However, after meeting Gerald for the second time last night, she was beginning to feel them. Each time she thought of him she found herself smiling and her thought process would soften. The speed and power that they came upon her with had her rethinking her ability to complete this mission.
As idiotic and megalomaniac focused as this race was, she could no longer evict them. The few caring and thoughtful individuals she had found in the likes of Gerald, Sheila and Nigel had made it impossible.
When she made contact with the Predator, tomorrow, she would recommend disbanding the mission and heading for home. There was little doubt that the Predator was having similar experiences. Even this thought brought her a feeling of sadness thinking that she would not see Gerald again.
Liquor, she had found, was an easy way to wash away such thoughts. The Predator likely knew of this libation as well. Unlike the humans, liquor did not inebriate the Emmis. It certainly numbed the mind, though. The term Savannah had heard that worked best was that it gave her a buzz. It was similar to the feeling she had after one of her prey had performed a raspberry against her vagina where her pussy lips became comfortably numb.
Something else she found true affection for was the musical talents of Rush. Her people were in dire need of such entertainments, but their logic and warrior mentality tended to shut out the artistic that did not celebrate conquests and victories in battle. She once compared her race to a cross of Earth's fictional Klingons and Vulcans.
She picked her outfit, pulled it from the closest and laid it on the bed. Putting her beer on the dresser, her eyes caught the spine of a book:
Earth: A Visitor's Guide
The giggle seeing it was caused by Jon Stewart's apology to aliens for Earth's treatment of them in entertainment. She knew the human views simply came from fear of the unknown and the fear of whom or what might be out there watching. She knew, however, that humans were not likely to interest any in the galaxy accept as a potential food source which was exactly why she was here on this mission in the first place.
She quickly dressed before draining the beer. A glance in the full-length mirror and she found herself facing a gorgeous brunette in a tight black lace blouse over a black and grey tartan kilt with black knee-high socks. She would add black pumps to the ensemble before heading out.
The television marathon was still going. Thanks to an eight-hour loop on the channel it was the same episode and the first words the mighty Dick Solomon squawked at her were, “Under my bucking hat!”
Lips smirked at the bad joke…even she knew it was bad. “Take the fucking hat off and maybe you’ll actually hear what is going on.” One final swig from the beer can was taken before she crushed the can and tossed it in the corner…on the pile. She turned the television off and went to the door.
XVI
From a rooftop across the street, the green-eyed man watched the entire display through binoculars. He watched her step from the roof and flash. His eyes waited until he also saw the flash inside one of the condominium windows. He now knew where she lived.
Part Four
Tales of a Green-Eyed Man
I
June 28, 1947 – 02h00
His green eyes fluttered open for the first time. He had been warned that taking in his surroundings for the first time might be overwhelming, but he felt fine. Looking up, he could see stars with a frame of dark waving grass.
Crackling fire from the landing blotted out all the ambient nature sounds. Although, to say it was a landing might be the wrong phraseology for what most would see as a crash site.
At least he was down under the cover of darkness. This gave him a head start.
He sat up. This may have seemed like a natural thing to do, but it was the first attempt at such a maneuver, and it felt awkward. Even in this position, he could still not see over the grass. The dull ringing in his ears started to calm and the sound of crackling behind him took over. A quick chin rub confirmed his tight beard was still in place.
Another sound began to rise in the distance as well. Fighter planes were coming, no doubt.
Slowly he rolled over onto hands and knees, pushed up and steadied himself upright on his feet. He had been good at standing during training, quite proud of his ability, in fact. Leaning down, he dusted off his black suit pants and checked his jacket for dirt. One quick mental note fired through his synapsis regarding the Earth’s gravity not being quite as strong as was anticipated. Of course, he had known the statistics prior to landing, but he had not quite anticipated the feel of it.
One thing the scientists had anticipated, however, was dirt. They had developed a fabric that repelled the Earth dirt…unless it was mud. Had this landing been in mud, he would have been screwed. Being they had picked a very dry area in the south of the country called the United States of America, however, made it an unlikely scenario.
Checking pockets inside the suit jacket, he confirmed that his black leather credential case was in order. Finally, he allowed his eyes to survey the scene.
It was a line of fire from first touchdown in the field, about a mile back, to the final resting place of the pod. As had been planned, the pod had then thrown him out of the danger area.
He remembered a scene from an Earth-film about Superman with actor Christopher Reeve, who in real time was five years from even being born. He felt this would have been the crash scene when baby Kal-El first came to Earth…only with better special effects.
The placement of the pod was perfect. A long grassy field with forestation either side.
Hearing the jets approaching, and now sirens as well, he turned to his right and made towards the even darker shade of the trees. Checking his watch, he pressed the button on the side.
The watch flashed one word in neon blue:
“Roswell.”
“Good,” he whispered and was surprised by the sound his voice made. From his programming, he knew what it was supposed to sound like, but it was quite another experience actually hearing it. Slipping behind a tree, he waited and watched. His synapses fired back and forth and wondered just how he looked. Not having seen a mirror yet, it was the closest his programmed brain would ever come to self-doubt, but he thought of the picture that he had been designed after.
The picture was an Earth actor from 2012. In 1947, however, the actor was only four-years-old, so seemed little chance of anyone recognizing him.
They came. First the farmer whose field was now torched showed up on a horse. Then the police and fire brigade were next as they attempted to put out the remaining trail of fire. The military arrived and attempted to take control of the situation just as the dawn broke the eastern horizon. Finally, the men in suits began to arrive.
This was what he had been waiting for. Stepping out from his hiding spot, he blended in with the suits and stepped into the lead. As he had anticipated, due to the odd nature of what they were seeing, the other suits simply followed him like sheep.
It had been expected that more seasoned agents would still be investigating “commies” elsewhere, and a mid-western pod crash site would have young inexperienced agents as first responders.
Being he looked thirty plus years older than any of the suited men following him, it was easy to assume he was the lead agent on site either by them or any of the other agencies at the crash. He pulled his credentials as one of the army fatigue-dressed military tried to stop him. “Evan Chance, FBI,” he said with a grim smile.
The fatigue backed away and turned to yell. He stopped however and his gaze returned to Evan with a look of confusion. It seemed unusual that a Fed would have a British accent. Finally, he just let it go. “Captain! FBI is here.”
Captain Phillip Young was the perfect name for the young man that stepped forward. He was rather frightened and, although was the senior soldier currently on location, he seemed anything but in control of the scene. “Sir?”
“Evan Chance, FBI.”
Again, he showed confusion similar to the fatigue’s, lik
ely caused by the accent. “Sir, do you…?”
“Weather balloon,” Evan said without allowing the scared captain to finish his question. “It is one of ours.”
Programmers had chosen his voice to have a British lilt as they felt it gave him a command presence. Scientists had watched Earth’s late 20th Century programming and found people in North American responded to the voices of Patrick Stewart, Michael Caine and Ian McKellan faster than any native North American dialect or accent. If they had more time, there would have been studies done as to why this seemed to be the case, but they simply went with the idea.
It had never occurred to them that, in 1947, a federal agent with a British accent might seem odd.
The silence, however, was momentary and the suited sheep behind Evan were all quick to agree that it was a weather balloon and the FBI owned it.
Captain Young looked completely relieved. This answer was much better than any his young mind had been reaching for so far. Then, however, a question followed, “It was gorgeous last night. What were you doing with a weather balloon?”
“Testing the balloon, son. Have you ever seen one that looks like that before?”
Finally, the smile of acceptance crossed Captain Young’s face. “Fair enough.”
With a laugh, Evan drove the point home, “Unfortunately not everything our scientists do works quite as well as we might hope. That’s why we’re here to clean it up before someone starts any silly stories.”
One of the sheep behind spoke up, “There will still be stories.”
Evan’s green eyes glanced back and he grinned at his pretend colleague. “Alien crash landing, no doubt.”
The laughter that followed was the clincher.
Evan had successfully landed.
II
December 19, 1994 – Grand Rapids Michigan
“You sound like him, too. It is uncanny, dude.”
“Yes, I know.” Evan offered a slight grin at the man behind the counter. “Might I have my cigarettes, please?” His voice had his typical baritone British accent with just a hint of annoyance.
“Of course, man.” The man behind the counter was barely a man at all. He was not even shaving yet. With his well-learned ghetto vocabulary and his blonde hair buzzed to include the shaved outline of his favorite team, the Detroit Lions; he was a Vanilla Ice copycat…just without the recording contract and ability to rhyme. He grabbed the small pack from the beat-up plastic glass case above him and laid it on the counter. “You just look older than he does.”
“About twenty years older.”
“What?”
Leafing a bill down beside the pack, the cigarettes vanished into the breast pocket of his black overcoat. “Never mind. Keep the change.”
New shaver’s eyes widened. This was the first time he had heard that from anyone that was not on a movie screen and taking to some snooty concierge. “Thanks! …and you really do sound like him.”
“I know.” Evan stepped away from the counter, but his eyes first caught the screen behind the counter in time to see Scottie Pippin shooting a free throw.
The young man followed his gaze and chuckled. “The Bulls suck this year, man.”
“Wait until Jordan comes back in March.”
“March? No way, man, he’s playing baseball now.”
“Suit yourself.” He pushed the glass door open and stepped out.
New shaver’s “Merry Christmas” was lost amidst the jingle of the bells above the door.
III
Outside, Evan’s green eyes flared with each crunch of snow beneath his feet. “I hate this planet,” he said with wisps of white air from his lips. He wondered how happy this season would be for the humans if they knew their deities were simply derived from fear and lack of knowledge of their forefathers. He also wondered how happy it would be if they knew there was an alien predator among them that Evan had yet been unable to apprehend in his 47 years on the planet.
At least it was not snowing…yet. The snow on the ground had come yesterday. Sheets of white had fallen to coat all in a beautiful white blanket, a masterpiece that only Mother Nature could paint. As was usual, however, it took no time before it was browned and mucked up by cars passing with humans thinking their lives were more important than the beauty of what was around them.
Someone at command obviously thought these humans were important, too. That was why they had sent him. This was why he was still here.
He stepped around the gas pumps in the front and walked across the parking lot to the Motel 6. His pace through the lobby was quick, but the desk clerk saw him.
“Sir? Room 319?”
Evan was impressed as he gave humans little credit for observation beyond the unique ability to point out the obvious…something he thought was a joke when he had first read it in Douglas Adams’ Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, but now felt was true. “Yes?” He stopped walking but kept leaning towards the elevator bay. He did not want to be here longer than he had to or else…
“Do you know you really look like Malcolm McDowell?” Her red hair was held in a ponytail and she wore a blue T-shirt paying homage to Pink Floyd.
Cue eye roll. “Yes, only older.” He did not want to be here any longer before someone pointed that out once again.
“You sound like him, too.”
His look had been designed to resemble someone who command felt would be generally respected and revered...in 1947. Having little time while Evan’s project was being put together they chose an actor from Earth’s future. Being the initial plan was to have Evan out by 1955, choosing a 2012 picture of Malcolm McDowell and the matching synthesized voice had seemed perfect. It gave Evan a commanding presence and something about the older McDowell brought calm in those he met…until about the early-1990s when a few people began to recognize him. With the continual extension of Evan’s mission and that Evan never aged, it was only a matter of time until he was a dead-ringer for the actor.
The biggest issue came to light just one month back as Malcolm McDowell had starred in a new blockbuster film, Star Trek: Generations. Perhaps not the best of the Star Trek films, in fact many thought it was among the worst, but it brought the McDowell face to new prominence among the geeks of the Americas…and created more headaches for Evan than anyone had anticipated before he landed in 1947.
“You needed me for something?” Evan asked, trying to force a pleasant smile.
She held up an envelope. “A message for you.”
He stepped to the counter and took it, his fingers accidentally brushing hers. The envelope was addressed in black handwritten ink to Mr. Evan Chance in room 319. If he had a heart, it would have skipped a beat. They had called him to this emergency meeting two days ago when he was still in Phoenix. Evan liked Phoenix…it was warm and dry. Running into the blizzard on his drive through Indiana the day before had him a day later than scheduled to arrive in Port Huron for their meeting. This was a place he had not yet been, and he already loathed it.
The letter reiterated to him that the meeting was important. Evan was very confident he knew what the meeting was about, but this letter brought slight doubts to his mind. Initially, he thought this meeting was to announce that the Predator had been captured, bringing an end to this mission.
Flipping open the card revealed scribbled words in the same black ink used for the envelope address, “Lobby at 8am.”
If this was important enough that they were coming to him, his assumption could not be correct. This mission ending would be important, but not quite the urgency they were showing with this. Something else was afoot making it important enough to send a drone ahead with this.
The young woman behind the desk pulled her hair tie off and began playing with her strands. “Is it important?” Genna was the name on her tag pinned to the Pink Floyd shirt. She snapped her bubble gum.
His shoulders slumped. He now had to sleep with her. She was much younger than he had experienced a long time. He would enjoy this. His first concern,
however, was that the gum would have to go.
He was always so careful to not touch anyone accidentally…on purpose, absolutely, but never accidentally…but the fingers brushing had been enough. Command’s scientists, as a joke, had put strong pheromones on his skin that, when passed on through touch, made him irresistible to humans. On top of which, there was one other Star Trek reference that Genna would realize shortly…thanks to his programmers, Evan was fully functional as well. He may have looked near seventy, but he would put all twenty-year-old men to shame.
“What time is your shift done, Lady Genna?”
She checked her pink wristwatch and looked back into his eyes. “Ten minutes.” A spark of silverware escaped her mouth.
“I’d love some company tonight,” he whispered and stepped away to the elevators.
It did not matter that she had an engagement ring on her finger. It did not matter that she was deeply in love with the guitar player that had given her the ring. Fifteen minutes later Evan heard a soft knock. His only surprise was that it had taken her this long to get here. He opened the door and allowed the young woman to enter latching it shut with the chain behind her. “How old are you, love?”
The question startled her as her mind still fought a losing battle with the pheromones, leaving her not quite paying attention. “Ah…nineteen.” Her blue jeans showed toned strong legs that likely came from ballet or gymnastics that this job was still helping to fund. She was tiny, under five foot tall and nearly two heads shorter than Evan. The blue Pink Floyd T-shirt was baggy and gave no clue of her chest, androgenizing her. “I’ll be twenty in January.”
The room itself was lit with only the desk lamp, giving a low yellow and orange tinge to all.
“Can I offer you a brandy?” One thing Evan did like about this planet was the inebriants. As was typical of him, the top of his room dresser looked like the well-stocked bar a CEO would have.
Just Prey: Savannah - Book One Page 7