J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection

by J. M. Dillard

  Her uncle was still staring out the window. "What you're telling me, then," he said in response to Suzanne's extended monologue, "is that you failed to get the sort of hard evidence I asked for."

  Harrison and Suzanne gasped simultaneously, but she got the first word in. "Failed to get proof?" Her voice was shrill, indignant. "For God's sake, I just showed you my figures on the radiation levels at Jericho Valley—"

  "Theory," Wilson countered without looking at her.

  "What about the partially dissolved body we recovered?" Harrison retorted, impatient that Wilson seemed to be playing some sort of game with them. "How much more concrete can we get?"

  Wilson sighed. "There wasn't much left. .. hardly identifiable. I'll take your word that it's what you say it is, but, frankly, anyone could dissolve tissues with acid and claim they're alien remains."

  Harrison watched with interest as a bright red flush spread across Suzanne's cheeks, the bridge of her nose. Her brows flew together. "Surely you're not suggesting that we tampered— "

  "I'm not suggesting any such thing, Suzanne." He turned his head to regard her from the corner of his eye. "I'm telling you the kinds of things my superiors will say to me."

  Harrison came to their defense. "Three eyewitnesses, General," he said emphatically. "And one of them an army colonel. What more do you need?"

  "Lieutenant colonel, actually," Wilson corrected him, turning his short, stocky body toward them. "And as yet he hasn't officially backed your story."

  "That son of a—" Harrison muttered darkly. Wilson ignored him and walked over to the small government-issue desk to empty the contents of his pipe into a glass ashtray, then refill it with fresh tobacco.

  "So." Suzanne sat, a coiled spring, hands clutching the armrests, knees and ankles together, posture unnaturally stiff. "Our word—mine and Harrison's— counts for nothing, then?"

  Wilson looked up from the ashtray and gestured apologetically with the pipe. "I didn't say that, Suzanne. But it is hearsay."

  "Hearsay!" Harrison blurted. Exhaustion magnified his frustration, and he began to rise from his chair until Suzanne reached out with a restraining arm. He sank back with a sickening sensation of defeat. "How can you call it that?"

  " When I tell my superiors, that's what they will call it."

  "A whole squadron of soldiers were killed!" Suzanne exclaimed.

  "Missing," Wilson said, spreading his plump hands. "AWOL. No bodies recovered."

  Harrison lowered his head into his hands. He saw it all clearly now: Wilson wasn't going to help, then, had never intended to help them. The general had come all this way only to find out about his missing squadron, and didn't believe them for a minute, had permitted these meetings only to placate Suzanne. He understood now how Clayton had felt during Ms nervous breakdown. Dear God, I've failed. Failed Clayton, Mom, Dad, everyone . . . and after all that I've done, it's going to all happen again.

  He felt Suzanne's hand on his arm and forced

  himself to look up. "Why won't you believe me when I tell you what I saw?"

  "What we all saw!" Suzanne jumped to her feet, fists clenched. "Dammit all, Uncle Hank, talk to your colonel! If he won't tell you that he saw his men killed, then—well, then bring him here and let me have a word with him!"

  "Calm down, Suzanne, and have a seat," Wilson answered firmly, gesturing for her to sit. He waited until she reluctantly did so, then sat behind the desk. "Actually, I talked to the colonel at length very early this morning. He hasn't made an official report of what happened and he isn't going to." At Harrison's angry expression, he hastened to add, "At least, not an unclassified one. But he did admit that something incredible took place last night."

  "What did he tell you?" Harrison demanded bitterly. "That the Russians have some super-secret device that made us all hallucinate?"

  "Hardly." Wilson paused to relight his pipe and drew on it, his sharp blue eyes scrutinizing them from behind a fresh haze of smoke. "I didn't mean to upset either of you. I'm trying to explain why—considering the . . . uncertain nature of what we're dealing with— it's vital that this whole affair be kept top secret." He rested his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. "When Delta squad is defeated, captured, the army sits up and takes notice." His tone was confidential. "So do I . . . and my superiors. Very important superiors. Suzanne knows who I mean."

  Harrison glanced first at Wilson, then at Suzanne,

  scarcely daring to believe what he'd just heard .. . but he saw hope light up Suzanne's pale, drawn face. The President? So he'd been right the first time—the general had just been toying with them.

  Wilson sat back, obviously pleased with the effect his words had. "These same people are very eager to keep this matter hush-hush."

  Harrison sat forward with a sudden surge of energy. "Hold it right there, General. Keeping this quiet won't make it go away. I remember what happened to Clayton Forrester thirty-five years ago when the army decided to hush things up."

  To his utter amazement, Wilson nodded sympathetically. "I understand. What happened to your adoptive father was an unfortunate mistake, Dr. Blackwood. For all of us. I think we've come far enough along not to make the same mistake again. The Pr—" He corrected himself. "My superiors would rather this didn't become a political issue. They want it kept quiet, but that doesn't mean they want it ignored. I've been asked to offer you a job."

  Harrison gaped at him, unable to believe what he had just heard.

  Wilson's expression was somber. "Find the aliens, Dr. Blackwood. Stop them before they do more harm."

  A surge of relief washed over Harrison, a sensation so sweet tears stung the back of his eyes. He closed them and wished Clayton were sitting there with them. "Pinch me," he whispered, looking over at Suzanne. "I'm dreaming."

  This time they reached for each other at the same

  time, their laughter sounding suspiciously close to sobs, Suzanne gave him an awkward squeeze, then withdrew into her chair again. She shook her head, smiling warmly. "You're not dreaming," she said huskily. "I told you Uncle Hank would come through." She gazed affectionately at her uncle.

  Harrison's exhilaration faded as a sudden suspicion took hold of him. "Wait a minute," he said to Wilson. "I want a guarantee I can do things my way. No red tape."

  "Guaranteed." Wilson nodded. "Your own people, your own methods, whatever you want."

  "Now I know I am dreaming."

  "Naturally," Wilson continued, "we'll have to establish certain security procedures—"

  Harrison's grin faded as he became defensive again. "What kinds of procedures?"

  Wilson's gaze was innocent. "To protect you and your colleagues. And to protect the secrecy of the project. Nothing you wouldn't do yourself, I assure you."

  Dammit, Harrison thought, I knew there had to be a catch .. . but at this point he knew he had already gotten more than he'd hoped for. No point in alienating Wilson while he was feeling generous.

  Wilson went on. "Aside from that, you have a blank check."

  Harrison and Suzanne looked at each other with wide eyes. "How big a check?" Suzanne asked coyly.

  Wilson shrugged cavalierly, doing his best not to smile as he spoke, but surrendering at last. "I think the Federal Reserve can cover any check you choose to write." He hesitated. "Of course, you'll need a co-signer. .." He reached across the desk for the intercom, pressed down a button, and said, "We're ready now."

  "Oh, Lord," Harrison muttered, understanding everything.

  The door opened and Lieutenant Colonel Paul Ironhorse entered, wearing a freshly laundered uniform and the barest trace of that aggravatingly smug sneer.

  Harrison put his head in his hands and groaned; Suzanne emitted a gentle sigh.

  "Well," Wilson said brightly, rising, "I believe you all know one another."

  "Hello?" The connection was full of static, and Forrester's voice sounded weak and breathless.

  "Clayton?" Harrison asked excitedly. "Clayton, I'm calling from Vandenberg Ai
r Force Base. They believe us; they're actually going to help us!"

  Silence for a few seconds and then Clayton breathed, "Thank God. Thank God. Harrison, I knew you'd do it."

  Harrison laughed, feeling exhilarated and giddy. "Suzanne and Norton did it too. Listen, they're going to take us somewhere safe—and I've told them I want you to come too. Someone from General Wilson's office will be contacting you."

  "You don't need me, Harrison," Clayton said, but Harrison could tell from his voice that Forrester was pleased. "I'd just be in the way.''

  "Bag the old-and-in-the-way excuse, Clayton. I

  don't have time for arguments. We're leaving tonight."

  "Tonight? That's a bit soon, don't you think?"

  "The sooner the better," Harrison stated emphatically.

  Forrester hesitated. "I'm an old man, Harrison. I can't be rushed. I'll come—but there are some archived papers at the Institute—"

  "Good Lord, more files?"

  "More files," Clayton stated firmly. "Perhaps not as vital as the ones I've given you, but we can use every scrap of information we can get our hands on. I'll get Jacobi to help me; just give me a day or two."

  "Tell it to Wilson's office when they call. But they aren't going to like it."

  "That's their problem. And, Harrison—"

  "Yes, Clayton?"

  "I love you, son."

  TWENTY-TWO

  A full moon shone eerily above the remote expanse of desert. Traveling with its headlights off, the eighteen-wheeler slowed as it approached the gate. Posted along the nine-foot-high, seemingly endless chain-link fence were warnings

  DANGER NUCLEAR TESTING SITE KEEP OUT

  along with yellow and black radioactive-fallout symbols.

  The truck groaned to a halt, and a Delta squad soldier leapt out. He ripped away the chains securing the gate with an easy, fluid motion, then swung the gate open and let the big rig through. It rumbled past,

  then stopped again to give the soldier time to close the gate and hop up into the cab.

  The rig began moving again. It drove through miles of lifeless, rocky desert and tumbleweed, past a rise where a shelter was built into the ground so that those inside could witness the above-ground detonations that had occurred here some thirty-odd years before.

  The rig continued a few more miles, until it reached a ramshackle hangar that was used these days as a makeshift toxic waste dump. The soldier jumped down from the cab and slid the hangar door open wide; the truck pulled inside.

  All that remained now was to unload the contents of the trailer and convey them to their permanent base, whose existence they had learned of from their Delta squad hosts: a cavern deep beneath the desert surface, created by an underground nuclear blast... a place where no living human would dare to venture.

  "I am here at your request, Advocacy," Xashron said humbly, though he burned with anger at what he perceived to be betrayal. He stood in the dark belly of the cavern; before him, the three comprising the Advocacy reclined in their human forms against a ledge hewn from the rock.

  Prior to the summons, Xashron had been supervising the release of the last of his soldiers from the barrels, and silently planning his strategy against Xorr and his followers. As Xashron's inferior, Xorr was morally bound to keep silent of the Supreme Commander's

  plan, for he was sworn to protect his Supreme Commander with one exception: if the Commander harmed a member of the ruling class. Since Xashron had not yet committed the deed or even stated that he intended to do so, Xorr could bring no charge against him but was free to take what measures he could to protect the Advocacy.

  Which was clearly what Xorr was doing now as he and another member of his unit stood, armed with the human soldiers' firearms, guarding the three. Xashron had expected as much, and did not fault Xorr for doing so, but the fact that the Advocacy had summoned him, Xashron decided, meant that Xorr had broken his oath of loyalty and had told the Advocacy that Xashron was plotting their murders.

  Perhaps such treachery should not have surprised him; for, in the event of Xashron's death, Xorr, also a brilliant military strategist, was most likely to be chosen by consensus to be the new Supreme Commander.

  It was Xana, back again in her human form, who replied first. Xashron carefully noted her expression, her movements, the cadence of her speech, but could detect no anxiety, no fear there, only the faintest hint of warning. "We have called you, Xashron," Xana said, "because we wish to discuss a .. . problem."

  Horek, using a gesture borrowed from his host brain, nodded. "Xorr has informed us that there is a plot among some in the military to harm the Advocacy. This, of course, cannot be tolerated."

  Xashron looked at them and said nothing.

  Oshar spoke. "Therefore, we require your assistance.

  Speak to your soldiers, Xashron. Rally them together. Xorr has suggested we commence battle against Earth as soon as possible in order to unite the military. Oshar has used the primitive transmission equipment to activate the homing beacons on our vessels. We have already located one triad of ships nearby, and so we have already informed the Council of our intent to retrieve them tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow?" Xashron took a step forward, relieved that Xorr had kept silent as to the instigator of the unrest, yet disturbed by Oshar's words. "Advocate, my people are recovering from their long sleep . . . and the others from the last battle with the humans. My co-pilot, Konar, was injured. I cannot go to battle without a member of my triad— "

  "Then find another co-pilot," Horek said flatly. "We will tolerate no delays."

  Xashron struggled to hide his fury. Tolerate no delays, will you, Horek? This is the same brand of idiotic haste that almost killed us once before— And at the same time, Xashron was bitterly disappointed. He could not refuse to lead his men into battle, yet there was no time to organize an uprising against the Advocacy so quickly. Xorr was truly clever. He knew that ordered to do battle Xashron would concern himself with seeing to it that his soldiers were prepared, and would do nothing rash—such as risk a number of them in a fight against supporters of the Advocacy—to jeopardize the success of the mission or his soldiers' welfare.

  "Very well," he said. "Perhaps Konar will be sufficiently recovered by tomorrow to serve with me." He paused. "But I would like to discuss one concern, if possible."

  "Speak," Xana told him.

  "If we retrieve three ships—it would be best to do so using the cover of human host bodies."

  "Agreed," Horek allowed.

  "However, flying three ships will require a minimum of twenty-one soldiers. We have but seventeen, excluding the three host bodies occupied by your Advocacy. "

  "You may have this body if you require it," Xana said. Horek and Oshar were not so generous.

  Horek scowled at him. "Then you must go find more. Commander, along with a means of getting into the military installation where our ships are held. You can consult the human soldiers' minds—and, as always, we rely on your talent for strategy."

  Xashron bowed his head. "Thank you, Advocacy," he replied stiffly, and promised himself that he would deal with Xorr and the Advocacy as soon as his mission was accomplished.

  Harrison stood in front of the open door of his house and was assaulted by the smell of rotten banana peel, a less-than-subtle reminder that he hadn't been home enough lately to take out the garbage. And more than that greeted Mm: on the foyer tile lay a pale pink envelope. He felt a surge of hopefulness: Char! For a moment he forgot all that had happened, remembered only that he missed her and wanted to bury his face in her soft, perfumed hair. He bent down to pick the envelope up; it was addressed in Char's oversized, elegant calligraphy, in violet ink, to H. Blackwood.

  "Shit." Not a good sign. With sour disappointment he recalled their last few encounters. He was not one to hold grudges, always quick to forgive and forget hurts, and he kept making the mistake of assuming that everyone else was like him. Clearly, it wasn't the case with Charlotte. There was something heavy s
liding around inside the envelope-—his housekey. Dammit, I don't need this right now . . .

  He slipped it, unopened, into his shirt pocket. He'd pack first and read the letter later tonight, after they got to where they were going.

  "All clear," Ironhorse called from inside, and Harrison walked into the living room. The colonel had insisted on "securing the area" before permitting Harrison into his own house; Harrison tolerated it with faint amusement, but at the same time he wondered just how long he and Ironhorse could work together without coming to blows. For aow, Ms ultramilitary approach to everything was something to make fun of; after a while it was bound to become aggravating in the extreme. Ironhorse no doubt thought the same thing about him.

  He walked past the colonel without looking at him, into the bedroom, and dug three bags—one suitcase and two shapeless nylon tote bags—out of the closet, threw them on the bed, and stared at them. Now, what did you pack when you didn't know where you were going and you had no idea how long you were going to stay? He finally emptied his underwear and sock drawer into the suitcase, then pulled every clean pair of pants from the closet and packed them is too. By the time he stuffed his shirts in, the suitcase was full and he pressed hard on it to get it snapped shut. His ditty bag was in one of the nylon bags, and he gazed at it: only enough toiletries for a weekend, really.

  Ironhorse stuck Ms scowling face into the bedroom. At the sight of him, Harrison asked, "Hey, just how long are we gonna be there?"

  "As long as it takes to stop them," Ironhorse said grimly, "Could be weeks . .. could be months."

  Harrison nodded and picked the bag up, intending to head for the bathroom, but the colonel blocked the doorway and thrust an overstuffed white plastic garbage bag at Harrison like an accusation. "Which way to the dumpster?"

  Harrison backed away from the rotten odor. "You don't have to do that—"

  Ironhorse's gaze was dangerous. "I do. I have orders from Wilson to see to your well-being. You leave for three months and come back, this thing'll be lethal. Besides, the damn thing is gassing me out."