by Rob Mclean
A screech in his earpiece let him know his hearing was returning. Above him, hundreds of the smaller drones fell from the sky. A broad spectrum jamming signal, John figured. There remained just a couple of dozen of the larger drones airborne.
Nearby, tracer bullets ripped into one of the larger drones. It exploded with a spray of deadly shrapnel. Below, people fell. Those nearest were shredded with metal hail. Others peppered with multiple injuries screamed in pain.
The envoy’s vessel had landed. Through the binoculars, John watched the envoy, surrounded by a human shield of heavily armoured security staff, being closely shepherded towards his vessel.
A portion of the side of the vessel melted and poured itself into steps, a process John had watched many times before. Now, amid the muffled shouts and screams, it seemed to take an agonisingly long time.
The envoy, hunkered behind a tortoise shell formation of riot shields, moved with what seemed to John to be glacial slowness, towards the steps. Over the playing field, above the thirty yard line, another of the larger drones exploded, adding the screams of some dignitaries and V.I.P.s to the cacophony.
From the base of the steps, the envoy rose above the wall of riot shields as he ascended the stairs. John saw some security personnel try to follow the envoy up the stairs, holding up their shields to offer protection, but they slipped and fell. Other personnel tried to take the place of those who had slipped, but they too lost their footing and slid down the steps. Was it some property of the material the vessel was made from?
At the top of the stairs, the envoy turned and waved to the crown. Either oblivious to the scene of destruction or panic before him, or in some act of diplomacy, deliberately ignoring it, the envoy smiled and waved as if nothing was wrong.
At that instant, a guided drone exploded close by. It flattened the security personnel like wheat in a field, but the envoy, exposed at the top of the stairs, clothed in his L.A. tribal gear caught the blast. Disturbingly red, human-like blood misted about as his body was shredded by multiple bolts and nails.
His shattered body, pressed against the doorframe of his vessel, stood teetering for a long moment before it fell, face first forwards, down the steps, onto the security staff. Both human and alien vital fluids mixed in a gathering pool of blood that welled about the envoy’s body.
The steps retracted and the door reformed. John watched in mute amazement and horror as the vessel lifted off and silently receded into the late afternoon sky.
Chapter 59
John had waited hours to be given the all clear by the medical staff. Pronounced as shock and mild concussion, he was prescribed two weeks off work. He felt it could easily take a lifetime and still not get the final, blood-soaked images of the envoy out of his head.
All throughout his wait, he kept wondering if his call to Angela had triggered the truck to explode. Did Zeke plan on him calling Angela when he saw ‘she’ was driving the truck? How could Zeke be certain John would find out who was driving the truck, let alone if he was even going to be on duty there that day?
His mind kept going back to Angela and how much she may have told Zeke about his movements. Again he wondered if she had played him all along, simply to get inside information for the attack.
No matter how he looked at it, he couldn’t fit the idea of Angela being a terrorist. He couldn’t see the woman he knew being capable of killing innocent people, not even indirectly. Besides leading a life that was as close to being as proper Christian as was humanly possible, (except for her ill-placed, but loyal devotion to that loser Zeke,) he felt, from what he knew of her, that it just wasn’t in her nature.
All that evening and into the small hours of the night, he wrestled with the idea of calling Angela’s home land-line, or even just turning up unannounced. Part of him wanted to tell her how he felt, that he loved her and wanted to be with her always, but she already knew that. What she didn’t know was how seeing her ‘killed’ had clarified his mind, but he had given her the ultimatum; make up your mind and call me if you want to see me. He felt he had to draw the line in the sand and force the issue, otherwise he may never find out how she felt about him, or if she had any feelings for him at all.
The next morning, after a restless night full of dreams that replayed the traumatic events of the previous day, his mind was no clearer.
After his morning swim, there was still no word from Angela. His thoughts over breakfast were a puree of disbelief, dismay with a tang of anger, spread across a background of regret. For the hundredth time he fought down the urge to call. Then the phone chirped. He leapt on it, but it was just a text from Eloise, to remind him of the ‘after party’ being held by BlackSky. As much as he would love to skip the function, especially as he felt it was in poor taste, considering the mission was a failure, it was a company function and as semi-management, he was expected to attend.
In a rare move, totally out of character of the financial tightness of the company, partners were invited. Normally, these social debriefings were strictly company staff only. Maybe having partners coming along meant the evening wouldn’t be entirely filled with shop-talk.
Not having anyone to bring along didn’t improve his mood. He certainly didn’t feel like explaining to everyone why he was single at the moment. Nor did he want to spend the evening making small talk with a bunch of randoms who, knowing the enduring nature of the relationships of his colleagues, would all be different at the next company function.
Still, he hoped an evening spent socializing might take his mind off other things. He wondered if the free drinks would help erase the picture of the envoy laying shrouded on a slab in a morgue downtown.
Via the website portal, the aliens had requested that the envoy’s body be treated with dignity and respect. In an abrupt reminder of how alien they were, they had declined all offers of a state funeral. Perhaps it wasn’t part of their culture, or they viewed the human ceremony as quaintly primitive. They had also forbidden any analysis or post-mortem of the envoy’s body, stating they would come to collect him in a matter of days. John wondered if they had to confer with their higher-ups back on their home-world or nearest outpost or colony world many light years away. Maybe they had their own quaint ceremonies to perform that they didn’t want to share with humanity? Either way, he was sure the human authorities would honour their wishes.
John had hired a tux for the evening, not that he wanted to impress anyone, but because he didn’t want to think about what to wear. Also he didn’t want to look like all the other guys who would be wearing the same beer soaked suit they wore to work at nightclubs.
He took a cab to the venue. Sitting by himself in the back seat would only remind him that he was going alone, so he sat up front. It had been a surprisingly short wait for the ride and during his trip downtown he soon saw why. The city was in official mourning.
The cabbie wore a black armband. He told John that many parties and events planned to celebrate the envoy’s visit to L.A. had been cancelled. The streets were empty and black banners hung from buildings. The cab driver moaned endlessly about what a stuff-up the whole show had been and how his business was suffering because of it. He was full of ideas about how the whole thing should have been handled and exactly where it had all gone wrong.
John just nodded in silent agreement. Unspoken, was the unsettling fear of retribution. Unlike the last time when humanity had disgraced itself with the nuclear attack on the mothership that had wiped out Cairo but apparently had not harmed any of the visitors, this time one of the aliens had been killed. Nobody said anything about that. Like everyone else going about their usual business, he was relying on the magnanimous nature the aliens had shown so far.
They pulled up at the Grand Nelson Hotel and John tipped the cabbie, expressing the hope the night might pick up for him.
The elderly doorman earned a smile and a nod of respect from John. He was wearing a black ribbon on his lapel as a display of participation in the official mourning. Looking l
ike he had been at the same post for most of his life, he was obviously there for character and aesthetics, not for his threat deterrence, but then, you could never tell. Despite his age, the old guy looked pretty fit.
“Evening sir,” the doorman greeted him warmly, a knowing smile in his eyes as the doors opened. A twinkle of recognition and respect, John wondered, or was it just the tux?
Inside, on a marble-floored entrance, a sandwich-board announced the BlackSky function was being held in the Donovan’s Room.
John made his way through a largely empty front reception area. Above the reception desk area, a screen showing live news feed of the many different bereavement rituals in the different places across the planet caught his attention. It flashed through a global outpouring of grief from the many different cultures.
John stood fascinated. Zeke had, in one ingenious stroke, not only killed the envoy, but plunged the world into an orgy of fear and grief. He had also killed any tolerance the New World Government had for the religious. They would be ostracised and fully persecuted, hunted down or rounded up. If not killed on sight, then they would be forcibly shipped away. His heart sank when he thought what Angela’s fate might be.
Not all the coverage was morose. In many parts of the world, there were scenes of wild celebration. Jubilant masses cheered the death of the AntiChrist. Arms raised to the heavens, clenching AK47s, masses of foreigners were shouting chants and waving symbolic flags and banners proclaiming their beliefs. Coverage from the breakaway U.S. states showed people dancing in the streets.
“Can I help you sir?” a fiercely tidy looking woman asked from behind the reception desk. Late twenties or early thirties, with her corporate genderless look, it was hard to tell. She too wore a black arm-band. It didn’t look out of place amongst her uniform as it matched the hair-tie that held her honey-blonde hair in place. Next to her, another receptionist was on the phone.
“I’m looking for the BlackSky function.”
She gave John a long appraising look. Her hazel green eyes ran over John’s tuxedo, lingering over his chest. As the moment lengthened, John felt his discomfort grow.
“Just yourself tonight, sir?” Her tone was innocent, but her eyes gleamed otherwise.
“Ah… yes…”
“Will sir be needing a room for the night?”
“Ummm… no,” John felt his face flushing, “thanks,” he added with what he hoped was a disarming smile.
“Oh…” she looked genuinely disappointed for a moment, before a more professional expression replaced it.
“Just through the doors to your left.”
The dull murmur of conversation sprinkled with sporadic laughter wafted from that direction.
“Thanks.”
“Have a good evening, sir.”
As he walked away, his mind ran through the possibilities. Yes, he could have that woman, but then what? He didn’t want a meaningless exchange of fluids, no matter how enjoyable it might be. In fact he didn’t want anything at all. He hoped he didn’t have any of that post-traumatic stress stuff, but he had to admit it was beginning to feel that way.
Images of the envoy collapsing, his body peppered and torn by lethal shrapnel while he watched, being unable to do anything about it, played in his mind for what felt like the hundredth time. If he pushed them away, the memory of the burning Buddhist monk surfaced to replace it. Underneath all that was the welling fear that Angela would never call.
He shook his head to try to clear his mind, and took a big breath. No, tonight he decided a few drinks might help him find the comfortable numbness he needed to escape from it all, if only for a few hours.
Behind him, school-girl giggles from the two receptionists reinforced his decision. ‘Forget them,’ he told himself. ‘Forget everything.’ He repeated. He only wished he could.
He pushed his way through the frosted glass double-doors and walked into the Donovan’s room.
Over a hundred people, maybe closer to two, all babbling constantly, interspaced with the occasional outburst of raucous laughter filled the room. The gaiety all seemed out of place in a world supposedly morning the alien envoy.
People mingled in small, tightly packed clusters about the room. Round dinner tables along one side and a bar set up on the far wall. He recognised many of the faces, but there were also many new ones, testament to the massive recruitment of new employees in the wake of the envoy’s arrival.
A waving arm caught his attention. He almost didn’t recognise the woman it belonged to. No longer in her drab para-military outfits, Grace had, with the help of subtle make-up, an expensive looking hair-do and a stunning red evening dress, transformed herself into a creature of style and undiscovered beauty.
“Wow,” was all John could manage.
“Thanks,” Grace smiled, “but you don’t have to look so surprised.”
“Yeah, you look…” John fumbled for a word that wouldn’t get him in trouble with HR later, “…great.”
“Yeah, she looks hot,” Kent drooled a leery grin.
Grace’s smile fell away. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” her eyes narrowed, “for now.”
“Yes, fabulous, darling,” Marcus did his best fashion designer impersonation, complete with the limp wristed flutter, which coming from such a huge macho guy, brought another eruption of jocularity. John found himself chuckling, in spite of himself.
“Got a head start, did you Kent?” John asked.
Kent gave him a guilty look. “Yeah, got a bit of catching up to do, haven’t ya boss?”
“I plan to,” John looked around for the bar. “Who do I have to kill for a drink?”
“Hopefully that won’t be necessary,” a silky voice purred from behind.
John turned to see Eloise. Wearing a black, low-cut-evening dress with a necklace of fat glossy pearls the size of grapes, she gave him a practiced, polite smile that veiled a predatory gleam in her eyes. She carried a tray of drinks; beers, champagne and red and white wines along with a few empty glasses. With one hand she cradled it on her hips and offered drinks with her other.
“Thanks,” John said, taking a beer in each hand. In his head, alarm bells and warning klaxons blared. Had she watched him come in and crept up behind deliberately? Although she hadn’t mentioned her proposal for ages, John had an ominous feeling she would be testing his resolve tonight. Looking absolutely stunning, he reminded himself to keep count of his drinks.
“Are you playing drinks waitress tonight?” Mikaela asked. Next to the more mature Grace and the elegant Eloise, Mikaela, with her half shaved head, tattoos and full array of piercings, looked like she was defiantly making a fashion statement in an sea-green op shop taffeta dress and bright red Doc Martin lace-up boots.
Eloise shone her corporate smile upon her. “A small token to show management’s appreciation for all the wonderful work everyone’s been doing.” The words came out with a practiced flow, but in John’s mind, they lacked sincerity.
“Kewl,” Kent said. Like a dog off the lead, his eyes ran all over Eloise’s figure.
“It’s the least we can do,” Eloise said, keeping her attention on John.
“I don’t think the envoy would exactly call it a raging success,” Grace said.
“We was just saying how bad everything went” added Marcus. His only concession to the formality of the night was a carnation in the lapel of his usual doorman black suit.
“Yes,” Eloise said brightly, “but fortunately not because of any shortcomings on our behalf. Our people’s performance was exemplary. You are all to be congratulated.” She raised a glass of champagne and saluted the whole group.
“Sure don’t feel like a celebration,” John said, but raised one of his glasses.
“Where’s Akeem?” Eloise asked. John was mildly surprised she had noticed his absence.
“He’s not here tonight, ma’am,” Marcus said.
“Is he okay? Not injured? I haven’t seen any reports.”
“No, he’s ok
ay,” Marcus shifted his massive frame uneasily, “just didn’t wanna come tonight.”
“Really?” Eloise raised a questioning eyebrow. John could almost see her making a mental note to chase him up.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” John ventured.
“Are you staying here tonight?” Eloise asked, abruptly changing the subject.
Her directness brought a schoolboy snicker from Kent. John squirmed, but it all seemed lost on Eloise. She kept her cool gaze on John, waiting for his answer.
“Hadn’t planned to…”
“Well, you should,” she replied.
“Your lucky night, Boss,” Kent elbowed John, slopping his beer.
“And you definitely should too,” Eloise gave Kent a disapproving frown.
“Yeah, threesome baby!” A lewd grin almost split Kent’s face.
Eloise stared at Kent blankly. He gyrated a two fisted, pelvis thrusting rhythmic dance, oblivious to her growing distain or the slopping of his drink.
“That’s not an invitation,” she snapped. The sudden whip in her voice stopped him dead.
“Huh?”
“I’m not suggesting anything like that.” Eloise’s nostrils flared as she turned away from the offender. She addressed the group as a whole. “All I was trying to say is the company has arranged rooms at half-price for staff.”
“Oh,” John wondered if he had misinterpreted the receptionist earlier?
“As this is an official work function, part of the company’s duty of care, under our Occupational Health and Safety agenda, as well as an expression of our company’s social responsibility, and generosity, we are offering the subsidized rooms to ensure the safety of our valued employees.”
John thought the idea of this company having a social responsibility to be a bit of a contradiction, let alone the term ‘valued employees’, but it was all part of the obscure management dialect Eloise spoke.
“For we all know how a few too many drinks can make some people act…,” she shot a look at John, “irresponsibly, shall we say?”