The Twilight’s Arc company nurse applied a bandage as Aadav Banerjee sat calmly behind his desk, sipping a cup of tea.  Mike Jenson stood close by his side.  “I must say, Agent Sanders …” Banerjee said calmly, not bothering to look up at Karen.  “We’ve had temps here at Twilight’s Arc whose performance was less than satisfactory, but, in your case, I’m afraid I must insist on nothing less than a full refund.”

Jenson grinned, ever so slightly.

Karen fumed, her muscles tensing.  “I am not in a humorous mood, Mr. Banerjee,” she said through clenched teeth, her heart still racing.  “I want answers!”

“Of course you do,” Banerjee said, setting his tea cup down and looking her in the eye.  “That’s why you’re here.  Ask.”

She drew a slow, deep breath.  She was almost afraid to ask the most obvious question; the most essential one.  “Was what I saw at the Vanderhaven estate real?”

“You’ve already answered that question for yourself,” he said with a gentle expression of admiration she’d always longed to see on her father’s hard face.  “Haven’t you?”

She clenched her fist, her fingers pressing on the bandaged wound.  “It was real,” she said quietly, not making it a question.

“I regret to say, you are correct, Agent Sanders.  Our world is being invaded by alien beings intent on our destruction.  They have blanketed this planet with a telepathic broadcast which clouds our minds, preventing us from seeing them as they really are.  All we did at the Vanderhaven estate was lift the veil of illusion, allowing you to see the truth.”

“How?” she asked.  “Through Overton?”

“Yes.  Mr. Overton is a fully functioning telepath.  His most unusual brain emits … what, for lack of another term I would have to call a quantum pulse wave, which oscillates across multiple dimensions of reality.  That pulse wave is the basis of his telepathic ability, but it has the additional effect of shielding his mind against the alien telepathy.  Through our work with Mr. Overton, we’ve developed a portable apparatus which amplifies and focuses the pulse wave across a limited area.  Anyone enveloped by the wave is likewise shielded and allowed to see the world as it really is.”

“Like jamming one radio signal with another?” she asked.

“In a sense, yes.”

“Why the hell haven’t you come forward with this?” she demanded.

“The aliens having infiltrated so many centers of power in society, we couldn’t be sure whom we could trust, including the government.  Coming forward was not an option.  We had to make you come to us.  That’s why we left so easy a trail for you to follow.  Mr. Jenson suspected you for what you really were.  When Ms. Bouchard told us about what happened at her residence -- rather contritely, I might add -- Mr. Jenson’s suspicions were confirmed.  Realizing you would pay a visit to Mr. Vanderhaven, I thought it best to have Mr. Jenson on hand with the field team.  Just in case you required assistance in extricating yourself.”

Her blood boiled.  “You knew what I was walking into, and you didn’t warn me?”  She started to stand, her anger at fever pitch.

Jenson stepped forward, but Banerjee raised a hand motioning for him to step back.  “If we had warned you, would you have believed us?” he asked calmly.

“No,” she admitted, sighing in frustration as she re-seated herself.

“We had to let you see the truth on your own terms,” Banerjee explained.  “Seeing is believing, as you Americans say.”

  The seemingly cold, detached attitude of the old man slightly reminded Karen of her father, which irritated her.  But there was also a gentle wisdom to Banerjee, which she found oddly comforting.  She shook off her frustration, focusing her mind on the investigation.  “How do you know who to target?”

“After we rescued Mr. Overton three years ago, we persuaded him -- at no small expense -- to accompany us to the corporate offices of Rexxon Coal.  Discreetly and incognito, of course.  Once there, Mr. Overton read the mind of the alien calling itself Charles Matthews, learning the identities and locations of some of the others.  The scientific knowledge Mr. Overton was able to glean from the alien mind was also greatly helpful to us in developing our technology.”

“How did you learn about Overton in the first place?”

“My colleagues and I had suspected the existence of telepaths for years.  Our young friend Mr. Caldwell -- whose acquaintance I believe you have also made -- became aware of Mr. Overton’s activities through social media and convinced me I should keep Mr. Overton under surveillance until I could be sure his ability was genuine.  Once I was satisfied it was, I sent Mr. Jenson and another of our security people to Las Vegas to make contact with Mr. Overton.  And if necessary, to protect him.  Just in case his ravings of alien monsters proved more than mere delusion.”

“Which, I’m sorry to say, they did,” Jenson muttered, his eyes down, his body tensed with some deep-seated pain.  She recognized the deep wound she’d discerned when she’d first met him.

“Would you care to tell the rest of the story, Mr. Jenson?” Banerjee asked gently.

Jenson sighed.  “Ed Stark -- my supervisor at that time -- he and I had Overton under surveillance in Vegas when they grabbed him.  Stark and I spotted those two as fake cops in a second.  No pat-down, no cuffs, no Miranda warning.  They just beat him senseless and threw him in the back of the car.  The dead air we picked up on the police band as they drove away confirmed our suspicions.  So, we followed and pulled them over on the Interstate.  At the time, we didn’t know what we were dealing with.  We thought maybe mob.  Black ops.  Russian agents.  Whatever.  One of the fake cops got out of the car.  He was holding something.  Something that wasn’t a gun.  Ed went in ahead of me.  There was a flash.  It was over before I could blink.”  He winced, clenching his fist.  “If I’d drawn and fired a second sooner …”

The charred body by the roadside, she realized.  He blamed himself.  “I’m sorry,” she said with genuine sympathy.  “I know what it is to lose a partner.  But you managed to escape with Overton?”

“Oh, I escaped, all right,” he said, turning to a glass port behind Banerjee’s desk.  “They didn’t.”  Jenson flipped a switch, illuminating the darkened laboratory behind the port.

Karen gasped at the sight of two half-dissected alien cadavers floating in cylindrical vats of transparent fluid.  The two fake cops, she guessed.  “Dear God …” she half-whispered, walking towards the port.  “I don’t believe this.  Your company has been in possession of alien corpses for three years, and you didn’t tell anyone?”

“At first, we didn’t know what we were in possession of,” Banerjee said.  “But I remind you, Agent Sanders … Your government is currently in possession of alien corpses without even realizing it.”

Of course, she thought.  The autopsies on the first three victims had revealed nothing unusual.

“Their telepathy is pervasive,” Banerjee continued.  “It allows us to see only what they wish us to see.  Or, in truth, only what we ourselves wish or expect to see, despite the evidence of our senses.  Whether we are speaking with these beings face to face or looking down at their dead bodies on autopsy tables, or seeing televised pictures of them, streaming videos, photographs, or anything else.”

“So, why can I still see them as they really are?” she asked.

“You were recently exposed to the pulse wave,” Banerjee explained.  “It seems to have a lingering effect on the brain, though the telepathic cloud of lies always seeps back in after a day or two.  Sometimes longer, depending on the individual.”

She stepped up to the port, staring at the dead monsters.  “Who are they?” she asked, only half-expecting an answer.  “Why are they doing this?”

“Come with me, and I’ll show you,” Banerjee said.

 ###

In the control booth overlooking the dream pool, Banerjee twisted a dial.  Dreaming in the water tank below, Overton and all around him dissolved into a sea of stars.

Karen’s eyes widened as the chamber below became a small, self-contained cosmos.  Immense, futuristic star ships transcended interstellar distances …

“What am I seeing?” Karen asked.

“Alien memories Mr. Overton has harvested for us.  From the alien point of view, these are race memories of events long past.  From our point of view, these events will not occur for thousands of years yet.”

“The aliens are from the future?”

“Actually, they’re from a different universe.  A completely separate time-space continuum.  In their continuum, time, from our point of view, is running backwards.  Every few decades, our continuum intersects with theirs, making it possible to cross over from one universe to another.”  The star ships opened fire with blazing energy weapons, destroying immense space habitats orbiting nearby planets.  “During one such intersection thousands of years from now, the humanity of that era will apparently invade the alien universe and inflict great damage on the alien civilization in some kind of inter-cosmic war.  During each intersection since then … or, before then, from our point of view … the survivors of the alien civilization have infiltrated our world, doing us great harm and altering the course of our history, in the hope of destroying our civilization before we can destroy theirs.”

Ghosts of ages past flitted across the mists of the dream chamber.  Roman legions killing and crucifying.  Crusaders slaughtering their way across the holy land.  Genocidal wars and slavery in the Americas.  The world wars.  The Holocaust.  Hiroshima and Nagasaki consumed in mushroom clouds.  And today … the mass shootings in the streets.  Clouds of gaseous poison rising from factories and highways.  Melting glaciers.  Rising seas.  Killer storms.  Flooded coastal cities.  Wildfires.  At the center of it all, John Cooper captivated the masses with his fiery, wild-eyed charisma and promises of racial segregation, unfettered gun rights, nuclear build-up, and unregulated industrial expansion.  Karen looked away as Cooper’s strong, handsome face morphed into the drooling visage of an alien.

Banerjee adjusted a control, and the visions dissipated like smoke until only Overton remained.  He turned to Karen.  “Will you help us?” he asked.

“What do you expect me to do?” she asked, still trying to take it all in.

“We’ve given you clarity of sight.  Use it while it lasts.  Contact those you can trust within your government and enlist their help.  With the aid of your intelligence agencies, we can find and recruit others like Mr. Overton.  With your government’s resources, we can expand the amplifier until the pulse wave blankets this continent, and ultimately the world.  We can perhaps let the people see the truth before it’s too late.  Will you help us?” he repeated, a look of urgency on his face.

She looked into his eyes and knew she trusted him.  This was her new world.  And she would fight for it.  “I’ll help,” she said.

###

Over the following year, men and women like Overton were found in madhouses, carnivals, mind-reading acts, phony séances, and corporate espionage and blackmail operations.  They were found the world over and recruited.

They sat in the holds of military aircraft in flight, their brains wired into bigger versions of the amplifier, broadcasting the pulse wave across North America.  The cities burned as the people saw the truth.  Chaos and madness erupted.

 ###

A military air wing launched from a liberated sector advanced over alien structures now visible in Washington, D.C.  Bombers struck hard, knocking out alien ray cannon, clearing the way for the ground assault.

As Karen and the rest of the paratroopers prepared for the jump, she looked at Mike Jenson as he stood beside her, checking his parachute.  Seizing him by his collar, she pulled him into her and kissed him, full on the lips.  “Marry me,” she said, not making it a question.

“Right after we save the world,” he said with a smile.  “I promise.”

The hatch opened, and they moved forward, the others diving out one by one ahead of them.  As their turn approached, she turned his face to hers.  “You don’t get to die now,” she said firmly.

“Yes, dear.”  He smiled and clasped her hand as they jumped together.

END

[Index] [About Us] [Stories] [Story 1] [Story 2] [Story 3] [Story 4] [Guest Art] [Editors Write] [Archives] [Contact Us] [Links]

Copyright © 2024 by 4 Star Stories. All Rights Reserved.