Turning Point (Book 3): A Time To Live

by Wandrey, Mark

  “You son of a bitch!”

  “Oh, no doubt about it. My mom would have slapped the blonde off a woman like you.” He moved sideways, closer to her desk, but kept it between him and the window. “I’m going to make you the same offer I made them. This is your last chance.”

  She stood up, a small pistol in her hand. He guessed it was either a .32 ACP or a .380 auto. Nickel finish—no surprise there. “No, this is y’all’s last chance,” she said. “You don’t run for office in Texas and not know how’ta shoot, boy! Now you turn around, and I’m gonna hold this here pistol to your head while we get to one’a them sky-barges.”

  “Who’s going to fly it?” he asked, not moving.

  “Easy, Daimler will meet us there.”

  “Daimler? Really?”

  “Bet yo’ ass! He’s been real helpful, giving me inside scoops on who’s who since I got here. All he wanted was a piece o’ da’ pie. I plan ahead. We’ll get on the barge, scoot on outta here. Winner, winner, chicken dinner. I knew these were a buncha’ morons when I arrived. Computer geeks, CB talkers, rough necks. It was easy manipulating the bunch.”

  “We’ve freed his granddaughter,” Cobb said.

  “Dumb fucka, he ain’t got no granbaby. He’s worked with me all along.”

  “Really?” He spoke to his breast pocket. “You get that, Zim?”

  “Yes sir, Colonel. I have a squad scooping him up right now.” Taylor looked horrified. “Thank the governor for the tip.”

  “We’ve recorded everything you said, just in case we have to explain to someone later. Now, you want to give me the gun?”

  She was looking around, only half paying attention to him. She looked like a cornered deer. Taylor looked at the dead cops and the window, working the angle. After a second, she smiled. “You shoulda’ brought your own gun, Colonel. Your snipers can’t hit me here.”

  “Just give me the gun, Governor,” he implored her. “It’s not too late.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid it is. I ain’t going to no trial.” She raised the gun to eye level and sighted. “Bah-bah, boy scout.”

  The window being punched by another round was accentuated by the front part of her face exploding outward. It wasn’t the same clean kill as her two cops. Tango had placed himself perpendicular to Ports and Betts. The angle he had on Taylor wasn’t perfect; he could only see the front half of her body. In typical Marine sniper fashion, he’d gone for the head shot.

  Taylor made a gurgling sound followed by a scream. The gun hit the carpeted floor and bounced. She put her hands to what remained of her face. Blood pumped over her hands and down her shirt. Neither eye remained in place, so Cobb didn’t know if she could see him. He shook his head at the waste.

  Taylor staggered forward, and another bullet took the top of her head off, ending her suffering and her life. The body fell over the ornate desk and slowly slid to the floor, leaving behind it a thick smear of bright red blood and brains.

  “Clean kill on the second shot,” he told Tango through the radio.

  “Sorry for the sloppy first round,” the corporal replied, “sir.”

  “You earned your marksmanship badge, Corporal.” Cobb walked over and picked up the gun. It was a .25ACP. Odds were, if she’d shot him with it, the bullet wouldn’t have penetrated his Kevlar. “I’m promoting you to sergeant, by the way.”

  “Not sure if you can do that, Colonel.”

  “Who’s going to complain?”

  “You have a point, sir.”

  “Zim, do they have a meeting place?”

  “Yes, Colonel. It’s at the landing area for the barges.”

  “Pass the word. I want to see everyone there in four hours. Have whoever’s flying this thing increase the altitude to a mile or so and get them to attend too. It’s time we have a talk. First, I want a shower and a nap.” I’ve had a hell of a day.

  * * *

  Classified Task Force

  Gulf of Farallones, California

  Jophiel took the headset off and dropped it on a cradle in disgust. One of the technicians yelped in alarm, and she stared daggers at the man, who looked away. “What the hell is wrong with this?” she demanded.

  Behind the tech, a dozen more were using state-of-the-art laptops to analyze the CVR. A supercomputer was needed to turn neuro-stimulus into data which could be interpreted by another human. CVR—cognitive VR—was first tested two years ago, at which point the design was acquired by Project Genesis and remade into the device they now used. Not only could a user see what another was dreaming, they could enter those dreams and even manipulate the environment.

  They’d hoped to use it with the first visitors last year, only it hadn’t worked. “Brains are too alien,” the Genesis scientists said, and they abandoned the attempt. However, their base ship, the Ark, still had the equipment. It proved to be a useful interrogation tool. Even if it didn’t function on the aliens, it did on their fellow humans. This was the first time it had failed to work.

  “We don’t know, Ms. Jophiel,” the head scientist said, looking confused and alarmed. Ever since Strain Delta had gotten free and caused the collapse of society, the seven members of the Heptagon, who only went by code names, had gained enormous power. There was no more oversight. There were no more senators or presidents to say what they could or couldn’t do. Genesis military assets answered only to them. Michael ruled the group with an iron hand. Crossing him could result in expulsion into a zombie-plagued hellscape.

  “Your answer isn’t acceptable,” Jophiel said in a cool voice. “Michael wants the last session completed so this patient can be disposed of. You are keeping me from completing it.”

  “We aren’t keeping you,” the scientist complained.

  Jophiel gestured at the useless headset. “I don’t concur.” She glanced at her watch, a century old heirloom which had belonged to her mother. “I have a language compilation to run and will be back in 90 minutes. If you don’t have this infernal machine working by then, you can explain it to Michael.”

  The scientist sputtered and coughed, barely managing to stammer a promise that it would be working before Jophiel hobbled out of the room.

  * * *

  Grange opened her eyes. She was again in the crisp hospital bed in the pure white, luxurious hospital room. Only this time there were mirrors on the walls, the furniture was trimmed in gold, and there was an ornate chandelier in the middle of the room. It had reminded her of 2001: A Space Odyssey before, but now the room was a dead ringer. It was disconcerting being inside a memory.

  “Hello, Pearl.”

  She turned her head and saw Bowman from the movie standing there. He was even wearing the orange space suit costume. “What the hell?” she blurted. She knew he wasn’t real, but seriously?

  “Do I surprise you?” Bowman asked and changed into the old man, also from the movie. “How about this form?” the ancient man asked, his hands shaking.

  “Fine,” she said, “just don’t turn into the big fetus.”

  The old man smiled thinly. “You can understand me?’

  “Perfectly,” she said. “What’s going on?”

  “We have a few minutes to talk, and I need your help.”

  “I’m in no position to help anyone,” she said. “I’m in some kind of mind-fuck prison. This isn’t real. It’s like a dream I can’t wake up from. I’ve been here before, but I can’t remember how or when.”

  “This is a simulation, created by our captors to facilitate interrogation.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because they tried to use it on me.”

  “You said ‘our captors.’ Are you a prisoner too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “My name would be too difficult for you to say or think about. My title was First Scout.”

  “I don’t understand what is going on,” she said.

  “They do not want you to understand,” First Scout replied. “I am sad to say you are an unf
ortunate victim. An analogy in your language would be a pawn.”

  “That suggests I’m nothing in the grand scheme,” she said.

  The old man smiled sadly. “Even a pawn can win the game, but I can make you much more.” The room seemed to shimmer like she was looking through a window that was being flexed by an invisible force. “We do not have much time.”

  “I don’t understand why I’m here or what is happening.”

  The ancient head lowered slightly, and the man sighed. “I do not have time to explain. I can only say that I need your help. If you do help me, you will go from being a pawn to a knight.”

  “Knights are the most strategic piece in a game of chess,” Grange said. Her father had taught her to play when he was home on leave from the Coast Guard. The game was horribly complicated for a six-year-old girl, yet she’d managed to become a fair player. As the years passed, she’d largely given it up. The memories and complexities remained. “What do you want me to do?”

  “The organization that holds you is known as Project Genesis. To make a long story short, they invited me here. We needed help; help we believed your people could provide. We were met with hostility instead of friendship. Our ship was shot down. The result of those actions was the devastation wrought on your people.

  “It is within my power to give you specific abilities with which you can undo some of the damage. Those abilities will, however, come at great cost.”

  “How great?” she asked.

  He smiled sadly.

  “I see. She looked down at her body and sighed. “I’m not healed, am I?”

  He shook his head.

  “What will happen if I agree?”

  “Something wonderful,” the giant, floating fetus said.

  “God,” Grange cringed, “I asked you not to do that.”

  The baby shrugged.

  “Tell me what I have to do.”

  * * *

  “What do you have?” the lead scientist asked.

  “Something…” the tech said, then shook his head. “It’s gone now.”

  “All systems are nominal,” another tech said. “It’s as if nothing was ever wrong.”

  The scientist shook his head and stared at the various computer readouts. Indeed, everything was in the green. “Ghost in the machine?” he wondered. Some computer artifact of the billion lines of code. A digital hiccup. Whatever it was, it was gone. Jophiel was due back in 30 minutes, which gave him just enough time to grab a sandwich. “We’ve got 20 minutes to get a bite and hit the bathroom,” he said.

  His staff smiled and nodded gratefully. In seconds, they were gone. The computers hummed and whirred in their absence. Then the computers flashed, code rewrote itself, alarms sounded and were quickly silenced. Less than 10 seconds later, all appeared normal. Inside the hospital room, on the other side of the one-way glass, Lieutenant J.G. Grange’s horribly burned face smiled slightly before returning to its formerly blank expression.

  * * *

  Michael walked along the bottom of the massive silver ship. He reached up, his fingers just touching the surface. It felt more like glass than metal. Such amazing engineering. It vaguely reminded him of the silvery ship from one of the Star Wars movies he’d seen in his previous life, back before he’d dedicated it to the Heptagon. Only this one was a long, flattened triangle, somewhat like an old Indian arrowhead.

  The ship rested on a barge, one of the huge oceangoing ones they’d appropriated when evacuation of the Oregon compound became necessary. The sun glinted off its surface like a mirror. Tests showed it was more reflective than any mirror humanity could produce. Too bad the fucking Russians hadn’t tried to shoot it down with a laser.

  Michael reached the aft section and looked at the hole. The metallic surface was burned and melted in a circle that was roughly five meters across. At the edges, the metal was merely distorted, but it became more burned and rougher closer to the center. In the middle was a hole, and components were visible inside. Such a small damage point, if you considered that the ship was over 100 meters long and 30 meters wide. Physical penetration into the interior was not even a meter across.

  “Piss poor ship,” he said as he examined it.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Michael glanced at the soldier and shook his head. The man wore the black camo of Project Genesis’ combat personnel. He was one of the men assigned to guard the alien ship. “It’s all good. We’ll be at San Nicolas in just a few hours.”

  “Excellent. It’ll be good to get off the water.”

  Michael grunted and continued his wanderings. He was tired of micromanaging the other members of the Heptagon. But, if he didn’t, they’d wander off and do whatever they wanted to. He should have only been concerned with defensive matters—protecting the United States from alien invasions and all the red, white, and blue shit. The Russians kinda fucked up his main goals. So he’d run the Heptagon and Project Genesis.

  “Colonel Baker to Michael.”

  Michael touched his radio’s ear bud. “Go ahead, Colonel.”

  “Both Hunters are up and running. We’re going to need a couple hours to get the Wasps airborne.”

  “What’s the issue?” Michael asked. He’d given the orders two hours ago; the attack should already be underway.

  “We were attacked by infected animals. Seals of several types. We lost a tech who was working on the Hunter subs to a damned whale.”

  “No shit,” Michael said. “Losses?”

  “Three guards and the tech.”

  Michael scowled. They had plenty of guards, but the tech was a definite loss. He briefly considered taking the Flotilla. If they had people smart enough to figure out the alien drive technology, they could be an asset. He’d read up a bit on their mirrored internet records. Jeremiah Osborne was a brilliant, if flaky, aerospace engineer, and his company profile listed dozens of scientists and hundreds of technicians. It was likely that more than a few had survived Strain Delta.

  He shook his head. No, that’s a bad idea. Too much risk of the military intervening.

  “Standing by, sir.”

  “Colonel, send the Hunters out. ETA to the target zone?”

  “About an hour, sir.”

  “Very good. Have them do recon and verify there are no subs. Chamuel is certain there aren’t, but she’s not infallible.”

  “ROE, sir?”

  “Rules of engagement are, at this point, fire if fired upon. If detected, avoid contact.”

  “Understood,” Colonel Baker said and cut the connection.

  Michael wanted things to move along. He didn’t like incomplete tasks. At least Jophiel would soon be done with the troublesome Coastie. Considering how little useful intel he’d gotten out of her, he wished she hadn’t been blown clear of her ship’s explosion. Damn, she’d cost him a lot of assets too. He was beginning to look forward to seeing her tossed to the fish.

  Thinking about fish reminded him of Colonel Baker’s reports. He went back to the soldier guarding the alien ship. “Corporal?”

  “Sir?”

  “We’ve gotten reports of infected animal attacks at base.” The man’s eyes got wider. “Seals and whales. Get an additional detail up on deck. Orders are to fire on any approaching animals.” He looked around the barge and frowned. It was low to the water. “You know what, make it two squads. Also, pass the word to the other ships.”

  “Sir!” the corporal replied and immediately turned to his radio.

  Delegate, he reminded himself. Everything was well in hand. They’d be at the base by afternoon, then they could get the alien unloaded and begin interrogation. Need to remember to praise Gabriel for getting the language licked and Azrael for finding the language records from the 1950s. He was looking forward to a direct interrogation of the Vulpes once they got set up in San Nicolas.

  As Michael watched, soldiers begin to show up on deck and set up defensive positions. He nodded and smiled. So far, so good. Now, if they could just deal with this Flotil
la, it would be one less thing he had to worry about. Gunfire and the roar of a wounded seal from the other side of the ship confirmed his successful planning. What would Genesis do if he wasn’t there?

  * * *

  The Flotilla

  150 Nautical Miles West of San Diego, CA

  Jeremiah was at the ASCE, American Society of Civil Engineers, awards ceremony. OOE was receiving the Columbia Medal for creating the Azanti, the first viable SSTO—a Single Stage to Orbit rocket plane. The audience was on its feet, clapping and whistling as Jeremiah took the stage. The society president was holding out the medal; it was only the second time it had ever been awarded.

  He reached the president and shook his hand. “You deserve this,” the man said, putting the medal in Jeremiah’s hands and closing them around it.

  “Thanks,” Jeremiah said and turned to face the crowd. The medal clasped between his hands started to get hot. “Thank you everyone…” He paused. The medal was getting hotter still. “Ouch,” he said and tried to drop it. He couldn’t let go. “Hey, someone help!” The crowd got to their feet, applauding even louder. “This hurts!”

  His hands were smoking. Jeremiah turned to the president. “Help!”

  “You deserve this,” the man said and laughed as Jeremiah’s hands burst into agonizing flames. He screamed.

  * * *

  “Easy, Boss. Hold him while they give him some more morphine.”

  Jeremiah opened his eyes and tried to breathe through the agonizing, mind-shattering pain. Alex West was lying across him, which, for a second, made him think the pilot had succumbed to the plague and was eating him. But after a few more seconds of agony, he realized that, just like in his dream, all the pain was in his hands.