Oliop said, “When I first, uh, found the staple gun, it wouldn't stay in my tool box.”
“Interesting. How often did you use this tool?” Fizz asked Jeff.
“A few times before I lost it,” Jeff said. “I had it with me part of the day before Oliop showed up.”
“So this wasn't on your person at all times,” Fizz said.
“Nope,” Jeff said. “It would stay in my truck. My, uh, work vehicle.”
“So there must be other objects among your possessions that might be similarly contaminated.”
“Sure,” Jeff said. “I sleep in a bed. I wear clothes. I have a toothbrush. Is that what you mean?”
“These are all objects I would like to test,” Fizz said. “What you describe happening to the staple gun is very curious.” Fizz examined the white jumpsuit Jeff wore, raising Jeff's arms and patting him down. Jeff fought the urge to flinch every time a green tentacle touched him. “And this jumpsuit you're wearing isn't yours?”
“No,” Jeff said. “I'm not sure what happened to my own clothes.”
“But to test those things would mean you would have to go to Earth,” Oliop said.
“Not me,” Fizz said. “I have a job to do here and cannot leave. You have to do this, Oliop.”
Oliop shrank where he stood.
“Okay,” Jeff said, “Let's get me back to Earth, and we'll see what we can find.”
Oliop retrieved his tail from Jeff's grip and nodded reluctantly.
CHAPTER 20
“EXPLAIN YOURSELF,” the Master Grey said. The Master sat in a tall chair that overlooked the Grey sovereign building's meeting room high up on the two-hundredth floor. The view behind the Master was truly spectacular, a 280-degree panorama of the Galactic Commons with few nearby structures coming even close to the height of the Grey's. None in the room paid the view much attention, especially not the Head Grey.
The Head Grey, member of the Happy Alien Welcome Committee and secret chaircreature of the Alien Vendetta Alliance (Ltd.), stood in silence before the Master. Around the two sat eight broods of their brethren, each with eight brood mates, all identical in appearance to one another. They sat attentively on semicircular divans that held exactly eight of the short creatures, but one divan held only seven observers. With one brood mate dead on a Nevada highway on the human home world, an odor of shame literally hung around their couch.
“Your confession,” the Master said, “shows a deliberate act of disobedience to the very Committee you belong to and to whom you represent our race. Our good name before the Galactic Commons is at stake. We are of the founders. The later members look to us as examples. ”
The Head Grey remained silent. The aroma of wet grass with pruney off-notes permeated the chamber. It was the scent of serious business.
“Please reiterate your statement,” the Master said. It gestured to a cluster of small, black spheres in the ceiling above them. “The World Broodmaster will see it, hear it, and smell it firsthand when these proceedings are forwarded home.”
The Head Grey didn't look up at the recording apparatus, locked eyes with the Master. “My crime,” it said, “is that of trying to restore honor to our race. Our opportunity to make first contact was, in my opinion, bungled by the contacting brood's head, whom I replaced. Other difficulties unforeseen by the Happy Alien Welcome Committee figured into the event and subsequent fatality. So without permission, I made contact with Jeff Abel.”
“Go on,” the Master said with the toss of a hand. It sat back on its chair.
“I enlisted one of the technicians for assistance,” the Head Grey said. “Oliop. Some of you know him. We took one of our ships down to Earth and spoke with Jeff Abel and explained what it would mean for him to represent his species and planet at the Galactic Commons. He accepted. It would be a temporary arrangement until the Happy Alien Welcome Committee could reconvene and meet humanity's representative firsthand. I took him aboard the ship and brought him here. All off the record, of course.”
Murmurs and excited smells wafted from the broods.
“Silence,” the Master said.
“Once we arrived here, something went wrong,” the Head Grey said. It dropped its voice. “Jeff Abel managed to sabotage the ship and escape out into the Commons.”
“How is this possible?” The Master sat forward.
The Head Grey shook its head. “I don't know.”
“What do the security recordings show?”
“I know it sounds unbelievable, but the recordings in our hangar were deactivated. And I haven't made contact with Commons Security for any of the public surveillance data. I came to you first.” The Head Grey gave a small nod towards the Master.
The Master thought for a moment and nodded back. “But he's a human,” the Master said. “They still use solder in their electronics, and their technology is powered by fossil fuels.”
“I know,” the Head Grey said. “Which can only mean that we've been duped. I believe someone in the Galactic Commons gave Jeff Abel a piece of our technology, an access key, something. Which means someone has already made contact and has been actively sabotaging the Happy Alien Welcome Committee's efforts.”
The air grew thick with indignation. It was a fermented, rotten smell.
“Outrageous!” the Master said.
“Yes. Odious,” the Head Grey said. It looked about the room. The broods hung on its every word and smell. And now they would look to the Head Grey for the solution.
“But why?” the Master said.
“We have to assume the worst,” the Head Grey said. “He escaped from our ship and the hangar before I could manage to disinfect him. Whatever the human wants can't be good for the Galactic Commons. And it's my fault that he's here, so our race's reputation is at stake.”
“And what of your assistant Whistle? Have you considered that she could have compromised your containment of the human, perhaps setting him free?”
“Of course I considered it,” the Head Grey said with a note of irritation. “And dismissed the notion immediately. Whistle doesn't leave my side and has no technical skills to speak of. I will, of course, explore any leads in the pursuit of the human.”
“And, I suppose,” the Master said, “that you want to be the one who apprehends him.”
“That is my request.”
“With all the authority of this chamber and our race.”
“Yes,” the Head Grey said.
“And without the Commons knowledge that such an outbreak has occurred?”
“That, too, is my request.”
“How will that be possible?” the Master asked.
“I found Jeff Abel and brought him here,” the Head Grey said, with a glance at the brood now lacking one member. “Others failed getting this far. I can track him in the city with the tools at our disposal and this chamber's resources.”
“Then answer one other question,” the Master said. It paused in thought, fingers steepled under its chin.
The Head Grey waited, expression neutral, hands clasped behind its back. It suppressed an impatient belch of gas from its neck sack.
“Why are the logs for your trip missing from the elevator computers and for our hangar? Jeff Abel didn't have the time or the knowledge to erase all of that.”
The Head Grey's jaw tightened. Then it smiled.
“No, he didn't have time,” the Head Grey said. “But Oliop did. This was an inside job, and our local technician may be the head of a conspiracy to destroy the Galactic Commons.”
The meeting of the Greys dispersed. The Head Grey had its approval. The Master approached the Head Grey with an air of piney condescension and nutty familiarity.
“I have one question I wanted ask in private,” the Master said. “Is the stress of this too great?”
“No,” the Head Grey said. “I will handle this.”
“Good. Our fallen brood head allowed the stress of his mission to rob him of a healthy calm. And you look a bit pale.”
�
��I'll feel better when I solve this problem. Thank you.”
The Head Grey turned and left the Master Grey, pushing past the waiting brood mates without a word or exchange of scent packets, and headed for the exit.
***
“Fools,” the Head Grey said to itself just outside the counsel chamber. It tried to mask a pheromone release but couldn't help it. The scent of cabbage and spoiled olives telegraphed the Grey's impatience to the empty hallway. The Grey took a grav lift down to their building's lobby and went out the front door.
On its com, the Head Grey spoke. “Whistle.”
“I'm here,” Whistle said.
“Release the particle packets so there will be traces of Jeff Abel to be found in all the important places.”
“And after that?”
“We start the search for him. Security will have to be notified that a dangerous unsanctioned alien is loose in the Galactic Commons. We should find out where he went ourselves in case security misses him.” The Grey walked purposefully away from a group of delegates heading toward his building. It found a glassy obelisk with benches. No one was around.
“How do we do that?” Whistle asked.
“We can track him easily enough. I'm sure Oliop is with him as well. They both have translators installed.”
“If you say so,” Whistle said.
The Head Grey waited for Whistle to say something else, but that was it. Whistle would do as she was told, and that made the Grey happy. They disconnected. It looked into the obelisk towering above it and saw its reflection. Maybe it was the light, but the Grey face looking back at it was indeed paler than before.
CHAPTER 21
JEFF AND OLIOP HAD A TAIL. Three of them. The three rat-like Frizzin spotted Jeff moving along the pedestrian pathway in front of the small cafe where they were throwing the seventeenth wake for their fallen trio of Earth ambassadors. By this point most other races had politely begged off, but for the Frizzin, their grief continued unabated, reenforced with tiny, strong shots of caffeinated alcoholic beverages. Loud toasts and oaths sounded from the cafe from numb throats, uttered in pip-squeak voices with glasses held high in trembling hands.
When Jeff and Oliop passed the cafe, the trio thought it was the alcohol playing its tricks. None of the other mourners noticed. The three considered for a moment whether this was real or an illusion. If it was an illusion, all three saw the same thing. If it was real, it was a human. No humans were present in the Commons. Jeff Abel's face was well known to those of the Happy Alien Welcome Committee, of which the three Frizzin were proud members. If this specific human was here, then something was afoot. They decided to follow. They moved as one, hopping off the cafe bar and proceeding after Jeff, leaving the shrieking of the wake behind them. It took a moment to gain their balance, but mutual support and some leaning did the trick.
The technician Oliop led the human through the crowds with a periodic yank on the human's hand to get him not to stare at the different creatures that strode by. One of the Frizzin accessed the Committee's online agenda, found no further schedule for contact. He shared that fact with the others.
Through gestures and squeaks, the first said to the others, “It doesn't add up. Why is he here?”
“He's here illegally,” the second said.
“Trespassing,” the third said.
“But how?” the first said. “Humans don't use the elevators.”
“Duplicity,” the second said. “The technician.”
“Since the Committee doesn't know,” the third said.
“Someone brought him here,” the first said with a nod.
“Didn't get here on his own,” the second said.
They scampered behind a large rubbish recycling bin. Neither Oliop nor Jeff spotted them. The first Frizzin waited until Jeff and Oliop rounded a corner. He broke cover, the other two holding onto his tail and moving along with him. They gave chase.
“So we'll follow him,” the third said.
“And find out what the technician is up to,” the second said. “But should we call the Committee chaircreature?”
“We lost our three brothers,” the first said. Fresh tears welled up in his beady eyes.
“And the Trin chaircreature is so...” the third said.
“Nice,” the second said. “Too nice.”
The first Frizzin stopped and pondered. “The Grey would know what to do,” he said.
The trio followed and saw Oliop take Jeff into a maintenance entrance of the hangar district.
They called the Grey.
***
The house of the galactic transit system held many rooms and levels and elevators. Busy creatures moved through the primary level, coming and going, getting on fast-moving lines that passed through minimal security. Once past the automated checkpoints and scanned by bots for forbidden fruits, vegetables, and microbes, passengers entered their data into a terminal, stepped into a waiting cube, and off they went. Oliop bypassed the main terminal, leading Jeff through a side entrance and down an escalator. Only a handful of citizens moved about the secondary level, and none paid the two any mind. Pallets of goods crowded the receiving centers and underground avenues, items either newly arrived or awaiting shipment. Even with less chance of anyone seeing them, Oliop kept them both out of sight, taking them through another door and down another escalator to a tertiary level. But for a few small maintenance bots, no one else was here. Sounds from the upper two levels echoed and died amongst the maze-like clutter of machinery.
“What's the plan?” Jeff asked. “Isn't this where I arrived?”
“Yes,” Oliop said. “At least close by. This place services the entire Galactic Commons. All the elevators share the same conduit. The Grey hangar is on the second level.”
Jeff waited for further explanation.
“It's complicated,” Oliop said.
“Just tell me what I need to know,” Jeff said.
Oliop led Jeff down to a shadowy dead end and unlocked a door. They stepped into a high-ceilinged garage filled with elevator parts. A far wall glowed with lit cables. Sheets of dark metal, large tools, and parts with frayed wires lay scattered everywhere, the floor cluttered with drums of liquids with vague labels. The place smelled of grease and soot. Oliop locked the door behind them and moved with certainty to the rear of the cluttered garage.
“This is what we can use,” Oliop said.
Oliop pointed to a sad, dark cube, half the size of the elevator Jeff had seen Oliop arrive in back on Earth.
“It doesn't look like it's working,” Jeff said.
“It's offline pending an overhaul,” Oliop said. “This one is for cargo only.”
“Is that safe?”
Oliop shrugged. He crouched behind the elevator and got to work. Jeff watched as Oliop produced a variety of strange tools from his uncanny pouch, until Jeff noticed that they either fastened, tightened, turned, fuzed, loosened, or moved bits from one part of the broken elevator to another, just like tools back home. Not magic, the bottomless pouch was a tool belt, and its contents were common for a being from another world. Oliop hummed as he worked.
Soon a pile of grommets, wires, rivets, and circuitry laid about the floor at the technician's feet.
Jeff wasn't able to help, so after a while he meandered, examining the garage's contents as he went. He ran his hands along the disassembled elevator material that felt both light and sturdy. He picked up tiny black tabs that proved to be magnetic fasteners. They clicked into place when he touched them to corresponding grooves of a metallic frame. Jeff pulled on them but couldn't get the tabs back out. Must be a tool for that.
He was about to ask Oliop about it when he heard a knock at the door.
“Oliop,” Jeff called, but Oliop didn't hear him.
Jeff moved to the door, saw it was still locked, and found a security monitor with a single button. He switched it on.
Another knock. The monitor didn't seem to be working. He saw nothing but black. Then the blackne
ss moved. It was the Grey's assistant Whistle, the huge, shadowy alien that had grabbed Jeff from his truck. Once she backed up from the camera, her beaming eyes looked straight at Jeff through the monitor.
“Open this door,” Whistle said. “Now.”
Her voice came through a speaker underneath the monitor, all bass. The sound fidelity was fantastic. Jeff felt his guts clench.
“Oliop!” Jeff yelled. “We're in trouble.”
Oliop bounded over on all fours, saw Whistle onscreen.
“Don't let her in,” Oliop said. He patted Jeff on the shoulder and went back to the broken elevator.
“How?” Jeff asked. “I wasn't going to. What do you want me to do?”
“Open or I'll tear the door off!” Whistle said.
Jeff didn't want to believe her. The door said “locked,” and its metal surface looked tough enough to hold up to Whistle, but she was so big. A louder knock. The door rattled. The door had four wheels with T handles on its corners. Jeff turned one and saw three bolts engage between the door and the garage wall. He turned the other three. Twelve bolts now locked the door in place. He watched as Whistle grabbed at the door, her fingers bending in the metal surface like it was cardboard. It shrieked as it was torn apart.
“This door isn't going to hold!” Jeff said. “We need to get out of here.”
The broken elevator flashed to life. Oliop whupped excitedly. Then the elevator went dark.
A dark fist punched through the center of the door. Jeff backed up. Whistle put her head through the torn opening. She looked at Jeff, then past him.
“Oliop,” Whistle said. “This is your last warning. Open it.”
“What's taking you so long?” Jeff asked.
Oliop looked up from his work. “I am working as fast as I can,” Oliop said. He gestured with his pliers. “This is very complicated, and this particular elevator-”
A Beginner's Guide to Invading Earth Page 11