Dave’s expression unfolds into a grin. There’s a stroke of menace to it, but I’ll be damned if he doesn’t look excited by my sincerity.
“Every now and then I meet one of the good ones, a dog that knows its master,” Dave says and rubs his sausage hands together. “Know that if I bring you with me, there are only two possible outcomes. Either your curiosity will destroy you, or you will destroy what your curiosity discovers.”
“Are you warning me or threatening me?” I say.
“Speaking from experience, both. I’m gambling that you’ll find your way to the first option without any help from me,” Dave says.
The sound of the door to the bar opening interrupts our conversation. The two Men in Black stumble out, still gagging from the poison gas, but dead set on letting us know they didn’t appreciate my mixology talents.
I reach for the .45, but Dave stops me. “We’re better off leaving,” he says and points a stubby thumb toward the alley’s exit.
We reach the street, but I don’t see any cars parked nearby.
“I thought you said you had a ride?” I say.
“You really think I drive around in some jalopy?” Dave says. He looks up at the light pollution seeping into the dark clouds in the sky. “I parked up there.”
Except that’s not light pollution. That’s something else entirely, and it’s coming right for me. In a flash of light, Dave and I disappear from the street.
“You ready for another magic trick, cowboy?” Dave says as I regain consciousness. I don’t feel like I’ve been drugged, though. It’s more like waking up from a catnap. Refreshing.
Opening my eyes, I see that I’m in a small, dark room filled with tiny orbs of colored light. They silently hover in mid-air like the flakes in a snow globe, illuminating a control panel. At least, I think it’s a control panel, judging by the way Dave places his hands onto the metallic, rectangular surface. He plucks orbs of light from the air seemingly at random and places them on the control panel, where they disappear.
There’s a whiff of ammonia in the air, but that could be left over from the Chase Baker Cocktail. Attempting to rise to my feet, I discover I’m already upright, but I’m not quite standing, either. I seem to be floating.
Is this a dream? Or am I really on a…
“UFO?” Dave says. “If that’s what you want to call it, sure. You’re on a UFO, except there’s nothing unidentifiable about it. We’re cruising in a craft of my own design. Made it some 200 years ago.”
Two hundred years? Dave’s an…
“Old fart, yes, I know. But again, that’s by your standards,” Dave says without looking up from the panel. “Oh, and, yes, the technology in this craft allows for a sort of telepathy. Basically, the tech patterns your brain activity a billion times a second until it can make predictions about what you’re thinking. Then it relays that information into my head by reversing the process and projecting a thought into my consciousness. This works best when a U.T. is at the helm, not humans. NASA found that out the hard way. Of course, the scientists they used, far from being the best of the best, were hired solely based on their ability to keep quiet about their tests. Mainly, they tried to get it to project pornography directly into their test subjects’ brains. I wasn’t surprised when I heard about that.”
I remain silent, soaking in both what Dave says and my surroundings. Incredible. I feel like a caveman staring at an iPhone.
Dave continues. “And that speaks to why the Chinese, along with other world governments, are so keen on nabbing my kind, those bastards. My species fused with its technology centuries ago, having achieved what you might call singularity. We are two halves of the same whole. The tech doesn’t work without a living, breathing specimen with the biology to handle it. Those governments got their hands on the tech, but they couldn’t make it work. So they went around capturing as many of my kind as they could. The only problem is, those ultraterrestrials kept dying in captivity from all of the experimentation. Last I heard, in fact, they were all dead. That means I’m the only one left who can work that tech.”
No wonder Biyu wants Dave so badly. She must have something pretty big in mind that only he can operate.
“Who’s Biyu?” Dave says.
She’s the Chinese agent who sent me on this clusterfuck.
“Ah, I see.”
Biyu didn’t tell me what the tech was, though. Have any guesses?
“Probably a weapon or an energy source. It’s hard to separate the two, actually. Sort of like with nuclear power,” Dave says. “But if I had to guess, I’d say it’s The Current.”
The Current?
“It’s the one thing every government wants, although every government has failed to make it work. Usually blows up in their faces. Literally. The Current is what allows me to capture energy from one spot and redirect it somewhere else with 100 percent efficiency, just like the bullets out of your gun back at the bar. It’s actually a piece of hardware installed in my brain,” Dave says, pointing to his head. “As an energy source, The Current is incredible. It’s powered my species through the ages because it never runs out. The Current acts like a magnet, able to suck the energy out of everything from light bulbs and car batteries to power grids and stars, depending on scale. It uses a sort of artificial quantum entanglement to create a copy of the energy source’s…you know what? Forget it. It’d take another 200 years and an extra lobe in your brain to explain all this.”
Could The Current be turned into a weapon?
“Absolutely it could. Matter of fact, it even has a working title: the Apocalypse Bomb,” Dave says. “Imagine a bomb capable of an infinite number of concurrent explosions. Using The Current, it could devour an entire hemisphere of Earth in the time it takes to make microwave popcorn. Trust me. They’ve been trying to build this thing for a long time.”
Apocalypse Bomb? So whichever government can get The Current to work will be the undisputed ruler of the world.
“Exactly. And not just governments. Wealthy individuals. Influential corporations. Terrorist organizations. You ask me, none of you homo sapiens should ever have that technology. It’d be like putting a chimp in a fighter jet. But that doesn’t keep them from trying,” Dave says before repeating his warning from the alley. “Either your curiosity will destroy you, or you will destroy what your curiosity discovers. That’s why my species was discreet for so long. I wish we could’ve kept it that way.”
When did you first make contact?
“Off and on throughout the centuries, but most recently after World War II, when your kind threatened our planet with atomic bombs. We had to intervene to prevent you from destroying our home. Humans. Always thinking the world revolves around them. We offered your species the chance to live in peace forever using our technology. But you found another way to kill yourselves, to consolidate power,” Dave says. He takes his hands off the control panel.
Why don’t you look like one of those skinny, gray aliens with the big eyes?
“You calling me fat? Yeah, I know about those grays. There are different races within my species, just like there are with humans. Except we don’t hold it against each other like you do. And there might be aliens, extraterrestrials, out there somewhere, but I never met any,” Dave says. “Anyway, enough of this drab backstory stuff. You know that saying about how you never see an old heroin addict?”
I guess so.
Dave rolls up his sleeve and picks up a syringe from the control panel. I guess he wasn’t working on something technical after all.
“Well, now you can tell your friends you met me,” he says and sticks the needle into what I assume is a vein in his arm. “You humans are fucked up, but you sure know how to catch a buzz. I never fly without a little bump of heroin. Haven’t for centuries. Keeps me level.”
Dave rests for a moment to let the drugs seep in. Then he cracks open a can of beer that materializes on the control panel. He takes a swig before stuffing one of the orbs of light into the panel.
The floating orbs of light all suddenly turn red, clustering themselves into larger spheres. Dave belches and points at one with the tip of the beer can.
“Scratch that. They’re already here,” he says. “This could be bad.”
I look around the small room, expecting to see the Men in Black materializing next to me. But it’s still just Dave, the red orbs and myself.
“Where? I don’t see them,” I say, surprised by the sound of my own voice. I forgot to think, as my ex-wife would tell you.
“Not in here, idiot,” Dave says. He points to the window. “Out there.”
Sure enough, what I’d describe as a classic, saucer-shaped UFO appears in the window. It’s about 100 yards away horizontal to us, its metallic exterior hovering in the night sky like a fried egg suspended in inky Jell-o.
“That’s probably one of their reverse engineered deals. It looks like the real thing, but it’s the pony ride to my NASCAR,” Dave says.
He downs his beer in a single gulp, slipping the empty into an orb. The can disappears, then reappears in Dave’s hand unopened. He cracks it open, then lights a cigarette. For some reason, though, I can’t smell it.
“All matter is energy condensed to a slowed vibration. Translation: beer me,” he says.
“Shouldn’t we get going?” I say.
“No shit, Sherlock. We’re powering up,” Dave says. “It’ll be a minute before those genetically-engineered assholes in the knock-off saucer next to us will be ready, too.
So that’s why the Men in Black looked strange.
“That’s right, they’re the rejects, the ones who drew the short straws for all those experiments to turn humans into U.T. Sort of an enhanced homo sapiens. I’ll bet they’re working for the U.S.,” Dave says. “And I don’t need you, of all people, to tell me what to do. I’ve been outrunning these shitheads since before you were born.”
You’re kind of a shithead yourself.
“Thank you,” Dave says and places his hand on the control panel. “Now shut up.”
The view in the window melts into streaks of light as Dave guides our craft across the night sky. I don’t “feel the G’s,” as some pilots would say, as our speed warps the streaks into a solid blur. I remain in position, suspended within these orbs of light, left to imagine how all of this must look to those down below.
“Don’t worry, they won’t kill us,” Dave says. “They need me alive, remember? Most likely they’ll try to shoot us down.”
The blur in the window swirls as the craft shakes and shivers like it’s being forced through a cheese grater. My sense of direction is all off. I can’t tell if we’re up or down at this point. The window doesn’t provide much reference.
“They hit us?” I say.
“They did,” Dave says and cracks open another beer. “Guess I didn’t drink enough of these yet.”
We level off for a moment before we’re hit again. This time I know I’m spinning. The orbs of light at my feet suddenly migrate toward my head.
“We hit bad?” I say.
“Nah. That’s me this time, skimming the Eiffel Tower. Give those tourists something to remember,” Dave says and belches. “You want a better view?”
The blur in the window dissolves back into a perfect evening shot of the Eiffel Tower as my body resumes its normal upright position. It’s magnificent. No picture could do it justice from our vantage point.
But that’s not nearly as breathtaking as the fact we traveled from Warsaw to Paris in under five minutes. Incredible.
“We need a quick recharge, then we’ll be on our way. Just a second,” Dave says.
I watch as the brilliant lights on the Eiffel Tower fade to a beige glow, flicker and then go out. The darkness seeps down the tower and into the surrounding city, turning off everything from streetlamps to headlights. It snakes across the Seine and Avenue de New York, soaking museums, schools and parks in black.
He’s feeding on the electrical grid.
“That’s exactly what I’m doing. Keep those dipshits down there on their toes. Give them something to gape at and talk about. Mouth breathers, all of them,” Dave says.
“Will the lights come back on?” I say, watching this pearl of a city go dark.
“We’re getting blasted by mutants bent on getting their hands on world-ending technology, and you’re concerned about some twinkly lights on a tourist trap?” Dave says and turns to look at me with a contorted face. It’s like talking to me is a chore. “This is why you’re not the dominant species on this planet.”
I avert my gaze back to the window. No sense in antagonizing him any further.
The craft shakes once again. They’re back.
“And while I was busy talking to you, look who snuck up on us,” Dave says and spins back to the control panel. “Should’ve left you where I found you.”
The window turns back into an inky blur as Dave guides us away. I get the sense we’re traveling upward, but it’s hard to tell.
“Where’re we headed?” I say.
Dave is silent. He concentrates on moving orbs of light in and out of the control panel. A cold can of beer materializes next to me, hovering like a ripe apple ready to be plucked. I get the hint.
I reach for the can, but stop. I’ve had enough to drink tonight. No sense in distorting my perception of reality any more. Is this even happening? Or am I just drunk?
Even as I ponder that, I realize I’m not nearly as tanked as I’d originally thought. In fact, since I got here, I’ve felt relatively sober. Or at least more sober than I deserve to be after that bar. Maybe it’s an effect of being inside the craft.
Dave mutters something, but he keeps it under his breath. A piercing light washes out the window’s view in a flurry of white. It feels warm on my skin, and I suppose it’s sunlight. Maybe we’re heading into the lit side of Earth?
The light gets brighter and brighter until I can’t so much as see the hands in front of my face. This doesn’t seem right.
“Dave? What’s happening?” I say.
“Shut up,” he says from within the intense light.
“Are we in trouble?”
“I told you to be quiet.”
I do as I’m told, closing my eyes to keep them from burning, then squeezing them as hard as I can as the light intensifies even more. It feels like we’re not only facing the sun, we’re flying into it.
“Aw, shit,” Dave says. He doesn’t sound like he even notices the light.
“What?” I say and cover my clenched eyelids with my hands. It still burns.
“That last hit was a good one. Bastards.”
I want to ask him another question, but the light is so intense I can barely think. The last thing I remember before losing consciousness is the hiss-pop of Dave cracking open another beer and saying, “Hang on. We’re going down.”
The first sensation that hits me when I regain consciousness comes from my back. It feels like I got a massage from a marching band. The pain follows my spine up into my shoulders, where the muscles complain in throbs that spread down both arms.
Slowly unfurling my eyelids, I initially think I’m floating in space. I see nothing but stars and darkness.
Am I dead? Lost in space?
As my brain makes sense of the pain in my back, I realize I’m lying against something hard. Debris? No. Turning my neck one knotted inch at a time, I see a stretch of sand illuminated in the moonlight. I breathe deep and taste cool, dry air that reminds me of my time in Egypt chasing the lost bones of Jesus Christ.
I’m in a desert.
There’s something else mixed in with the air, less an aroma and more of an electricity that dances across my palette. It’s almost like the sensation you’d get from licking the posts on a nine-volt battery. Not that
that’s something I do often, but back when I was a kid it was a fun buzz.
Before I get to my feet, my hands check for the .45 pistol and the ESEE knife under my bush jacket. They survived, but this is one of those times I wish I didn’t lug around such heavy ordinance. I feel the bruises pooling beneath them along my ribs.
“Dave?” I say as I leverage myself up with my knees.
I hear no response, but I do get a good look at the wreckage a few yards away. It’s scattered in a long trail across the desert that leads to what I assume is our craft. It looks as if we skipped along the sand a few times before finally coming to a stop.
Even in the light of the moon, I can make out the craft’s classic flying saucer shape. It’s no larger than a school bus, although I can only make out the half that isn’t buried at an angle into the sand. Smoldering sheets of metal spread out from what I assume used to be the window. I must’ve taken a trip through it when we hit.
Along with Dave, missing in the wreckage are those ubiquitous orbs of light. They possessed a personality of their own, and I wonder if they high-tailed it out of here.
Then again, maybe I drank too much, imagined this entire event and am actually taking in the view at one of the shitty hostels that I usually call home during my travels. The wreckage certainly wouldn’t look out of place.
“Dave?” I say again and head toward the gap that used to be the window. Maybe he’s still inside. My throat feels like cooling magma, but I call for him again. “Dave?”
That’s when I hear it. It comes from beneath a loose sheet of metal twice the size of me leaning against the craft. Hiss-pop.
I drag myself to the metal and try to lift it away, but it’s somehow seared to the craft. Using the ESEE as a pry bar, I pop the sheet away. Sure enough, there’s Dave. Dirty. Beat up. A little bloody. But still kicking all the same.
“You alright?” I say.
Dave coughs out a plume of sand and takes a sip from a freshly opened can of beer. “Of course I’m alright. Don’t think you’re so special that this hasn’t happened to me before,” he says.
Chase Baker & the Apocalypse Bomb (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book 7) Page 4