FreeForm: An Alien Invasion Romance Series (FreeForm Series Book 1)

by Orrin Jason Bradford

  After a couple more minutes, the bear lowered itself onto all fours and strolled outside. Once again, it stood on all fours and waited. The ship. Something is wrong with the ship. He must get back. His link with the ship, although weakened in this form, clearly indicated an intruder. Perhaps only a curious animal sniffing around the perimeter. But maybe not.

  His adaptation to the new planet was all but complete. The little that remained would have to wait. He was safe now. His body had made the necessary re-calibrations. The foreign environment was now his. He now owned this planet as his own.

  He stood there for a moment longer, debating whether to transform back into the hunter-survivor form of his people. No, the bear would be better. It was less likely to draw attention from other inhabitants of the planet. At least until he found other forms to add to his repertoire.

  He returned to his lair. Stepping over the carcass of its former occupant, he crouched down so he could reach the back of the cave. In the dim light that filters from the mouth of the cave, he could just make out the two objects upon which his entire mission rested -- the cocoon and the crystal.

  Amazing, we are truly an amazing race, he thought. For as long as he had been settling planets, he never lost his appreciation for these two pieces of technology. Hard to imagine that in the small sphere of the cocoon, far smaller than the size of the bear's head, could be housed ten thousand souls of his people. Equally amazing was the crystal, so small that it could easily be worn around his neck as an adornment, yet it held the entire technology of his people -- the most advanced civilizations of the galaxy, at least as far as they'd been able to determine in the five hundred plus years they'd been exploring it.

  But the question is, do I leave these two precious objects behind or take them with me back to the ship? There's something wrong at the ship. Every fiber of his body blared the warning. He could not afford to let either of these objects be lost. No, better to leave them here where they’d be safe and return to them when he was certain everything was okay with the ship.

  Having decided his course of action, he backed out of the narrow part of the lair to where he could once again stand up. He started to take a final meal from the frozen carcass but decided against it. He wanted fresh food. Perhaps on his trip back to the ship, he would be lucky and find some.

  The sound of a sputtering helicopter pulled Oliver's attention away from the stack of reports lying in front of him.

  It's coming in low, he told himself, glancing in the direction of the sound. Too low and on fumes. He jerked his large frame out of the director's chair and lumbered out of the tent in time to see the whirlybird's landing sled scrape the top off of several trees, wobble in midair like a huge eagle that had been shot, then amazingly stay in the air long enough to make a bumpy landing at the edge of the clearing. As he ran towards the 'copter, Oliver noticed only the pilot was inside. Where the hell is Pat? He wondered. A familiar burning sensation in the pit of his stomach had already begun. Something told him he wasn't going to like what he heard from James.

  A few minutes later, the burning from the "dormant" ulcer flared into a full force bonfire, and he reached for the economy size bottle of antacids in an attempt to extinguish the familiar blaze.

  "You did what?" He shouted. "Why in the world would you do such a foolish thing?"

  "Damn it, Oliver, she insisted. I don't need to remind you how persuasive Pat can be. Besides, she was calling the shots. That's what you told us when we started the search."

  Oliver groaned. "Well, as soon as the second helicopter is back and yours is refueled, we'll go see if we can find our roving dare-devil. You made sure she was all right before you left, didn't you?"

  James nodded. "She's fine. I have to say, she's got guts. I'm not sure how smart she is, but she sure has guts."

  Oliver started walking back to his tent then stopped and turned back to James. "What did it look like? Could you make anything out?"

  "Damnation!" Pat yelled for the third time in the last thirty minutes as her fingers slid off the lip of the door. She winced at the now familiar pain in her shoulder. In the forty-five minutes she had been wedged in against the ship, she had managed to break three fingernails and scrape just about all of her knuckles -- and move the door by perhaps half an inch. The most frustrating thing, the door had moved. Within the first couple of minutes, it had moved. She was certain.

  Which means it's not locked, just stuck, Pat concluded. And if it's not locked, then I'm going to get inside, somehow or another. If only I had the full use of both of my arms, she thought. And if only “the queen had balls she would be king,” she heard her father's familiar voice ringing in her ears.

  I'm getting in, she told herself again. There is no way in hell I'm getting this close without finding some way into the damn thing. What if she ran the blade of her knife along the crack again? Maybe that would dislodge something. I'll try it again. Third luck is charm, her father added. Buzz off, Pat retorted.

  The stag stood motionless on the edge of the clearing, its head raised in the air. Does it smell me? The alien wondered. No, I'm upwind. A gorgeous beast. Much more attractive than this clumsy body. And fresh meat, he thought. But what about the ship? I should get back to the ship. The intruder is still there, although still outside.

  I'll be fast. Fresh meat and a new form to add to his collection. It made sense to take a few minutes. But not in his present form. The bear was too slow, too cumbersome. The hunter-survivor was not. Without moving, he called his native form forth. He felt the familiar surge of energy and the welcome sensation of coming home to the body he was most comfortable in. Such a fine form. There was simply nothing in the galaxy that could compare. No more efficient structure -- the perfect killing machine.

  As he completed the transformation, he glanced down at himself. The customary black coloration would not do in this situation. Too visible. He gazed around him at the browns and greens of the forest and called them forth from himself. Not as attractive but more functional. Now, let's go have some fun.

  He crept forward on padded feet, being sure to keep the three-inch stiletto-like nails retracted. Just a little closer, he thought, before I let it know I'm here, just a little closer.

  Now, the alien thought as he reached out and purposefully stepped on a thin branch on the path. Crack.

  The stag had returned to grazing on the lush new grass of the meadow. At the sound of the breaking branch, it raised its head again, a clump of grass hanging out of its mouth. It looked around, the skin on its neck twitching nervously. It sniffed the air. Still nothing.

  It's alert, the alien thought. A worthy trophy to add to my collection. He thought of his ship again. Okay, mustn't dawdle. Get on with it. He stepped out in the clearing just as the stag began to lower its head for another nibble of grass. The two animals stared at each other, both frozen in an instant in time. The stag was the first to break. It reared on its hind quarters, turning to its left.

  Even as the alien leapt after the stag, it marveled at the beauty of the beast. The deer fled across the pasture, picking up speed with every stride. The hunter survivor matched it step for step for the first fifty yards, still studying its beauty. As the two of them neared the edge of the forest, the alien picked up its pace, easily closing the gap between the two of them.

  Ten yards from the forest, the alien left the ground in a leap that covered the final five yards. As he sailed through the air, his front legs fully extended, he protracted the twelve razor sharp claws, each of them already spinning on their axis at full speed. He hit the right flank of the stag like a freight train, knocking the rear legs of the animal out from under itself. Each claw spun their way deep into the stags flank, easily piercing skin, fat and muscle.

  As the two animals fell into the woods, the alien withdrew the claws of one paw, holding on with the other, leaving behind six holes, each an inch across and three inches deep, blood gushing from each one. He jabbed the nails in again, farther up the flank, and aga
in, reaching for the stag's backbone. The panicked stag flung its head back in an attempt to free itself. The alien ducked under the rack of antlers. As the stag turned its head to take another swing, its antlers caught in the low-lying branches of a nearby tree.

  You're all mine, now, the alien thought as he walked his way up the stag's back, leaving behind a set of deadly fingerprints.

  Pat wedged the knife in the narrow crack again and twisted, holding her breath as she did so. Each time, she risked breaking the thin blade, leaving it stuck in the crack as an additional obstacle. But so far the tempered steel had stood up to the punishment. And the method worked. Slowly, painfully slow, Pat pried the door open.

  Just a little more, she told herself. Hold on just a couple more times, she instructed the knife, and maybe I'll be able to get enough of a hold on the door to wrench it open with my one good arm.

  She paused for a moment to wipe the stream of sweat from around her eyes. By this time, her entire body was trenched in her perspiration. Her short dark hair lay matted against her scalp. And I'm beginning to smell like a men’s locker room, she observed. Come, take me now, James. She kidded with herself. What, you aren't interested? Why, you fickle bastard. Just like a man.

  She wedged the edge of the knife in again and twisted, holding her breath once more. Holding the breath, that's the key. If I don't hold my breath, I'll get cocky and the knife will sense it. It'll think I'm taking it for granted and 'snap', and it will be all over.

  As she continued to work, she began to speculate about what she would find on the other side. Poisonous gas? A ten-foot cockroach waiting hungrily for its next meal? Maybe a ship filled with gold and diamonds. If I were an alien, I'd be sure to bring along plenty of booty for the natives. If aliens had been studying them for the past fifty or more years, as many experts claimed, wouldn't they know how much earthlings valued gold and diamonds?

  One particular question kept haunting her though. Was the ship occupied? Was there something waiting inside for her, ten-foot cockroach or other? Who was to say this was a manned or alien-occupied vessel? All indications pointed to the contrary. The landing had been a far cry from smooth. If there were aliens on board, would they still be alive and what had they been doing for the last three months? Certainly not waiting for Pat Vogt to arrive to rescue them.

  "All in good time." She mumbled out loud then smiled. Another one of her father's favorite lines, used whenever an overly inquisitive little girl would ask too many questions. "All in good time, Patti. All your questions will be answered -- all in good time." Pat hoped he had been right.

  Pat adjusted the beam of the flashlight to take in the next section of the door. The flashlight was stuck in the mud wall a few feet from the door, and it was a simple matter to move the beam where she needed it.

  She stuck the knife in the crack again and levered it back. She felt the usual resistance; then suddenly the knife slipped. She scraped another knuckle and the knife fell onto the ground. She picked the knife up from the mud and wiped it on her pants. She started to insert the knife back in the crack when she noticed the blunt end.

  Damn! She thought as she placed the knife more directly in the beam of light. About a quarter inch of the tip had broken off. I wasn't holding my breath, she chided herself. She inspected the knife closer and decided she had been fortunate. It was still serviceable and when she got back to town, she could probably get someone at the hardware store to grind the end to another point without damaging the rest of the knife. Hold your breath, she reminded herself as she went back to work.

  The next time she wedged the knife in the crack, she felt the door move a little more than before. The next time she was certain. It's coming. The damn thing is finally giving me a break. But she continued to hold her breath. No point in getting cocky.

  Ten minutes later, she carefully placed the knife back in its case strapped to her leg and wiped her face again with the soaked sleeve of her right arm. Okay. This was it. Time to pop this son-of-a-bitch open.

  Wedging herself firmly between the ship and the back of the mud cave, she took a firm grasp of the ledge at the top of the door. One, two, three -- heave. At first nothing happened, except for her face turning red and the pain in her left shoulder reminding her to take it a little easier. But she didn't relax but strained even harder. Still nothing.

  "Come on, you bastard. Give me a fucking break!" She shouted at the top of her lungs.

  The door moved. A half inch, then another half inch.

  "All right. There you go" Pat shouted again. "Now we're cooking." She readjusted her handhold down a quarter turn and pulled again. The door moved easier this time.

  She reached a hundred and eighty degrees across to the other side. It was more difficult to get a firm grip but she found the door had loosened sufficiently to be able to pull it another three quarters of an inch out. She bent to the top and repeated the process again. Although she could not see them because of the mud, she'd calculated the door was hinged at the bottom.

  "Any moment now!" She said out loud to give herself encouragement. Suddenly the dark tunnel was far too quiet. The other side? What would be on the other side?

  She stopped. Let's not be foolish, she told herself. The thought of poisonous gas returned. How would she be able to tell? Not all toxic gases had an odor. Take natural gas. Odorless. The smell came from an additive. She pondered the question, finally deciding there was no way she could be certain. The best she could do would be to sample it, slowly, carefully. If she felt the least bit light headed, she'd get the hell out of the tunnel and wait for the team.

  Sometimes, life is risky. Her father used to remind her often. This was one of those times. She grasped the top of the door again and pulled. This time it came easily and Pat stepped to her right to give the door room to open. And held her breath.

  No sound. She noticed. No hiss. Nothing to indicate a change in pressure. Didn't mean the gases were the same but it did make her feel a little better. She sniffed the air. Was that a sweet smell? Had it been there before? It was hard to tell. Mostly, all she could smell was herself. Oh well, here goes.

  She took another whiff, a little stronger this time. And waited. Smells the same as it did. Right? Feel fine so far. Right? Yes, she concluded as she pulled the flashlight from its spot in the mud wall and shined the light into the ship. Slow and easy. Just take it slow and easy. She took a short breath then holding it again, she stuck her head through the crack and looked around.

  "Holy, mother-of-pearl!" She said in a hushed voice as though she was entering an ancient cathedral. It felt that way. She half expected to find herself looking into a small air-lock with the real inside of the ship on the other side of yet another door. So she wasn't prepared for what she saw.

  It looked like a main section of the ship. The room stretched at least fifteen feet into the center and was nearly that wide. Pat estimated the distance between the ceiling and the floor to be eight, maybe nine feet. So much for a ten foot tall cockroach, she thought as she stepped over the rim of the door and entered the ship. Oh Roachy is probably no more than seven feet. She smiled at her own joke.

  As she did so, she felt the first wave of dizziness. Toxic gas! Her mind screamed at her. Get out --get out! Fighting the panic, she stopped in mid-stride and suddenly realized she'd been holding her breath for at least a minute and a half. She slowly let it out and took a careful breath and immediately felt better. The air was stale but harmless.

  As her foot hit the decking of the ship, Pat heard a low grade hum followed seconds later by a blast of light from overhead. She ducked for a moment as though she'd suddenly been attacked by a flurry of bats but there was nothing there. She stepped back and as she did so the lights flickered off.

  Not bad, she thought. I wonder how you turn them off when you're ready to let the cat out and go to bed. She re-entered the ship and the light immediately cut on again so she switched her flashlight off.

  The room was austere with only a few unfa
miliar objects along the far wall. A storage room? Pat wondered. It was possible that this was not the main entrance. Likely, in fact. If the ship had come in right side up, the main hatch was probably buried fifteen or twenty feet. More than likely, this was an auxiliary way in and out of the ship, close to the top of the ship in case of unexpected crash landings.

  Besides the door to the outside, there were two other doors which led to other parts of the ship, one almost directly across from the exit door and a second one on the wall to the left.

  "Which shall it be?" Pat asked herself out loud and was startled by the sound of her own voice. It's too damn quiet in here, she thought and began to whistle a tuneless melody.

  She walked over to the door directly across from the exit. What if the doors were locked, waiting for the special thumb print of the ship's owner. Please, Lord, let it be open, she prayed as she approached the door. Much to her amazement and joy, when she was a couple of feet from the door, it noiselessly slid open.

  "All right,” She exclaimed. Now we’re cooking.

  Pat strolled through the ship. Each room seemed more amazing than the one before. As she left one room, the light automatically cut off in it and on in the next one. Like having a special ray of sunlight following you around, she thought, her mood lifting with every minute.

  She didn't understand anything she saw but it was definitely high tech. Much more advanced than anything she'd ever seen, even in the hundreds of sci-fi movies her mom had taken her to.

  And definitely alien. No way, could any of it have been made by or for humans. The equipment lacked the normal symmetry she'd come to expect of human design. There were almost no right angles or rectangular objects. Everything was more free-flowing, almost amorphous. The shape appeared to depend on the need or function, without any preconceived expectation that it had to look a particular way. Pat found her mouth gapping open for the third time and clamped it shut. She snapped a couple of pictures in each room, being careful to ration her only role of film.