Alienation

by Jon S. Lewis

  “How many did you hit yesterday?” Oz asked as he spun the repulsor on his finger.

  Before Colt could answer, Danielle pulled the statistics up on her tablet computer. “He ran the course five times and hit seven targets, which means his accuracy rating is at just over 14 percent.”

  “Thanks,” Colt said.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Distracted, Oz flew too close to the sixth hologram. It reached out, and at the last possible moment Oz swiveled his hips, avoiding contact that would have led to a penalty. Then, as though it was as natural as walking, he rolled over so that he was lying on his back, raised the repulsor, and shot. Direct hit. The hologram flickered and disappeared. The last four holograms fell in succession, giving Oz another perfect score.

  “Your turn.”

  :: CHAPTER 3 ::

  Colt chewed on the inside of his cheek as he took aim at the first hologram. The attention to detail was incredible, from the light glinting off the Thule’s eyes to the way its scaled chest heaved with every breath. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn that it was real.

  “You got this,” Oz said. He was back on the ground, standing next to Danielle. “Remember, aim . . . exhale . . . and then pull the trigger. It’s as easy as that.”

  The first target was about fifty feet away, and Colt was closing fast. He exhaled. Ten meters. Colt could almost smell the alien’s rancid breath as he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

  Somehow the beam of light hit the creature’s shoulder. It wasn’t a kill shot, but the alien roared as it grabbed the imaginary wound. Colt couldn’t help but smile as the image flickered before it disappeared. It was the first time he’d ever hit the initial target.

  There was no time to celebrate. The second target beat its chest with two hands while the other four flexed sharp claws, waiting to tear him apart. Colt veered toward the hologram as an angry wind buffeted against him, but he hardly noticed. Gritting his teeth, he raised the Tesla Repulsor and steadied his wrist, just as Oz had done. The creature threw its head back, and Colt aimed for its throat. He took a slow breath, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger.

  And missed. The alien didn’t flicker, flash, or disappear.

  Colt raised his arms to cover his face, and his jacket took the brunt of the punishment. He blinked, and when he opened his eyes all he could see was the parched ground. It was ten meters away, and it was closing fast.

  He raised his head and arched his back, extending his arms like wings as he attempted to rise. Something hissed behind his ear. Had the tank been punctured? Maybe one of the hoses was dislodged. Colt thought that he could smell fuel, but maybe it was the exhaust.

  The ground was closer now. He could reach out and touch it if he had half a mind, but he strained his neck and threw his shoulders back, hoping that would be enough. The desert grime was thick on his tongue, gritty and raw. Strange shapes loomed ahead. It was a wall of cactus, twisted and bent.

  His left hand scraped the ground, bouncing as it skimmed the surface like a stone skipping across a pond. His fist hit a rock and the Tesla Repulsor fell from his hand. The gun clanked, breaking into countless pieces as it bounced away. He turned his head for the briefest moment to see where it landed, but the movement drove his shoulder into the ground.

  “Pull up!” Oz shouted through the comlink.

  Pain shot through Colt’s shoulder and up into his neck. Jaw clenched and eyes filled with tears, he rolled to his right, trying to correct his haphazard path. The tank sputtered, spitting out a trail of smoke as it backfired.

  “Not now,” Colt said, straining through gritted teeth as he fought to keep from crashing. It felt like the tendons in his neck were going to snap, but his body rose even as the fuel tank lost pressure.

  The jet pack shook, threatening to break free from the straps that held it in place, and Colt felt the tremors through his body. His teeth chattered and his vision blurred as he pulled away from the desert floor and up into the early morning haze.

  “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Danielle asked.

  Colt couldn’t answer. His heart pounded as he tilted to the right, his shoulder dipping as he entered into a barrel roll. Like a corkscrew, he shot straight up, avoiding the cactus as a great plume of smoke trailed in his wake. It felt like he was coming up for air after holding his breath under water for too long. Relief washed over him, and he closed his eyes for a brief moment to drink it in. The world was quiet. Calm. Far below, a tumbleweed rolled across the desert, bouncing in the wind before it caught on a shrub.

  The jet pack sputtered, a reminder that he needed to land before his fuel supply ran out. He didn’t know the odds of surviving a thousand-foot fall, but he figured they weren’t in his favor. Just then he heard a strange buzzing sound. It was faint at first, like the hum of an oscillating fan, but it was growing louder.

  “Do you hear that?” he asked, tilting his head like a dog listening to a distant noise.

  “Hear what?” Oz asked.

  “I’m not sure.” Colt tapped on the tiny speaker lodged in his ear, wondering if it was feedback. “It’s like a hum, or—”

  A massive silhouette rose from the mountains, wings beating and teeth gnashing as it flew toward him.

  :: CHAPTER 4 ::

  Please tell me that’s another hologram,” Colt said as the creature closed in. It was the size of a small bus, with a body that looked something like a wasp, though it was covered in a spiny exoskeleton. Two sets of enormous wings kept it aloft, beating rapidly as six spiked legs hung limp below its belly.

  “If it is, it’s not one of mine,” Danielle said from below. “I don’t know how to make them fly yet.”

  “It’s called an armored viper wasp,” Oz said. “And trust me, it’s real. Let’s just hope there isn’t a hive nearby.”

  “A hive?”

  The wasp looked like it could bring down an elephant if it had half a mind, but a swarm of those things? There wasn’t enough bug spray on the planet to deal with that kind of infestation. Its teeth looked like gardening shears, and they stuck out from its mouth in haphazard directions, as though their placement was completely random yet altogether deadly.

  “Now would be a good time to get out of there,” Oz said, but Colt couldn’t move. The surrounding mountains started to feel like walls, and the vast desert no bigger than a closet.

  “Come on, McAlister!” Oz said. “What are you doing?”

  Colt didn’t respond, even though it was close enough that he could see scars etched into its armored hide. Why couldn’t he move?

  “Look, I want you to get in the truck and drive as far away as you can,” Colt heard Oz say through the comlink. “We’ll be right behind you. I promise.”

  “But . . .” Danielle’s voice was hesitant.

  “Don’t be a hero,” Oz said. “Just go!”

  The viper wasp lashed out with deceptive speed, and Colt had the good sense to duck. He felt a rush of air sweep over his head as the creature screeched like an orchestra of first-year violin students.

  Far below, Dani jumped into the cab of the truck. The engine revved and tires spun, spitting dirt and rock as it fishtailed and headed back toward the freeway.

  “Heads up!” Oz said. There was silence, followed by the sound of rushing air, like a vacuum cleaner, only amplified a thousand-fold. A jagged beam of light slammed into the mindless creature, scorching its exoskeleton. The burning smell was nauseating, and Colt had to fight to keep from throwing up.

  The viper wasp kicked its legs as it tumbled backward through the morning sky, screaming as its wings pounded against the wind. Viscous matter oozed from the wound, and for a moment Colt almost felt sorry for it. Almost.

  He took advantage of the diversion and dived. Sparks flew and smoke streamed as one of the engines on his jet pack died. He closed his eyes as he continued to fall, wondering if a single engine was enough to carry him. It would be so easy to give up. No more pain. No more heartache. He i
magined his parents standing there, arms wide, waiting to embrace him.

  But it wasn’t his time.

  Colt looked over his shoulder, where the beast was clacking its jaws open and shut. Despite the wound, its wings fluttered so fast they were a blur, and it was gaining ground. Colt fought to maintain balance. With only one working rocket, flight was awkward. It felt like he was weighed down on one side.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “I have an idea, but it’s going to be risky,” Oz said. “Do you remember that cartoon where the mouse tricks the cat into swallowing a stick of dynamite?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Well, I don’t have any dynamite, but there’s a belt filled with concussion grenades in the backseat of the Jeep. Think you can get that thing to eat a couple of them?”

  “You’re serious?”

  “It’s all I’ve got.”

  It was an insane plan, but Colt was desperate. He dived toward the Jeep as Oz grabbed the belt. In one swift motion Oz flicked his wrist and tossed it into the air just as Colt’s second engine sputtered and cut out. He hit the ignition switch a few times, but it didn’t so much as spark, let alone turn over. Then, after another try, it sparked back to life.

  He shot straight up and grabbed the belt. Momentum took him past the confused wasp as he fastened the belt around his waist with nervous fingers. In rapid succession he fished out three concussion grenades, each activated in mere seconds.

  The viper wasp gave chase, unwilling to let its prey escape. That’s exactly what Colt was counting on. He hovered in place, waiting for the creature to get within range. Wind rushed as wings pounded, and he let the first grenade fall. It rolled off his fingers and hit the wasp in the teeth before it bounced off.

  Colt’s eyes shot wide.

  The beast howled, jaws open wide as it bore down on him. Colt looked down its throat and wondered if this was how Jonah felt before the whale swallowed him whole.

  “That was part of the plan, right?” he heard Oz ask.

  Colt looked down at the two flashing grenades in his hand, and then at the viper wasp. It gave a screech, and he tossed them down its wide gullet. The cries of the beast stopped as it pulled up, looking confused.

  Moments later explosions reverberated through the desert, and the viper wasp was blown into chunks of disgusting goop. Guts splattered like gelatinous rain, covering rocks, cacti, and shrubs.

  “You’re paying to wash my Jeep,” Oz said.

  :: CHAPTER 5 ::

  It had been years since anyone had called Santiago Romero by his given name. The director of CHAOS was known simply as Lobo, the Spanish word for wolf. There were many stories as to how he got the name, but one thing was certain—it fit. The man was cunning, strong, and ruthless.

  It was Tuesday morning, and he sat alone in the lobby of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, just a few blocks away from the White House. In less than a week his son, Oz, would arrive to attend the CHAOS Military Academy just outside of Alexandria. He was excited and a bit nervous, as any father would be considering what was at stake. Oz had spent his entire life preparing to become a CHAOS agent, and this was his moment to shine.

  As the director, Lobo typically spent his days in meetings or seated at his desk, but he still carried a Sig Sauer P226 with a twenty-round magazine beneath his suit coat. He had another forty rounds hidden in the leather satchel near his foot. It was all a precaution—or perhaps it was habit. Either way, he felt better knowing that the weapon was near.

  There were also five armed agents in and around the hotel, including a man posing as a bell captain who had a Benelli M4 Super 90 shotgun hidden behind the bell stand. The elevator repairman had a HK MP5 submachine gun in his tool kit and a MK23 .45 caliber handgun in a holster hidden beneath his coveralls. Then there was the agent stationed in a tree just outside the bay window, armed with an M14 sniper rifle. He wearing a ghillie suit, heavily camouflaged clothes that were designed to look like foliage, and even though Lobo knew he was out there, he couldn’t see him.

  Given the nature of this meeting, the precaution felt prudent. After all, Heinrich Krone was not only an assassin of the highest order, he was also one of the Thule.

  Lobo looked at his watch and saw that it was five minutes to eight. He sipped a cup of English breakfast tea with just a touch of honey as he read the Washington Post. The lead story was about the reactor leak in Iowa. Over a hundred thousand residents had been tested for radiation poisoning, with fifty-six testing positive. According to the article, they had been transferred to a nearby hospital, but Lobo knew the truth. They had contracted the mysterious virus that appeared out of nowhere, and they were all going to die.

  A special investigation unit stationed at a CHAOS facility in Chicago had been sent to collect samples. The strain had mutated, but they were convinced it was the same virus found in Thailand, Mexico, and Arizona. What they didn’t know was where it had come from or how it got there. Investigators poured over travel logs from every major airline, bus, and railway that served the cities in question, but there was no passenger overlap. They even searched the homes and businesses of the infected, but they couldn’t find a point of origin. It didn’t make sense.

  A CHAOS agent disguised as a member of the hotel waitstaff stopped by to freshen Lobo’s teapot. He offered his thanks and handed her a twenty-dollar bill, which she stuffed into her apron next to her Sig Sauer P230. She nodded and headed back to the kitchen with a wide smile.

  Lobo had been staying at the Mandarin on and off for almost two weeks. His wife was back in Arizona with their son, and he was surprising her with some renovations at their Virginia countryside estate. With construction crews traipsing about, staying at the hotel was easier. Besides, the room service was amazing, maids cleaned his suite every morning, and the hotel was close enough to the office that it cut nearly thirty minutes off his commute.

  As he waited for his appointment to arrive, his dark eyes roved the lobby floor, looking for anything unusual. Outside of the hotel staff and his undercover agents, there wasn’t much activity. A woman stood at the front desk with ten pieces of luggage, wondering if she could check in early. An older couple were on their way out for a morning walk, and a man with a pronounced bald spot and a hawkish nose was asking the concierge for directions to an office complex where he was already late for a client meeting.

  The front door slid open, and a brisk wind blew through the lobby. A thin man wearing a long coat walked inside. He wore a driving cap and leather gloves, but instead of luggage he was carrying a briefcase. It was difficult to gauge his age, though he looked to be somewhere in his late twenties or maybe early thirties.

  “Krone?” Lobo asked as the man approached. Even though he was born in San Antonio, Lobo still had an accent. His parents were from the city of Reynosa in Tamualipas, Mexico, and he didn’t speak English until he was six years old.

  Krone nodded. As a shapeshifter, the man could have taken just about any form he desired, and he did so regularly. It made him a unique asset in the global espionage and intelligence community, though at the moment he didn’t look much like an assassin—or at least the kind of assassin you might find in a Hollywood movie. He was not heavily muscled, his head wasn’t shaved, and there were no visible tattoos. In fact, he was impeccably groomed, from his short-cropped hair to his manicured nails. His suit was clearly custom tailored, and Lobo assumed that his jacket was as well. The scarf was no doubt cashmere, and his wing-tipped shoes had been recently shined.

  “Please, take a seat.” Lobo nodded to an empty couch across from where he was sitting.

  Krone set his briefcase down, took off his gloves, and removed his coat, which he folded neatly before he laid it across the arm of the couch. As he sat, his eyes fell to the newspaper and then to Lobo, who watched him intently.

  “A pity what happened in Iowa, wouldn’t you agree?” Lobo asked.

  The man nodded. “Yes, it was. Hopefully we won’t have another Chernobyl on our hands.�
��

  “Let’s hope not.” Lobo smiled, though the expression held little kindness. Krone no doubt knew that there was no reactor leak, but that wasn’t important—at least for the moment.

  “Tea?” Lobo asked, but the man held up his hand.

  “No, thank you.”

  Lobo reached down and unfastened the latch on his satchel to pull out a manila folder, which he slid across the coffee table.

  “My assignment, I presume?” Krone took the folder and opened it to find the photograph of an older man who looked to be in his sixties or seventies. He was handsome and tanned, probably from spending too much time on the golf course. His teeth were perfect, as was his silver hair, and there was a pin of the Stars and Stripes fastened to his lapel.

  Krone stared at the image as though memorizing every detail, then he closed the folder and handed it back to Lobo. “It won’t be easy, you know,” he said, as his eyes fell on a gardener pruning a bush just outside the window. It was another one of Lobo’s agents, and it was clear that Krone had spotted him. “Eliminating Senator Bishop is going to draw attention. After all, your feud has been rather public. And it’s going to look like sour grapes— you know, with him leading the charge to cut your funding until you’re replaced.”

  “I understand the ramifications, but at this point we don’t have a choice.” Lobo took a sip of his tea. “If the senator and his cronies had their way, I’d be rotting in a cell next to Aldrich Koenig right now. They think I’ve turned CHAOS into my own private army, and they’re scared—not that I can blame them. In their minds, my methods are . . . well, I suppose they would consider them aggressive. Brutal. Perhaps they are, but they’re also effective. The odds of this planet surviving an attack from your people are already infinitesimal—without me, they’re nonexistent.”

  “So they’ve left you with no choice, is that it?”

  Lobo regarded the assassin, sensing that he was being mocked. “You’re going to make the senator’s demise look like an accident. Or better yet, like a natural death.” Lobo lowered his voice. “The man turned seventy years old last month, and he’s already had one open-heart surgery. I’m sure you’ll find a creative solution to ensure the least amount of scrutiny.”