Trespassers: a science-fiction novel

by Todd Wynn

  Just then, the phone on Stewart’s desk clicked and a green light appeared. Telephones didn’t ring in the state-of-the-art, underground facility known as Home. They just made a simple click and illuminated with a green glow.

  Stewart lifted the handset. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Faulkner,” the voice of one of the operators from the main switchboard replied, “you have a call from Lyntic Faulkner.”

  The last name Faulkner was obviously a cover, to allow Stewart to play it off as a relative, if need be. It wasn’t the last name that caught Stewart’s attention, though. It was that unique first name.

  “I have to take this,” Stewart said, holding the phone against his chest.

  George rocked himself out of his chair. “Let’s give him some space to work his magic,” George called out to New Guy, who was already exiting.

  When the door closed behind them, Stewart took a deep breath and straightened himself in his chair. Since the hotel, his mind had been clouded with images of Lyntic. He had been subconsciously working out a plan to find her. It had not occurred to him, subconsciously or otherwise, that she would find him first. He pressed the phone against his ear.

  “Put her on.”

  There was a click, then her voice. “Stewart?”

  Lyntic stood in the living room of the farmhouse, holding the receiver with both hands, as if she was afraid it would slip out of her grasp. This was not an easy call for her to make—it had been so long, and there was so much between them now. She didn’t even know whether the number would still work, but it was one she knew by heart.

  Her big brother, Dexim, peered around the corner with the kitchen phone pressed to his ear, monitoring the call, a coiled phone cord tethering him to the far wall.

  “Are you there, Stewart?” Lyntic asked.

  “Yes.” This sounded colder than he wanted it to.

  A list of warm greetings filed through Lyntic’s mind, but she skipped them all.

  “We need to meet,” she said, matching the chill in his voice.

  “Okay,” Stewart replied, still failing to find the friendly tone he was searching for.

  “We need your help,” she said. “When can you be at North 40° 23’ 47.53” and West 86° 20’ 34.84”?”

  Stewart squinted and gave it some thought. They were both accustomed to speaking in latitude-and-longitude coordinates.

  “Two hours.” He grabbed a pen. “Now, give me those numbers, again.”

  Lyntic repeated the coordinates, and he jotted them down. Then they finished with a cold good-bye and returned their phones to their cradles. Dexim nodded with cautious approval.

  Alone in his office, Stewart leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. His mind drifted back to Stone Ridge Cabin, overlooking the lake. It wasn’t the memory of interrogating Denokin that took center stage. It was a much more distant memory, when Stewart and Lyntic used to go there, just the two of them.

  Stewart was amazed by how such a strong and powerful creature as Lyntic could make herself so willingly vulnerable. With a seductive and graceful bend of her naked body over the hickory hope chest at the foot of the bed, with a tender sprawling of her sweaty legs, she was giving up all control and rendering herself powerless in front of him, welcoming his advances. The subtle undulations of her body were begging him to take control of her. These were images that could never fade from his memory: how excited she was to have him standing behind her, both of them enveloped in heart-throbbing anticipation; the way she uninhibitedly wailed with pleasure when he took the bait, and the way she purred with satisfaction when he finally collapsed on top of her.

  This pleasant image was whisked away by the sound of George storming back in and slapping a folder down on Stewart’s desk. “And I was about to let you just stroll out that door,” George huffed.

  Stewart played it cool. “What, is there something wrong with the door?”

  George pointed down the hall. “If you want that office, this is not the way to get it. Those two genius bounty hunters you hired gave me the whole story when they called to inquire about their pay. Mr. Grizzly was quite helpful with the details.”

  “You conducted a secret operation in Juniper, and you didn’t report any of it!?” George fumed. “And a hostage situation! A federal agent was held hostage during an unauthorized covert operation!”

  “That was only for like two minutes.”

  “You’re staying here until I get all this straightened out,” George insisted.

  “I’m grounded?” Stewart mocked the situation.

  “Like a little kid who has been very bad. And I want that full report, with every detail included, even if a detail took only two minutes.”

  Stewart made a mental note to ask Mindy whether she was good with reports. He might as well ask a beaver whether it was good at chewing wood. The report Mindy would write was going to paste a genuine smile on George’s face. It would turn all the mishaps and fumbles into a streamlined operation. After her fingers worked their magic across the keyboard, it would appear that nothing had gone wrong at all.

  “I don’t have time for this nonsense,” George added, as he stormed to the door. “We’re shutting down the travel lanes and tracking a fugitive.”

  Shutting down the travel lanes should have meant something to Stewart, and normally a word like fugitive would catch his attention. But he was hypnotized by the thought of Lyntic and didn’t pay any mind to what George was saying. As soon as George left, Stewart called Web to his office and told him to pack for another trip.

  “Is the secret operation back on?” Web asked.

  “Maybe.”

  Web nodded and headed for the door, but Stewart’s voice caught him before he could exit. “And upload some files on alien culture for Lambert.”

  Web drew a blank. “Who’s Lambert?”

  Stewart pointed past Web to New Guy, who was standing marine-style in the corner of the room.

  “Oh,” Web replied. Now it hit him: this guy was staying. “Oh . . . nice to meet you . . . welcome aboard.”

  30

  Camp Whatever

  Jeremy was standing on a wooden platform with thick ropes dangling beneath; each rope had a large knot about every eighteen inches, perfect for climbing. It looked like a military obstacle course, and he had reached the top.

  “You can just see the roof of the house,” he said, as he stretched to see over the treetops. Then he crouched and extended a hand to Sara, who was making her way up to the final knot. This was the kind of fun summer campers were supposed to be having—the kind of fun she hadn’t had in the last eight months.

  She took Jeremy’s hand and he pulled her up. She looked back at the ground. They were twenty-two feet in the air, and it felt like fifty. But the platform was so well constructed that there was no swaying or wobbling. This platform was solid and connected to a substantial wooden fort. The ropes, the eye bolts, the timber, the stainless-steel couplers, everything was top quality and built to last. This structure was created at a time when Jeremy’s father was plowing full steam ahead on Camp Whatever. It was built on top of a rock the size of a combine. Since they had no luck moving the rock, they decided to incorporate it into the structure. It was as good as anything you would find at the world’s best retreats. It had been so good that Jeremy’s family couldn’t let it just collect spiderwebs like so many of the other forgotten projects. When he was younger, Jeremy and his friends used it as their own personal clubhouse—dubbing it Fort Fear, and the name stuck. Years later, his mother began using Fort Fear for Thursday-night cookouts.

  As Jeremy and Sara stepped into the clubhouse, lunch was waiting for them. It was not placed there by unseen elves, but by Jeremy and Sara themselves, when they came up the stairs the first time, before Jeremy had insisted they go back down and try the ropes. Sara was glad he had been so insistent. She needed that workout . . . for her body, mind, and soul.

  Sara took a seat on the sofa against the wall, just below a picture windo
w. Jeremy took the plastic lid off a plate of rolled turkey slices. They were arranged in a circle around a container of barbecue dip. It was readymade from Shockley’s Grocery, and it still had the sticker to prove it. Each roll of turkey had cheese in its center, held in place by a toothpick. It was something his mother left in the refrigerator for him so he wouldn’t starve while they were away at the Farm Expo.

  Jeremy had been scheduled to attend the Farm Expo with his family, just as he had all the other years. But Jeremy was feeling too old for family trips, and he decided to stay behind. What a monumental decision that had been. He didn’t know it at the time, but it was a choice between witnessing the latest innovations in hay baling or making out with the girl of his dreams. He made the right choice—no offense to the hay-baling industry.

  When his mother bought that plate of turkey rolls for him, she never imagined he would be sharing it with a lovely young girl who had spent the night—separate beds, of course; they weren’t moving that fast.

  Sara poured cranberry-juice cocktail into two plastic cups. “I feel like I should start making new memories, in case my old memories never come back.”

  “That makes sense,” Jeremy said, peeling the cover off the barbecue dip. “I mean—don’t wait for a different life, you know. Live the one you have.”

  “Exactly . . . I’ve been waiting and waiting and waiting for this mysterious person to—I don’t know—jump out from behind a bush and explain my whole life to me.”

  “That’s a bizarre image,” he said, dipping a turkey roll.

  “I know, right?” She laughed.

  “So, how do you let go of that . . . how do you stop waiting?” Jeremy took a seat.

  “I feel like I stopped waiting last night. I feel like I made some new memories . . . good memories.” She blushed.

  “I feel like I made a few memories last night, too.”

  “Yeah, but you already have memories—a whole life full of them.”

  He shrugged.

  “I should steal your memories,” she said.

  “You can have them.”

  “Good, I’ll take them. Hand them over.”

  He laughed as he chewed a piece of cheese.

  “Tell them all to me,” she said, leaning back onto a pillow. “What’s something that you remember? What’s the first memory that you’re going to let me have?”

  “Let you have?”

  “Yeah, I’m going to borrow your memories, since I don’t have my own. What’s something that you did as a kid?”

  He licked the turkey off his fingers and stared at the ceiling. “Um, we flew to Niagara Falls, when I was about—”

  “No,” she shook her head. “That’s not what I’m looking for. That’s too big. Flying to Niagara Falls doesn’t make you who you are. I want a little memory. The kind that stays with you and is a part of you.”

  He grabbed another piece of turkey and clenched his brow, digging deeper into his past.

  “I used to walk to school,” he said. “I couldn’t ride my bike, because the path I took went through fields and over a few fences—none of the other kids went that way. I would always carry this stick with me in case of snakes or a dog or something. I never had to use it on anything, but I always had it with me when I walked to school. I would drop it in the woods next to this big stump, so that no one would mess with it. It was like the perfect walking stick.”

  They both smiled as he described it.

  “On my walks to and from school, that thing had been a guitar, a baseball bat, a sword, a fishing rod . . . a spear . . . a rifle . . . you name it.”

  “What about when you got home?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where did you put it when you got home?”

  “Oh, I would drop it along the fence in our driveway. I was as careless as you could be with that thing, but it was always there in the morning.”

  This was exactly what she was looking for. She closed her eyes and pictured that walking stick. She wanted it to be her own. She wanted to slay dragons and hit home runs—at least she wanted to have that childhood memory.

  “I’ll take it,” she said. “That’s a perfect memory.”

  After lunch, they made their way down from the fort—opting for stairs instead of ropes. Jeremy acted as tour guide as they weaved through the rest of the hollowed-out camp and reached the lake.

  “Let’s make another memory for you,” Jeremy said, as they walked along the crooked path beside the water. “This is something we used to do as kids. Close your eyes and keep walking.”

  She did this.

  “I’ll tell you when to turn,” Jeremy said. He noticed her slowing. “Keep up your speed. You have to trust me. That’s the fun part.”

  “Oh, I thought the fun part was when you watch me crash into a bush.”

  “Just trust me.”

  She sped up, but put her hands out for protection.

  “Turn one notch to the left,” he said, “and put your hands down. You’re not going to hit anything.”

  “What’s a notch?” she asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s whatever you want it to be. I’ll just adjust my directions based on how you move.”

  She moved a notch to the left and kept going, despite the sensation that she was about to smack into a tree.

  “That’s good,” Jeremy said. “Now turn two more notches to your left.”

  Jeremy continued to lead her through the winding path. And after about fifteen notches this way and that way, she finally dropped her hands and let herself go. She was completely trusting him, and it felt wonderful. It felt as though her whole body was smiling.

  They must have covered a half mile or more when he finally told her to stop and open her eyes. What she saw was completely out of sync with her bearings. They were on the other side of the lake and facing a different direction than she expected. She looked back at the twisting trail that had led them here.

  “No way! I did all that?” she said.

  “One turn at a time.”

  “Oh, that’s so cool,” she exclaimed. “I want to do you now.”

  He knew what she meant and let the obvious joke slip by unsaid.

  “Okay, tell me where to go,” he said, as he closed his eyes and started walking.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Let’s just get lost.”

  “That’ll be easy,” she said, as she looked at the unfamiliar woods that lay ahead.

  She took a quick step to catch up and began calling out directions. Being new at this, she had a few close calls and almost lost him in the vines on two occasions, but he kept his eyes closed the whole time and carefully followed the directions that he could make out amid her laughter.

  She finally got the hang of it, and it became second nature. They traversed another half mile, talking and laughing. Then she brought him to a complete stop.

  “This part is going to be a little tricky,” she said. “Keep your eyes closed.” She planted herself directly in his path. “Okay, move forward very, very slowly.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just trust me, and go slow.”

  As he eased ahead, he sensed something very close, but he kept moving, until he walked right into her outstretched lips, which she had positioned to perfectly meet his. With his eyes still shut, his hands rose to take hold. She was the only landmark he had and the only one he needed.

  Sara quickly turned, and Jeremy opened his eyes to see her walking away. This was part of the game. He was supposed to pursue her. He was supposed to capture her and kiss her again—she wasn’t supposed to be initiating all the kissing.

  Unfortunately, Jeremy didn’t know this game. Instead of pouncing like a wolf, he scampered along beside her like a confused puppy.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Jeremy thought maybe he shouldn’t have kissed her.

  Wait. She kissed me. In fact, on the roof last night . . . a
nd in the field yesterday . . . she was the one who made the first move. How could she possibly be mad at me, if she’s the one doing all the kissing? Jeremy failed to realize that this was precisely why she was upset.

  Jeremy led them back to the house, where she led the way through the door, slid out of her shoes and sat Indian-style on his bed. She asked about the trophies on his wall. He explained where he had gotten each one. She asked about the posters, and he explained that one was from a concert, one was a gift, and he couldn’t remember much about the third—it had always just been there.

  She finally tapped the bed, as if calling a pet. Right on cue, he curled up at her feet. And they began talking about dreams—one of the few things she could remember in perfect detail.

  “Sometimes I dream of strange foods and strange places,” she said, “almost like they’re memories . . . almost like the dreams fill in the space where the memories should be.”

  “Well, after you have the dreams, they do become memories,” he pointed out.

  “Yeah, that’s true. I hadn’t thought of that. But they seem different. Like I’m dreaming about things I’ve done.”

  “That’s how dreams feel.”

  “I guess so,” she conceded.

  “But it’s probably a much stronger feeling for you,” he said, “since you don’t have any memories from your past.”

  Sara agreed.

  31

  The Meeting

  North 40° 23’ 47.53” and West 86° 20’ 34.84”—the coordinates that Lyntic relayed over the phone—turned out to be a farmhouse, surrounded by vast cornfields, where a dog named Mattie shared her home with four visitors from another galaxy.

  Stewart stepped out of the passenger’s side of the SUV and surveyed the area: a house, a barn, a few cars. There was no sign of anyone. Web, Mindy, and Lambert all stepped out and took a look for themselves.

  “Hit the horn,” Stewart called over his shoulder to Lambert, who reached back through the open window of the driver’s door and tapped out a few honks.

  Still, the house was quiet, and there was no sound to be heard, except for the gentle breeze that rustled through the thick cornstalks.