Chapter Three
In a major surprise to me, I woke up. Or, at least that was my best guess. When the water closed over me, I thought for sure I was crab food. Instead, I awoke to find myself enveloped by a soft ruby glow. My first thought was that I’d been swallowed whole by a whale. It didn’t take long to dispel that notion.
I lay on a padded surface. I wouldn’t call it a bed—it was more like a low table—but it was soft. My clothes were damp, not soaked. I must have been out for hours.
I sat up. The room was small, dark but for the glow, and vaguely egg-shaped—wider and less rounded at one end than the other. I reached out to touch the wall to my right. It was…spongy was the best word I could come up with. It was solid, but gave slightly to firm pressure.
Was there a door somewhere? I couldn’t see one from where I sat, so I hopped off my perch and explored my cell. In the absence of evidence to the contrary, I assumed I was a prisoner.
The walls were vaguely translucent with what appeared to be ripples of seawater beyond. The liquid might have been flowing within the walls. Perhaps the translucency explained the dimness of the cell. Too bright and the light might have been visible outside the vessel. Again, an assumption.
It seemed likely I was inside whatever craft I’d been following. It might sound silly, but at the time I wasn’t a hundred percent sure I was alive. Sure, I felt alive. I breathed, I had a pulse. But for all I knew, angels breathe and have pulses, too. Maybe this was the afterlife, and the pearly gates were on the other side of the wall. Then again, perhaps I had fire and brimstone to look forward to. I hadn’t exactly been a saint in my lifetime.
I continued exploring the cell. Other than the table off to my right, I couldn’t find anything to study, open, or break—just walls, a floor, and a ceiling—and even those merged together. There were no straight lines or edges or seams anywhere. Just a smooth shape, like it had been molded out of clay. Even the table was oval, with rounded edges, rising on a pedestal out of the floor. My head nearly brushed the ceiling when I stood by the table and I could touch both side walls with my outstretched fingers. The length was no more than nine feet. Either whoever operated this craft was ridiculously small, or they were immune to claustrophobia. Me? I already felt closed in.
If only I could talk to someone, to take my mind off my situation. I belatedly remembered my implant. I’d been so distracted that I hadn’t even thought to call anyone.
I immediately phoned Joel McCready, my detective friend. Maybe I couldn’t tell him exactly where I was, but at least I could let him know where I started out and that I seemed to be underwater. He might be able to do something, anyway.
But no; my call was blocked. Maybe it was the vessel, maybe the water. Either way, I was unable to establish a connection. Now I really felt closed in.
I shouted at the top of my lungs. “Hey! Hello! Anyone there?” Because of the bare walls and other surfaces, I had my fingers plugging my ears. Instead of a resounding echo, I heard a muted version of my voice.
I removed my fingers and tried again. “Hey! Is anyone out there?”
This time I was sure of it. My shout was muffled. But why?
Of course. The walls and other surfaces were soft and absorbent, not hard and reflective. But why have anechoic cells? Was it intentional or merely a byproduct of the materials used for other reasons?
One more mystery, but not a difficult one. It didn’t take long to deduce that anyone traveling covertly underwater would want to muffle interior sounds, so as not to give away their position to anyone outside who might be listening for them. Our military subs had the same stealthy goal. But this vessel took the implementation to the nth degree.
If shouting didn’t work, then how about pounding on the walls? I tried that next, beating on various parts, listening for a hollow sound that might indicate a door. Nothing. It was like punching a mattress. Not only didn’t I make a racket, I couldn’t even hurt myself.
Could there be another reason for the padded surfaces? Had I finally gone ‘round the bend? Maybe my escalator stopped at sporting goods. Perhaps the shelves were stocked but nobody was minding the store. After all, I was seeing pink elephants, or at least phosphorescent red submarines. Maybe the men in white coats had locked me up for my own safety.
That was a scary and depressing thought.
I finally ran out of nervous energy and sat back down on the table-bed thing. There appeared to be nothing else to do but sit and wait for someone to tell me what was going on.
The good news was that I was still alive.
If the crew of this craft consisted of murderers or kidnappers, why not just kill me to keep me from revealing what I’d seen? Or, if they thought no one would believe my story of seeing a glowing red “thing” under the bay, why knock me out and take me along? Why not just ignore me? They must have wanted me alive for some reason, which was encouraging. But why?
Were they branching out into snatching men now? For that matter, what did they want with the missing girls—assuming the two situations were connected, as it seemed they must be?
I certainly had a big steaming pile of questions, but precious few answers.
Another hour passed, according to my implant, and still I sat in the near-darkness. Despite the lack of visible ventilation grills, the air in the cell was fresh, not stale. It had to be circulating somehow. Were the spongy walls porous? If so, why didn’t the air leak out into the water?
More questions. If this kept up, I’d soon need to take notes.
One hour turned into two, two into three. It was now nearly dawn and I’d been running on adrenaline for most of the past twenty-four hours. It all finally caught up with me. I lay back on the table and slept, dreaming of Moby Dick. I was Ahab, harpoon in hand, sliding down into the creature’s maw, kicking and screaming the whole way.
* * * *
I awoke. What the hell was going on? The fact that I still had no idea annoyed me to no end. A week of pounding the streets and getting pounded on by Tiny and Weasel—not to mention whoever had knocked me out and stuffed me in this hole—and I was still in the dark. Figuratively speaking, anyway as the eerie ruby glow continued to permeate my part of the vessel.
Why had no one come to talk to, interrogate, or torture me after all these hours? It didn’t make sense. Then again, why did they snatch me in the first place? Were they headhunters, looking to mount my noggin on a trophy pole on a desert island somewhere? That would have been a scary thought if it hadn’t been so comical. On the other hand, I knew nothing about my captor or captors. For all I knew, Hannibal the Cannibal was piloting this thing.
They may not have had much interest in me at the moment, but I certainly wanted to know more about them.
* * * *
I opened my eyes to realize that I’d dozed off in an upright position. I was still sitting on the table. The cell seemed unchanged, but something had disturbed my nap.
Then I heard it, a low hum, coming from the wall to my left. I hopped off the table and backed away from the sound. What the hell was it? I braced myself for whatever. The hum ceased, replaced by a bright glow low on the wall.
The wall…extruded…into the room.
Imagine holding a lump of bread dough and slowly pushing a finger through it until there’s a tube of dough extending out the other side. That’s what this looked like, except for the soft ruby glow. If this was a submarine, it was unlike any I’d ever seen or heard of.
The tube extended about two feet into the cell, a foot off the floor. Then the near end split open. I expected to see an opening into the next chamber. Instead, a huge slimy-looking egg appeared, accompanied by a splash of water. The egg was a deep red, almost black—or perhaps black with red highlights; it was hard to tell in the dim lighting.
For one macabre moment, I wondered if I’d somehow been swallowed by a giant insect and was inside its ovipositor. Except, the eggs should have been going out instead of coming in.
Then two hands, arms
, and shoulders emerged, dispelling the illusion of an egg. Now I was in a delivery room watching someone give birth to a human child-sized red-black baby lizard. Yes, it was as creepy as it sounds. I flashed back to memories of horror flicks with demons and other creatures of the underworld and shuddered. What horrible creature was emerging? Was I about to be attacked and eaten alive? Dismembered?
I watched, mesmerized, as the creature emerged on all fours and then stood before me in a puddle of what smelled like seawater. What could I do if the creature attacked? I was unarmed, but I braced myself. At least I was bigger than it was.
The tube immediately flowed back into the wall, as if it had never existed. The wall itself was just as featureless as it had been moments earlier.
The creature simply stood there, making no threatening motions. I took a closer look. It was roughly humanoid in appearance. Like us, it had two arms, two legs, a torso and a head on a neck. But the similarities ended there. It was petite, only about four feet tall, and its head was almost football-shaped, from a pointy chin at one end to a peak on top. The term “conehead” came to mind, but it really looked more like a round-nose bullet from a .38 Special. The creepiest thing was that its face had no discernable features. There were no eyes, no mouth, no ears, and only the merest bump where a nose would be. My initial thought was that this was some elaborate scam, with a child wearing a rubber “Creature from the Black Lagoon” suit. After all, without eyes, ears, nose, or mouth, how would it know where it was going? How could it communicate?
[I am Karsh.]
I looked around. Who’d just spoken? The sound clearly hadn’t come from the creature in front of me. It came from everywhere at once, almost like being in a room equipped with surround-sound speakers.
“Who said that?”
[I did.]
The creature raised its left hand. It had five webbed fingers and an opposable thumb. Check that; four fingers and two opposable thumbs—one on each side of its hand. The six-toed feet were likewise webbed. It had knee joints, but from the way it stood, the knees appeared to flex differently from ours. It was nude but for a sort of brief kilt around its hips. The creature—Karsh—had no lips to move, so how was it speaking?
I looked around again. There had to be speakers in the room. But if they were hidden behind the spongy walls, I’d never see them.
I heard laughter. No, that’s not right. I felt—no, I sensed—laughter. It made my brain itch. My eyes opened wide in realization. “Are you…?”
[I am projecting my thoughts to you.]
I drew back in revulsion. The thought of some slimy alien rummaging around in my brain made my skin crawl. Imagine strangers pawing through your underwear drawer, and then multiply that feeling by a thousand.
[Do not be alarmed. I cannot “read your mind” as your entertainment programs would say. I can only sense strong emotions from you. If you focus your thoughts, as you do when you speak, I can understand them.]
This was just too bizarre. Was I really conversing with a creature from another planet, or was this an elaborate scam? If so, for what purpose? Surely his/her/its intention wasn’t to kill me—at least not immediately—or I’d be dead already.
“But how? How do you understand my language? How did you learn to speak it?”
[I do not understand or speak your language. I project concepts and images to you. Your brain assigns words to these projections. I believe you have a saying: a picture is worth a thousand words.]
“Ah. Okay, and your brain interprets the images and concepts you get from me into your own language.”
[Precisely.]
“It doesn’t sound very precise. What happens if my mind incorrectly interprets an image or concept you send me, or vice versa?”
[Our respective brains are much more sophisticated than you credit. The combination of the projected thoughts and the associated images are sufficient for our brains to synthesize the correct meaning.]
“Well, I have to admit, we do seem to be understanding each other, so far.”
[Indeed. I have been studying your people for some weeks. That helps me to understand your thought processes better and tailor my projections accordingly.]
“I see. You’ve introduced yourself, so I guess I should do the same. My name is Sunrise. So, who are you, anyway? Why are you here? Why am I here? Are you responsible for all the recent disappearances of young women in this area? If so, what happened to them?”
[All in good time. You must be hungry by now, and thirsty.]
“I—” I was about to deny it, when my stomach rumbled like a thunderstorm rolling through town. “I guess I am.”
[Very well. I shall return with sustenance. You will wait here.]
As if I had a choice in the matter.
He/she/it turned toward the wall, which magically extruded another tube. This time outward, not inward. Karsh crawled back through the tube, which then closed behind him and sealed itself once again. I say “he” only because something about Karsh’s demeanor, appearance, thoughts, whatever, “felt” masculine, and adult. Karsh absolutely did not strike me as a child in a rubber suit masquerading as an alien. No, I was pretty sure I faced the genuine article.
His exit left all too many questions racing through my mind. How did he open and close those tubes without visible controls? Was it all done mentally, or did he have accomplices on the other side of the wall controlling the tube? For that matter, why use a tube at all? A simple door would eliminate the need for all the crawling back and forth through the tube. Was it simply a security precaution, so I couldn’t rush the door when he unlocked it?
Getting back to the missing girls, was Karsh the perpetrator of all the disappearances? I had only one eyewitness description to go on, that of Johann Strauss and the bus bench, and he described the possible assailant as “kinda short.” That would appear to be a gross understatement in the case of the diminutive Karsh. Still, Strauss had been a hundred yards away, it was dark, and Strauss had only a brief glimpse of him. His description certainly didn’t rule out Karsh as the perp.
I turned back toward the table, intending to sit on it. Only now there was a sort of stool next to it. It appeared to have extruded from the floor, just as the table had. Neat trick.
I sat on the stool and waited for Karsh to return.
* * * *
Another hour-plus passed. By now my stomach complained incessantly. Finally, a low hum and bright glow heralded the extrusion of another tube. This time, Karsh, at least I assumed it was him again—for all I knew, they all looked alike—brought a bag with him. The bag was damp and held various lumpy objects.
He strode over to the table and began pulling things from the bag: two pears, a small mesh pouch of what looked like juniper berries, several crabapples, a grapefruit, some maple leaves, and a fistful of what looked like weeds.
Then he pulled out a narrow-barreled handgun.
I jumped back, tripped on the stool, and fell on my ass. That’s not the usual defensive posture advocated by most martial arts disciplines. I scrabbled backward to the nearest wall. When he didn’t shoot, I stood and raised my hands.
Karsh stood there, head cocked in a dog-wondering-what-his-master-is-up-to pose.
[Is this food not to your liking? I can forage for more.]
Now it was my turn to look puzzled.
He put the gun on the table. [Here is fresh water. I was unable to obtain other beverages for you.]
I approached the table, picked up the “gun,” and took a closer look. It was merely a small L-shaped squeeze-bulb with an extension that looked like a thick version of a straw. In my state of anxiety, I’d interpreted the odd design as a weapon. Looking carefully at Karsh for indications of deception, I finally shrugged.
“I’m sorry. I thought this was a weapon.”
[A weapon?] Again he assumed the puzzled dog posture. [Is this food acceptable, or shall I acquire more?]
The fact that he was concerned for my well-being was a good sign. “So
me of this is food, some isn’t. But it’s enough to hold me for now.” I took a bite of one of the pears. It was sweet and juicy. “Good.”
I hadn’t gotten any aggressive vibes from Karsh, which is why the appearance of a weapon had taken me by such surprise. Maybe he had nothing to do with the disappearances after all. Perhaps it was all just a weird coincidence.
[Let me know which items you consider food and which you do not. We will acquire more of the former for you.]
My eyes widened at the various bits of information he had just divulged. First, this was the first time he had given any indication that he was not working alone. Of course, if he were indeed an alien, I wouldn’t expect him to have crossed the interstellar void solo. Second, the comment about getting more food for later told me that they planned to keep me here for a while—alive. Finally, his reference to himself as “me” and “I” meant that whoever or whatever these creatures were, they weren’t a hive mind. I wasn’t sure what use that latter piece of information was, but I filed it away for reference.
I nodded and pointed to the pears and grapefruit as food. I could eat the crabapples in a pinch, but I’d rather not risk the upset stomach if given a choice.
[Very well. Our research of human nutrition was incomplete, given our limited time here. I will note the discrepancies.]
Bingo. He’d confirmed that they “weren’t from around here”—not that I was really in doubt on that point anymore—and that they hadn’t been here for long, whatever their definition of “long” was.
“Research? What kind of research?” You never know where an open-ended question might lead.
[We are able to access your Internet. However, without cultural references, sometimes it is difficult to understand what we find. In addition, the images we found of human food did not include olfactory recordings, nor did they specify where to find such foods as guacamole or T-bone steak in the wild. We were forced to improvise.]
Sunrise Destiny Page 5