So, where was she? The Trin checked her computers. Jeff Abel would be sleeping in a domicile a few miles to the south. She directed her ship with a peck on a command board, and it responded silently, swooping through the night.
The target was thirty seconds away.
The Trin gave a final glance at the controls, set the speed so it would slow down directly above the structure where her target slept, and straightened herself up. A small mirror popped from her dash.
Twenty seconds.
She preened, long fingers pushing her top locks away from her two big eyes. Earth natives had a thing for cute animals, so why not look good for the inevitable cameras? Speaking of which...
Ten seconds.
She flicked another key on the command board. A round metallic disk emerged from its dock, and on its face a trio of eyes lit up, one clear, one red, one white. It hovered close to her, the three eyes glowing brightly, ready to document the event. The Trin cleared her throat, silently practicing the words she would say once she met the human.
Five seconds.
The collision alert sounded. Orange lights flashed on the console before her, and the craft's automatic response zigged the ship from its flight path. The display caught the flash of bright strobe lights from outside. Not lightning again, but a small, single-engine human aircraft dropped though the space where her craft had been a fraction of a second before, its wing and tail barely missing the Trin ship.
“Oh piss,” she said.
She slapped at the controls. The mirror got in her way. She slammed it shut with her fist, glanced at the screens. Inertial displacement kicked in, shielding the Trin from the effects of her ship's frantic maneuvering. Her craft shifted, spun, stopped, and hovered. Had they collided? No. But where was the human aircraft?
The small plane was taking a steep dive and was not far from the ground. Its passage through the pocket of air left by her craft was like hitting a wind sheer, and the human's plane didn't have the speed or altitude to correct. The pilot and any passengers aboard would die. No houses directly below, not much nearby except for the dual landing strips of a small municipal airport. Still, if anyone died, that would change the probabilities of contact with Jeff Abel. Or had she altered something already? Or was this part of the calculation?
Abort? Ignore? There was one other option. She flicked a control. A white beam shot out from her craft, illuminating the plane below. Instantly, the plane's fall was arrested. It hovered a few feet from the ground. She could see the pilot pushing his face to one of the plane's windows, squinting at the blinding light above him. She set the plane down in the grass before what looked like the runway of a small airport. Her ship flew low above the field, her light a white circle around the landed plane.
Should leave, abort, try later. But the Greys had failed, and maybe someone else would go in her place. And wasn't this an acceptable prelude to an embrace of humanity into the galactic fold?
The floating recorder bobbed in her periphery. She smiled and knew what to do. She locked her vehicle into a hover over the human's aircraft and allowed the auto pilot full control. She got up and went to the hatch. It glided open. The recorder followed and captured the moment of the savior looking down at the saved, the Trin giving the human a big-sisterly wave.
The pilot stumbled out of his plane, held a hand over his brow to see. He was an older human, male, pale skin. Broken eyeglasses and an open bottle of some brown liquid tumbled to the ground at his feet. Her visual app zoomed in and translated the bottle label as some human beverage called “Wild Turkey.” He obviously was blinded by her ship's light and couldn't see her. The Trin dimmed the lights and resumed her wave, happy that the pilot was safe. He produced a chrome pistol from his pants pocket, raised it in her direction, and fired.
In spite of the human's fright, shaking hands, ill effects of his spilled beverage, and well outside any normal laws of probability, the bullet struck home.
CHAPTER 5
JEFF ABEL AWOKE to the sounds of sirens. He hadn't heard many since arriving in Big Bear, California. The locals he had met mostly saw emergency vehicles during ski season, and it was now late spring, the snow gone, no fires burning in the mountains according to the newspaper. The slopes were mostly mush and mud with the warm days of late.
His current dwelling was storage for the horse camp where he worked. He rose and dressed, a buttoned shirt with two pockets, jeans, and work boots. The rest of his belongings were stuffed into one large duffel bag at the foot of the cot. He was careful not to hit his elbows on the stacked picnic benches inside the cabin. He stepped outside and met an old woman who looked small inside a pillowy coat. She was the owner of the Manzanita Creek Stables. Time for the day’s marching orders. This was a good job, with only a pair of other workers to deal with, and no crowds, with nary a computer in sight.
“What's going on, Mrs. Hawks?” Jeff asked.
“Don't know,” Mrs. Hawks said. “Sounds like it's over at the airport.” Her mouth twitched, and she avoided eye contact, though she hadn't done this to Jeff before. She reached into her downy coat's pocket and handed him an envelope. It was not empty, but almost.
“I'm afraid we can't use you anymore around here,” she said.
He opened the envelope. Three hundred dollars in cash.
“My boy's back in town today,” she said. “Earlier than expected. You filled in nice while he was gone. That settles us.”
“I understand,” Jeff said.
He went back into the cabin and collected his things. If he had still been with his wife, this would have involved packing four of her matching black pieces of luggage with dozens of zipped compartments with their labeled and perfectly rolled and folded clothing items, makeup, and shampoo in their travel sizes, and shoes for walking, meetings, dining, and “sitting.” The bathroom would have been invaded by a small clipped case attached to the edge of a counter, detached like a lunar module from the mothership suitcase in the bedroom. This would be zipped open and emptied of its bottles and creams and dental hygiene products, shock troops fighting the open spaces of sink and shower. Repacking it all would take hours. Jeff had his stuff together in five minutes. He didn't mind this place or the cramped accommodations. Mrs. Hawks had treated him well over the past two weeks and paid cash. Finding yet another caretaker job would mean borrowing a computer at the library and checking for listings. A necessary evil. If he got online and worked quickly, he might not feel that twist in his gut like something was on the other side of the computer screen just waiting for him to log on so it could track him, watch him, and somehow violate his soul through his fingertips. His palms got sweaty just thinking about the task.
On his way out, he threw his bag into his truck's bed a bit harder than intended. He also hit the gas and spun dirt and rocks as he left, a brown cloud obscuring the stable and its owner, both now in the rear view mirror.
***
When leaving town, Jeff drove by the municipal airport. He slowed down. Several emergency vehicles were parked along a scrubby culvert by the runway. A tow truck appeared to have just finished winching a small, intact plane from the rough grass. The police and some locals surrounded one man who gestured with flapping arms. He was squinting, and he pointed at the sky above and towards the plane but never quite at it.
Other emergency personnel were more interested in something well past the runway markers and out of sight from the road. No smoke, no fire, Hopefully no one hurt, The last thing the first responders to a crash scene needed was another Looky-Lou. Jeff drove on.
He passed two news teams that were prepping their equipment from vans near the airport hangars. Near them were parked a trio of black Suburbans with dark windows. From one Suburban, a pair of men got out wearing dark suits and dark glasses. They gave Jeff a passing glance as he drove by but were more interested in the news teams. Up on the windy mountain highway, he saw several large, green, twin-rotor helicopters fly overhead. Overkill for a small plane. Was there a military b
ase nearby? Jeff wasn't sure. And those guys in dark suits? Could be DEA, or even a squad of insurance adjusters. The prices of small planes these days!
He left Big Bear, one hand on the wheel, the other on the radio knob, searching for something to listen to until he settled for the sounds of the truck and the road. Maybe his feeling of unease sprang from having to move and find a new job again so soon after leaving the bar and grill. Could be the nonsense talk about aliens that had caught everyone's attention, a nonstop news alert worse than a presidential election, the Oscars, and World Cup all rolled into one. A little critical thinking, a little skepticism, and a steady hand on one's senses would work wonders for the hysterics seeing visitors from other worlds landing in the desert. But as he drove, Jeff had a definite angst cramp in his belly that the miles passing by did nothing to alleviate.
CHAPTER 6
THE HAPPY ALIEN WELCOME COMMITTEE made more attempts to establish first contact with Jeff Abel. These became eight failures, ten in total. The chaircreature read the probabilities on each, and each attempt at contact showed zero chance of interference and a 100% chance for success. The committee checked the numbers twice and a third and fourth time. They plotted the course and waypoints with meticulous attention to weather and terrain and environmental conditions. They tracked the targeted invitee through his travels from Big Bear to Fresno to Chico to Yreka and over to Arcadia. From there, Jeff Abel moved to points north, from Klamath to Bend and over to Portland.
Each potential ambassador, moments from their planned introduction, was sequentially shot, stabbed, eaten by a mountain lion, struck by a boat, eaten by a black bear, stung to death by honey bees, burned from a meth lab explosion, and finally, back south in Truckee, California, a trio of the tiny, rat-like Frizzin were all impaled by the same kite.
Each dark day was punctuated with either Jeff Abel getting fired or quitting his job and then moving on.
The members of the Alien Welcome Committee were not happy. They sat, slouched, leaned, and arched over their long meeting table. Tongues wagged, cheeks clucked, and pheromones lingered heavy in the air.
The holographic slide projector hummed loudly as it struggled to maintain a coherent image above the table's center. Its focus shifted from sharp to blurry, flirted with coherent, and advanced to a test pattern for the color blind. A skinny humanoid covered with dun hair and a bushy brown mustache and matching eyebrows crouched over the projector, muttering to himself. His large ears stood erect. He wore a blue mechanic's jumpsuit, dirty with soot.
“Oliop,” the chaircreature said. “Fix it.”
She rubbed at the tension in her temples. Before her were the portraits of the fallen. She looked almost exactly like the Trin who had died on the second contact mission with the human.
“Trying,” Oliop said. He fussed with the projector settings, whacked the machine. A spark jumped. Oliop jumped.
The holographic image from the projector stabilized, showing the last attempt at contact, a child's kite driven through the three Frizzin. One still held a partially unfurled welcome banner, their introductory message to the humans. “We embrace our new friends!!” it read.
Another trio of Frizzin at the Committee table hugged one another in consolation and cried openly.
Only one Grey sat at the table. It leaned forward, considering the image. “When my brood mate died in the first incident, we concluded that accidents happen.” Its words were a haze of scented displeasure. Those near it stifled coughs.
The Committee members all quieted and sat in silence.
Then the Grey continued. “When our Trin committee fellow perished during the second attempt through a chain of events including that rudimentary, slow-moving human aircraft and a panicked human with a weapon, we reasoned that the Trin must have made some mistake. It can be the price of contact, and it is not unheard of. Perhaps both of our species made blunders in their contact protocols.”
The Trin chaircreature snorted, her snout twitched, but she stayed silent.
“But,” the Grey said, “when we consider the next eight incidents, all resulting in more deaths, climaxing in... this.”
He pointed at the hologram of the three kite-pierced rat creatures. If it weren't for the blood, they appeared asleep in a cuddly pileup. The three Frizzin at the table renewed their bawling.
“We must conclude that there is a flaw in our contact formula,” the Grey said.
The projector made an odd hum. Oliop touched it. The image enlarged and focused on the dead Frizzin faces, pink tongues protruding between needle teeth from their narrow mouths. The three Frizzin at the table curled into a mutual ball of comfort to keep from fainting.
“Turn that bloody projector off,” the Trin chaircreature said.
Oliop hit the power switch. The projector hissed, and he jumped back. The image before the committee spun in the air, a model for all to examine in its dimensions and colors. Other Committee members murmured, some gasped, others looked away. Oliop hit the switch again. With a pop, the projector died.
The Trin and the Grey eyed each other. After a moment, all attention returned to the Grey.
“Again,” the Grey said, “The contact formula is flawed. Or, more precise, incomplete. We compile our figures from species ability, intelligence, potential. What will they contribute to the galactic community once brought on? Next we calculate a time of contact. Which generation will adapt to contact? Next, what individual will best suit the role of ambassador for an entire planet? Then, finally, we check with the probability computer and get our results upon which we determine where and when to initiate contact.
“We all know that a first meeting with an nonmember race is fraught with danger. There are risks. With the humans, we had a 99% chance of success. This was improved to 100%. We calculated a similar likelihood of success with our subsequent efforts, with the best minds here poring over the results. There has been nothing haphazard in our efforts. But there is an element to these humans that we must consider.”
The Grey nodded to Oliop. Oliop had a long screwdriver with a self-adjusting tip in hand and was making an adjustment to the projector. The Grey coughed. Oliop continued working. The Trin coughed. Oliop looked up and smiled at her. She didn't smile back.
“Sorry,” he said.
Oliop activated the projector. The image before the committee showed a video taken from Earth news, two-dimensional images displayed as a four-screen cube above the table so all could see.
The audio came up. Each member’s translation unit translated the human language.
A human male with black skin and a navy suit sat at a desk with a graphic above his right shoulder showing an icon of a flying saucer with a giant question mark.
“Latest developments in the reported recovery of a dead extraterrestrial near Lovelock, Nevada get even stranger,” the newsreader said, a look of deep concern across his face. “Lindsey Sheldon, the man who discovered the dead alien and claimed to have hit the creature when it ran in front of his truck, has reported that the body was stolen from a refrigerated display case in a Sacramento events center where Mr. Sheldon was charging admission for a look at the body.”
The scene cut to the steel and glass entryway of a convention center lobby hung with a “See the Alien” banner and a standing sign with an arrow reading “Tickets.” Lindsey Sheldon stood with a female reporter with short, slicked-back red hair, a white blouse, and a microphone.
“The Government took it,” Lindsey said. “They asked me for it, and when I wouldn't sell it to them, they took it.”
“Who do you think took it?” the reporter said.
“Those guys with the dark glasses that drive around in those big, black SUVs.”
Back at the news desk, the newsreader said, “Still no response from the convention center management, but a statement from the Sacramento Police Metro Division said that the center has a private security service, and there was no indication of a break in. We await further details. The controversy continues,
however, as to what Mr. Sheldon actually had in the display case and even if, indeed, it was something extraterrestrial or something much more ordinary. Mr. Sheldon has continued to refuse to comment on the possibility that the alien body is part of some hoax.”
Cut to a middle-aged, white male with an open white lab coat. Below him across the screen, “Dr. Phillip Stanton, Professor of Biology, University of Nevada, Reno.”
“Without access to the body itself,” Dr. Stanton said, “we can't prove or disprove any of the claims of what was hit on that highway or what Mr. Sheldon has been putting on display. Until the body is handed over to reputable scientists, these claims have to be treated with the utmost skepticism as this entire affair could still prove to be a fraud. Or worse, based on the photos I have seen, the body could be a human child with birth defects. We can't say more without further study, which makes speculation at this point difficult.”
Back to the newsreader. He said, “The response to Mr. Sheldon's claimed discovery has been worldwide and varied. After the announcement of the body going missing, supporters have been rallying to his side.”
Cut to a group of people inside the convention center. Half wore black t-shirts with white letters that read, “Not Alone!” The same red-haired reporter that had spoken to Lindsey Sheldon walked up to a family of three in the crowd. The father wore glasses and held a standing toddler by her hands. The mother held a sign with the same logo as the shirts, with eight of her long, blue-painted fingernails curling around the sign's edges.
“We saw the alien body,” the woman said, cutting off the reporter before she could speak. She pulled the microphone towards her. “We saw it and it was real. Someone took it. It was the government people; it always is, and they took it because they knew the alien was real. Both my husband and I were abducted years ago, so when I tell you I know what an alien looks like, trust me, I know. We have an app available for anyone who's seen an alien--”
A Beginner's Guide to Invading Earth Page 3