The Argus Deceit

by Chuck Grossart

  Pitcairn raised his hand, and the tech retreated.

  Brody had one more chance. “Look at his hand, Connie. Look what the little boy is holding in his hand.”

  Connie continued to stare at the ceiling.

  “Please, Connie. Look at his hand.”

  Slowly, she shifted her eyes back to the image of the boy. She looked intently at the little yellow toy clutched in the boy’s hand.

  When she looked at him this time, Brody could see a glimmer of the girl he knew in her green eyes, a fighter named Connie. Then he heard the one word that meant somehow everything was going to be okay, no matter how difficult the journey ahead would prove to be. Because they would be making the journey together.

  She smiled at him and said, “Brody . . .”

  Epilogue

  Two Years Later

  Walter Reed National Hospital

  Western Confederation

  The beeps were slow and steady, like the ticking of a clock.

  They marked the inevitable passage of time, each beep another moment toward an outcome that none of the doctors had expected, and none could prevent.

  Hundreds of abductees had been transported back to Earth, undergone extensive reconstructive and rehabilitative therapy, and become human again. But even with all the remarkable technological advances mankind had developed over the last three centuries, there was one thing they still hadn’t conquered.

  Death.

  The mysterious manner by which the alien controller had kept the subjects from aging, extending their lives beyond any reasonable measure, quickly reversed itself once the abductees were removed from their coffins.

  The abductees aged, incredibly fast.

  And they were dying. All of them.

  Brody had emerged from his reconstructive surgery as a middle-aged man, with an appearance that could pass for normal in all but the most scrutinizing eyes. Connie, too, had successfully undergone reconstruction, but the promise of a long life together now dwindled away with every tick of the clock.

  Brody sat at Connie’s bedside, listening to the monitor beeping in rhythm with her heartbeat. She was an old woman now, gray haired and twisted with arthritis. Her organs were failing, and she was slipping in and out of consciousness.

  Brody looked lovingly at her face, so wrinkled and pale, hoping he would see her green eyes at least one more time. He had aged, too, and in Connie, was looking at his own fate. Soon, he would be in a hospital bed, awaiting the inevitable.

  The doctors didn’t expect Connie to last through the night.

  He wouldn’t leave her.

  Brody wasn’t sure what to expect from death, but he hoped it wouldn’t be like what they’d both experienced in the darkness, floating without purpose in an expanse of endless nothingness. That had scared Connie so, and he didn’t want her to be scared ever again. He gripped her hand in his and gently gave it a squeeze. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Connie,” he whispered. “You don’t have to fight anymore.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You won’t be alone for long. I’ll be there soon.”

  The beeping continued, and Brody wondered if he was imagining it getting slower. More ticks of the clock. More time spinning away.

  Tick, she lives.

  Tock, she dies.

  Brody closed his eyes, her hand in his, and drifted off to sleep.

  He woke with a start, confused, and turned toward Connie. The staff had turned off the lights in the room, and he had trouble seeing her. Her hand was warm, but it didn’t feel right. He searched the wall for the monitor, and saw what he feared.

  Connie was gone.

  Brody knew she had passed, the machine’s silence having woken him.

  He was alone, once again.

  But he didn’t feel alone. He could feel eyes upon him, watching.

  They were there. The things from his dream.

  Long, thin bodies, glistening.

  He sees their eyes.

  They’re in the shadows. More than one. The creatures that had taken them both so many years ago.

  Brody feels no fear, not like he did when he was a little boy. Instead, he feels something else entirely, something from them. There is regret, regret for allowing something to happen that shouldn’t have. An admission that a mistake was made and an urgent need to correct it.

  They speak to him, in his thoughts.

  They give him a choice. But he needs to decide quickly, before any more time passes. At a certain point, even they can’t stop the inexorable finality of death.

  Tick, she dies.

  It would be different this time. They would have awareness. They could start over, live the lives that had been taken from them. They’d be actors in another stage play, but it would be their play, no secret audience, no tests, no scripted events to overcome.

  The choice was stark: let Connie die, and soon follow, or go with the creatures who wanted to make amends. And live.

  Brody looks down at Connie, and decides. For both of them.

  Tock, she lives. And so will he.

  Former captors become caretakers, and the hospital room stands empty.

  Brody is sitting in a classroom, and his teacher is at the front of the class. The place is familiar, full of faces he knows, friends. Lance is there, along with Gary Thompson and Rich Gable. He’s aware of where he is, and why, but there’s no pain in the back of his head, and he doubts there ever will be.

  His teacher walks to the classroom door and opens it, allowing another student to enter. “Class, we have a new student today. This is Constance Drake, and her family just moved here from . . . Where did you come from, dear?”

  “Illinois,” she says. Then to the teacher she whispers, “My name is Connie.”

  “Oh, okay, Connie,” the teacher whispers back. “Everyone, please make your new classmate feel welcome.”

  The teacher guides Connie to an empty desk next to Brody, and Connie sits down. She has red hair and the brightest green eyes Brody has ever seen.

  Brody smiles at her, and Connie smiles back.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First off, thank you, my reader, for spending a few hours of your precious time inside the pages of The Argus Deceit. I hope the world I built for you (and for Brody and Connie, too) was to your liking. Those of you who have read some of my short stories might recognize where this novel came from; if you’ve read “More,” I think you’ll see the similarities. That little thousand-word flash fiction story sparked an entire novel, and when I talked about where that story came from, this is what I said:

  When I was a kid, my parents took me to see a documentary titled Chariots of the Gods. If I recall, the movie was about how ancient civilizations mistook visiting aliens for gods, built pyramids, etc. At one point in the movie, there was a prediction about when the aliens were supposed to return to Earth. I believe the year they predicted would’ve been when I reached my late thirties or early forties.

  I remember my mom coming into my room later that night because I was bawling my eyes out, yelling “The aliens are coming when I’m forty-two! The aliens are coming when I’m forty-two!” (or something like that). Even though I was only eight at the time, the number of years between that night and my forty-second birthday didn’t seem like too much time, at least when it came to aliens showing up and eating my eyeballs.

  I was a weird—and apparently quite impressionable—little kid.

  My wife would probably tell you I’m now a weird—and quite impressionable—adult. Bottom line is, what I said about “More” still holds true for this novel. The whole subject of alien abduction has creeped me out for as long as I can remember. Have I ever seen a UFO? Nope. Have I ever experienced an alien abduction? Nope—at least I don’t think so (*gulp*). Do I believe there’s other intelligent life out there? Sure, why not. I think it’s pretty arrogant to believe there isn’t some other life out there in the stars, and maybe, just maybe, they’ve been here (oooh, spooky). Anyway, it’s made for some great movies (and o
ne very terrifying documentary that scared the living kee-rap out of a certain eight-year-old kid)!

  Flight 19, a group of five Grumman Avenger torpedo bombers that went missing over the Bermuda Triangle back in 1945, has always intrigued me as well. Sure, their disappearance was probably due to a navigational error, but it was always entertaining to wonder if there was a supernatural/alien cause behind it. (Think about that awesome desert scene from Close Encounters.) If you caught the mention of an Avenger model on Brody’s shelf, or even the name of the high school he attended, then I guess you caught me hiding Easter eggs!

  Connie, and her life in one of the Arks, really isn’t an Easter egg per se, but rather a nod to Hugh Howey and his incredible Wool series, which I thoroughly enjoyed. If you haven’t read it yet, do. (After you read my stuff, of course.)

  I really enjoyed writing this particular story because I was able to include some of my own experiences (and no, I’m not talking about being stuck in a vat of goo for a couple of hundred years).

  Brody’s yellow plastic T. rex? Real. I still have it, as a matter of fact, except half of its tail is gone.

  The non-PC game called Smear the Queer? Real. Yep, that’s what we called it, and I’m willing to bet if you asked any kid my age or older, they called it the same thing. It was fun, physical, and it was the 1970s, so give me a break. ;)

  Brody’s POS Impala? Real. A guy I went to high school with drove a 1963 Impala, which was almost as big of a heap as my 1962 Chevy II (which had a steel plate covering a big rust hole in the floor pan right under my feet).

  The balloon letters in Joan’s notebook that Brody saw when he wasn’t supposed to? Real. The actual balloon letters didn’t spell out Brody’s name, though. (The real name started with a C and ended with a HUCK.) I won’t say who wrote said balloon letters either. (Her name started with an S and ended with an ECRET.)

  And now, on to the thank-yous:

  To my lovely bride, Nessa, who survived another time-sucking stretch of novel-writing. Thanks for making sure I ate, slept, stayed out of the crazy end of the plot pool (for the most part), and didn’t drink too much coffee/beer. I love you more.

  To my agent, Mark Gottlieb, and to Jason Kirk, Clarence Haynes, and the rest of the 47North team, as well as my copyeditor Ben Grossblatt, you all have my thanks for helping a weird, impressionable adult bring yet another story out of his misshapen noggin and into the light of day.

  Lastly, I’d like to thank you once again, my reader. I truly hope you enjoyed the story. As always, if you keep bringing the popcorn, I’ll keep bringing the pages.

  Chuck Grossart

  Bellevue, Nebraska

  2017

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2013 Ashley Crawford

  Chuck Grossart is the author of the #1 US Kindle bestseller The Gemini Effect, which won the 2014 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award for Science Fiction, Fantasy & Horror. He lives outside of Omaha, Nebraska, with his very patient, understanding wife and a few too many dogs.