Trespassers: a science-fiction novel

by Todd Wynn

  Maybe this is a trap, Mindy thought. Lambert had already been thinking this, but on a much grander scale. As the military specialist on the team, it was his job to think it. If it were an ambush, they would be sitting ducks where they were. Of course, this might be a diversion, to waste their time while these trespassers were off somewhere else, doing something else. Lambert kept a steady watch on the surroundings, checking the rows of cornstalks for prying eyes and possible threats.

  “Maybe we’re early,” Web offered.

  “Or late,” Mindy added.

  “We’re fine,” Stewart replied.

  Just then, the front door opened. Lyntic stepped onto the porch, with Dexim right behind her. Tobi and Jin hung in the doorway.

  “Let me talk to him alone, first,” Lyntic whispered to her brother.

  Dexim rolled his eyes, but didn’t protest. “Don’t give him any information,” he ordered. “I want to talk to him before we tell him anything.”

  “He’s reasonable,” Lyntic said, as if she were saying it for the thousandth time.

  “We’re not here to reason. We’re not on a diplomatic mission. We have a job to do, and it’s unlikely that he’s going to help us do it.”

  Lyntic shook her head, mostly to herself.

  Lyntic stepped off the porch and started toward Stewart. Mindy watched as the two came together in the middle of the yard.

  “Who is that?” Mindy whispered to anyone who might answer. She squinted at this strange woman who—in Mindy’s opinion, anyway—always seemed to be sending Stewart the wrong signals.

  Stewart knew Lyntic was stronger than he was—hell, she was stronger than anyone. He knew she had the will to put their history to bed and focus on the mission at hand.

  “Remember the flowers?” she said softly. Well, what do you know? She still had the ability to surprise him.

  With these three words, she penetrated whatever semblance of armor he had and touched the core of his soul, as if she belonged there. His heart ached. Of the thousands of memories they had collected together, this one took up only a few seconds of time, but it would outlive the universe itself.

  She could have mentioned the grassy bank of the lake where they used to spend hours talking. She could have mentioned the swing suspended from that large oak tree, where they spent hours laughing under the falling leaves. Or she could have mentioned the blackberries, which they picked and washed and fed to each other while following a recipe for strawberry muffins. They figured blackberries could substitute for strawberries and that ceramic mugs could substitute for a muffin pan. They were right on both accounts.

  Stewart remembered the process as being a phenomenal aphrodisiac. Each detail was another level of foreplay, as the two naked lovers focused on baking. Except for eating blackberries from each other’s fingertips, there was to be no physical contact until the muffins rose from their ceramic mugs. Only moans of desire were allowed. They turned their pent up energy into whimpers and sighs, as they expressed full thoughts without words . . . thoughts that words could never express.

  Instead of any of this, Lyntic had mentioned the flowers. Of all the memories, she chose the flowers. He would have chosen the same . . . two flowers plucked from the ground, a stone’s throw from the flowing stream.

  Stewart’s only response was to nod. An attempt at words might bring tears.

  Lyntic closed her eyes and shifted gears. It was proving to be harder than she expected. Finally the words came.

  “My brother doesn’t trust you, but I told him you’d want to do what’s right.”

  “I’m afraid I’m a little behind, here,” Stewart admitted.

  “We should do some introductions, first,” she said. “Then, we can get into it.”

  Stewart nodded.

  The two groups were brought together on the front lawn with plenty of handshakes and suspicious glares—except for Lyntic and Mindy, who were able to avoid each other entirely.

  “What does the government here know about us?” Dexim asked Stewart.

  “More than they let on, I suppose,” Stewart answered.

  “What do you know about us?” Dexim continued.

  “I know you’re taking some very big risks,” Stewart replied.

  Dexim smiled at just how little Stewart knew. As he expected, Stewart was insignificant.

  Stewart could see he needed to improve his hand in this game, and that word fugitive was still floating around in the back of his mind, just where George had planted it. It wasn’t until he saw Dexim’s smirk that he saw a possible connection. He figured it was worth a shot . . .

  “. . . very big risks to find a fugitive,” Stewart added.

  Dexim’s smile dropped off. He was not used to being surprised. This reaction confirmed Stewart’s hunch, and Stewart felt downright foolish for having not seen the connection earlier.

  “We should go inside,” Dexim said.

  The two teams from different sides of the galaxy poured into the modest living room of the farmhouse—Mindy still suspicious of Lyntic, Lambert still searching for threats, Dexim still sizing up Stewart, and Stewart still trying to piece this puzzle together.

  After leaving the Juniper Hotel, Lyntic had managed to have an uncomfortable talk with Dexim, to explain who Stewart really was. Dexim heard about romantic strolls on the beach and candlelit dinners in the cabin, but what he pictured was a slick government agent taking advantage of his tourist sister.

  Lyntic did her best to assure Dexim this wasn’t the case. And if he had been anyone other than an overprotective brother, he would have seen that no one was capable of taking advantage of her.

  The two teams stood in an awkward circle. They were surrounded by furniture, but no one was sitting.

  “We were at fugitive, I believe,” Stewart said, to get the ball rolling.

  “Sarazha Bant,” Dexim said, “that’s her name—the name of the girl we’re looking for.”

  Stewart didn’t recognize it.

  “But she’s not a fugitive,” Dexim explained. “She was here on an exploratory research mission.”

  As Mindy watched this discussion take place, she couldn’t help but count heads: four aliens and four earthlings. By her count, the numbers were even. If things got heated, would they be in danger? Mindy remembered how Lyntic’s forearm had squeezed tightly around her neck.

  “So, why is she being called a fugitive?” Stewart asked.

  “That’s the Mundle,” Dexim said. “They want Earth’s help in locating her. And labeling her a fugitive makes it that much easier for your government to play along.”

  Mindy felt a tension in the air. She noticed how he was glaring at Stewart—as if fueled by a personal vendetta. She could fix this.

  “Mundle?” Mindy asked, her word hanging in the air. All eyes turned to her, most of them wondering why she was speaking. This was not a case of a rookie mistake, though. She knew what she was doing. Dexim’s shoulders relaxed, and his gaze shifted from Stewart to Mindy.

  “The Mundle are a small collection of bounty hunters who are always making trouble in one galaxy or another,” Dexim explained—almost pleasant now. Stewart saw what Mindy had done. A single, innocent question had lightened the whole room.

  “And why do they want this particular nonfugitive?” Stewart asked. “Is she someone special?”

  “It’s not who she is,” Dexim said. “It’s what she knows. She’s a member of an exploratory research team. She’s a research student, actually. And she was researching on her own when she uncovered a promising lead on the location of a certain high-profile artifact.”

  Stewart shrugged, waiting for more. Dexim looked to Lyntic to see whether she had any second thoughts about trusting Stewart. She didn’t.

  “It’s the Adari Metraball,” Dexim said.

  Stewart recognized it—not the Holy Grail, but close. It was an ancient propulsion system that was rumored to have zero resistance to subnuclear infusion, allowing it to travel the breadth of the universe on w
hat was essentially one tank of fuel—at least that was Stewart’s rudimentary understanding of it. Stewart smirked at the thought.

  “Let me guess,” Stewart quipped. “It was buried under a unicorn?”

  “There’s compelling data to support the claim,” Dexim fired back.

  “Okay, so you found the world’s coolest rocket engine, how does that bring us to where we are now?”

  Dexim explained that the Mundle had intercepted a private communication from Sarazha, telling of her possible discovery. Wanting the technology for themselves, the Mundle pursued her, but she spotted them before they spotted her. She was able to elude them. She sent a second communication explaining that her discoveries had been erroneous. It worked. The Mundle bought it.

  “The Mundle bought it?” Stewart laughed. “So, first she discovered this great find. Then she didn’t?”

  “She’s a research student. It was believable that she made a mistake and jumped the gun. Her second letter was very convincing. It was apologetic, and in it, she even pleaded with her counselor to not suspend her.”

  “Okay.” Stewart nodded. “She’s good at writing letters. The Mundle bought it. Then what?”

  “We bought it too,” Dexim said, “but ten days ago we received a delayed broadcast informing us otherwise.”

  Stewart brought Mindy up to speed. “A delayed broadcast is a message set to transmit in the event that everything goes wrong. It’s the final distress signal if all else fails. It’s common for remote explorers to set a delayed broadcast with a distress signal before going out on a dangerous hike. They will set it to transmit in twenty-four hours, with the expectation that they will return to their camp and turn it off before it transmits. If they get trapped or lost and don’t make it back, the signal will automatically send.” Stewart turned back to Dexim. “So, her broadcast was sent, and now you’re here to find her before the Mundle do. Is that about right?”

  “Yes. But there’s a complication. . . . Her memory has been blocked.”

  “She doesn’t know who she is?” Stewart asked.

  “No.”

  Memory blocking was a rather simple process of manipulating the subconscious. It was the subject’s own subconscious that did the work. The process of memory blocking—which certain alien cultures had perfected and which Stewart had some familiarity with—was quick and painless: sonic pulses were used to gain access to the subject’s subconscious. Direct access to the subconscious allowed for specific programming of the mind. It was akin to hypnosis, but on a core level.

  When the pulse was activated, sound waves would stimulate the eardrum and massage the mind into total relaxation, allowing the illusive subconscious to surface. From there, the subconscious could be given specific instructions. Through the whole process, the subject was fully awake and completely aware. The subconscious will only take its instructions with the unmitigated permission of the conscious mind. It simply wasn’t possible to block memories against the will of the subject. This told Stewart that this girl was a willing participant.

  “So, you’re looking for a research student who is wandering around on Earth with no idea that she’s an alien . . . or a researcher,” Stewart said.

  “That’s where we stand.” Dexim nodded.

  “Does she have any clue about any of this—anything that might tip her off that she’s not your average earthling?”

  “I would think not,” Dexim replied.

  “Perfect. Any other complications in this little mission that I should know about?” Stewart hoped the answer would be no. Dexim’s silence didn’t give him much comfort.

  “Actually . . . yes,” Dexim said. “The transmission was recorded eight months ago.”

  “You mean she has been wandering around all alone on this planet for eight months,” Stewart spouted, “trying to figure out who she is?”

  Dexim nodded.

  “She could be anywhere.” Stewart shrugged. “Did you actually get a reading on her location?” Judging from the uncomfortable pause, Stewart gathered that they hadn’t.

  Dexim was not accustomed to being in this position. Generally, he was the one asking all the questions and feeling disappointed by the shallow answers. Now, he was the one fumbling for excuses. He wasn’t sure how he slid into this role, but it didn’t feel right.

  “The only heart signal that we picked up led us straight to you,” Dexim growled, sounding less like he was answering to Stewart and more like he was blaming him.

  A proud grin stretched across Web’s face. After all, he had been responsible for that phony heart signal—probably the only functioning imitation heart signal ever created.

  “And you haven’t been able to pick up a signal since?” Stewart asked.

  “No.”

  “We have to move fast,” Lyntic spoke up, addressing Stewart on a more personal level. “The Mundle know as much about her location as we do. And with her memory blocked, she won’t know to hide from them.”

  “We’re asking for your help,” Dexim said, “to find her, restore her memory, and take her off the planet. As you can see, we can’t go to your government, because they’re already helping the Mundle, believing that she’s a fugitive.”

  “I don’t know that they believe it,” Stewart countered, “but you’re right about not going to them. The government will do whatever the Mundle want, just to keep the peace.”

  Stewart knew this well. The safety of Earth depended on a healthy alliance with all alien civilizations. Earth didn’t take sides in alien politics. Since the Mundle showed up first, Earth would acquiesce and do everything it could to get this girl into their hands and get the whole matter over with as quickly as possible.

  “We have another little issue,” Dexim said.

  Why not, Stewart thought. “Go ahead.”

  “One of your agents was snooping around,” Dexim explained, “and we had to restrain him.”

  “One of our agents?”

  Dexim tossed a wallet on the coffee table, and it flipped open, showing a government I.D. that read, KARL BRUNER - ALIEN RESEARCH AGENCY. Stewart looked back to Dexim.

  “You have this man?” Stewart asked. Dexim nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” Dexim said. “It’s what we had to do at the time.”

  “No, no, no,” Stewart shook his head, “this isn’t one of our agents. This guy is a problem.”

  “He’s getting good,” Web marveled.

  “He’s getting to be a pain.” Stewart looked to Dexim. “You didn’t show him any alien shit, did you?”

  Dexim wasn’t sure how to take this, but he got the sense that Stewart didn’t mean any offense. “We just—”

  “All right.” Stewart cut him off. “Let me see him.”

  Bruner was sitting in a wooden chair in the sewing room, with his arms tied behind his back. As Stewart entered, Bruner didn’t recognize him. Stewart, on the other hand, recognized Bruner instantly.

  “Karl Bruner,” Stewart said, as he pulled an empty chair from against the wall—the others flowing into the room behind him. “You were looking for me earlier today. I’m Stewart Faulkner.” He slid into the chair. “I’m going to be straight with you. I’m not from the Limestone Deposit Survey Group, because there isn’t any such group. That name was just chosen because . . . well, because it’s boring. And it won’t attract any attention. What we actually do . . .”

  Everyone in the room was hanging on his words, now.

  “. . . is investigate land fraud, which is the fourth largest crime perpetrated against the American people, from a financial standpoint. Did you know in rural America, on average, for each acre of land that is purchased, the buyer only receives 0.9 acres? That’s a 10 percent pilferage. That means the buyers are losing a tenth of the land that they pay for. Also, on average, every acre that is sold is sold 1.03 times. Most people don’t know what that means. It means that when you see a thousand acres, someone was sold thirty acres of that completely fraudulently, meaning that the buyer owns nothing, even
though their deed says they own thirty acres.”

  At first, Mindy was lost, but then she realized what was happening. In orientation she had learned about improvised cover stories. In the classroom they had never seemed this compelling. Stewart was a master. He almost had Mindy believing his story. She wondered whether he committed every detail to memory, as they said to do in orientation.

  “I’m sorry for the rough stuff,” Stewart said, “but your presence here was pretty suspicious, and you can imagine how many crooks have it out for us. We have to watch our backs.” Stewart called over his shoulder, “Hey, can somebody untie him, now?” Jin and Web moved in to do the honors.

  “Anyway,” Stewart continued, “I ran your name and checked you out . . . and once again, I apologize for the misunderstanding. I hope you can see where we’re coming from.”

  Stewart managed to build an almost instant camaraderie, causing Bruner to laugh.

  “Well,” Bruner said, “you certainly gave me some excitement, I’ll tell you that . . . and I’m sorry for disrupting your operation.”

  “Of course, you can’t tell anybody about this,” Stewart said. “We’re still in the middle of an ongoing investigation.”

  “Oh, sure.” Bruner nodded.

  Stewart stood from his chair and returned it to the wall. He couldn’t resist a parting shot. “And, while we’re out in the field doing our work, we’ll let you know if we come across any little green men.”

  32

  Joining Forces

  It was all wrapped up in a neat little package. But this little package wasn’t sitting well with Bruner. As he sat in the driver’s seat of his car, with the key in his hand, he was drawn to introspection.

  Bruner’s subconscious was analyzing details, gathering evidence, and preparing a case. The evidence it had come up with seemed random: a string, a bruised jaw, a badge, and Ernesto Arturo Miranda.

  Missing from this collection of images were his wife and a glass of Dewar’s Scotch. That in itself made this train of thought worth following. He began to inspect the evidence.

  Exhibit A: The string. His subconscious was showing him the string that was used to tie his hands behind his back and fasten him to the chair. It was a tad too thin to be called rope, but pretty thick for string. Whether it was rope or string wasn’t the point. The point was that these guys were supposed to be federal agents investigating criminal activity. Neither string nor rope fit the profile. They should have had handcuffs or zip ties. He couldn’t toss out this piece of evidence. He would set it aside for later.