Trespassers: a science-fiction novel Read online

  On the other hand, it was discovered that the boredom of Limestone Deposits sent people in the other direction, making it perfect for an agency that’s too busy with aliens to bother with random questions from curious strangers.

  Darren released a full smile upon hearing Mindy’s choice. At least she was staying in the Redundancy Class.

  Limestone Deposit Survey Group had just leapt out of her. As she shifted her eyes to the ceiling and gave it a quick thought, she reasoned that it probably came from Max Dugan . . . or perhaps his name was Doug Maxin—she couldn’t remember. But a few days ago he was leaning on her desk, explaining that it was vital to her health and happiness that she (1) step outside her comfort zone; (2) do something adventurous; and (3) get out of the office.

  His point was meant to be that she should go out on a date with him . . . instead, his seduction speech led her to join an agency of alien chasers. It was outside her comfort zone; it was adventurous; and it was entirely, 100 percent out of the office. Thanks Max . . . or Doug. Mindy’s eyes came down from the ceiling. She swallowed any doubt or second thoughts that might be forming. She would be the newest member of the Limestone Deposit Survey Group. She embraced her decision, and she wouldn’t look back. She had a special gift for not second guessing herself. It had always served her well.

  At this moment in time, it had her lying on a red-and-white blanket with black lines crisscrossing its surface, in the middle of a field, staring up into nothingness, listening to all the somethingness taking place over the radio.

  “The console has some kind of lock-out mechanism,” Stewart’s voice reported through the earpiece. “It’ll take me a second to figure this out.” Mindy didn’t really understand what she was hearing, and she felt a bit like an eavesdropper, since Stewart probably wasn’t talking to her—there were other agents on this frequency. One was in the woods nearby, monitoring a laptop that displayed all types of information, from changes in barometric pressure to static electricity in the air. If anything out of the ordinary was going to happen, it was his job to know it.

  He sat Indian style in the unzipped doorway of a one-man tent shaped like a small, camouflaged pyramid. A small satellite sat on the ground next to him, hooked to the computer in his lap. He was the technical specialist, and his name was Gregory Webster, but everyone just called him Webster or simply Web. He wore wire-frame glasses, had dark black skin and thick kinky hair that politely did whatever it wanted. He was a husky kid who grew into a husky adult. He carried extra pounds with him, but he carried them well. The innocent grin on his face was sculpted by a soft, privileged, prep-school life. He latched on to computers in grade school and rode them all the way through college and into his current profession of sitting at the edge of a tent evaluating microscopic changes in the atmosphere.

  “You’re all clear,” Web responded into the headset that was in his nest of wiry hair. “Take your time.”

  Resting against Web’s leg was a pair of binoculars with a keypad into which a code must be typed before each use, allowing the user to see right past any stealth generators. Web didn’t need these binoculars at the moment, though. His computer display was telling him everything he wanted to know.

  The last member of the field team was simply called New Guy, and he was perched out of sight, at the top of the ridge, where he would have the best view. A sniping rifle rested just beneath his chin. A magazine of deadly .308 rounds lay nearby, but what was loaded into the high-powered weapon was a stack of specially modified tranquilizer darts. It was his job to watch for any stray civilians who might wander into the operations area and neutralize them before they stumbled across something they shouldn’t see.

  The reason that Stewart and Web didn’t use the new guy’s name or even bother to commit it to memory was simple: the steady turnover of new guys on the team made it pointless. Those with military backgrounds—the armed services’ best of the best—didn’t seem to mesh well with alien life-forms. The grueling training involved in sculpting a strong, young cadet into an even stronger elite fighting machine seemed to instill in the soldier a sense of reality that left no room for aliens. However, the powers that be decreed that Stewart’s team must have an elite military operative at all times. This resulted in a revolving door of military specialists.

  This particular new guy was from that same mold. He looked as if he had just come from a regional bodybuilding competition. He wore the standard military haircut. His eyes were piercing, though slightly empty, and his jaw was chiseled and constantly clenched. He scanned the landscape. All was clear.

  Inside the ship, Stewart had removed a panel from below the console. His hand reached past a tangle of cords and felt around in the darkness. There in the back he found it: the alien version of a breaker switch. By resetting it, the console would restart. It was a simple solution, and he knew from past experience that even if all the power was cut to the ship, it would still hover in place.

  Back on the ridge, looking through his scope, New Guy saw a man walking up the hill. He recognized the face from a photo he had been shown during his briefing.

  Inside the spaceship, Stewart flipped the first breaker switch, and nothing happened. He flipped the next switch, and outside, suddenly the ship was completely visible. New Guy broke his contact with the man in the scope and stared at the huge ship floating over Mindy, who was gradually covered in shadow, as the effects of the cloaking device wore off.

  “Is that going to fall on me?” Mindy asked, without receiving an answer.

  Inside the ship, Stewart flipped the third set of switches. The main console went out, dead as a doornail. He laughed victoriously and flipped all the breakers back on. The system had been successfully rebooted and was up and running. Stewart settled into the driver’s seat with a satisfied grin and started familiarizing himself with the controls.

  3

  A Large

  Lingering Problem

  In the woods, a sudden concern broke Web from his daze. “Hey, uh—” He swallowed hard, lubricating his vocal cords just enough to work. “You’re . . . you’re drifting.”

  The ship slowly floated sideways toward the ridge. At the control panel, Stewart was busy with the buttons. “I’m working on it here, Web.”

  “You know you’re visible, right?” Web called over the radio.

  “What do you mean?” Stewart replied, still focused on stopping the drift.

  “Your stealth isn’t working.”

  This finally caught Stewart’s attention. He looked up from the lights and gauges of the console and stared off with a mild concern. “How much not working?”

  “At all,” Web replied.

  Stewart took a breath and gathered himself. “Oh—kay. That’s not a problem.” The more he studied the unfamiliar buttons, the more they seemed to multiply. Normally, he would be able to find the proper dial or switch in a few painless seconds, because there was a general similarity among control panels. It wasn’t unlike getting in a different car and trying to find the wipers or headlights. Sometimes they’re on the right; sometimes they’re on the left. This control panel, however, broke all the rules. He found no similarity to anything he had seen before. “I just need to find the right button,” he said.

  “Do you need a schematic?” Web called over the radio.

  “No, that’s not going to help. I’ve never seen anything like this, before.”

  Every confiscated ship had its control panel entered into a database, which Web could access from his computer. But since this was a brand new model, they were on their own here.

  Web looked from his laptop to the ship hanging in the sky. “Well, can you figure it out?”

  Stewart didn’t answer. He was too busy staring at the console and chewing the side of his lip. The entire panel was white, with a chalky-white finish on the buttons and dials. This was definitely a high-end ship—the best he’d ever seen. There was just that one problem: none of the controls had any markings. He could probably figure things out wit
h some trial and error, but that kind of experimentation was generally not a good idea in a spacecraft that weighed over a million pounds and had the thrust to cross the galaxy.

  On the ridge, New Guy turned from this distraction, finding the man still walking up the hill. The man was far from the crowd now, heading out on his own, on some sort of mission. New Guy was still trying to recall the name that went with this familiar face. Suddenly it popped into his head. It was Bruner. “Sir,” New Guy called over the radio, in a trained military way. Stewart was still not used to the stringent formality with which the military agents always spoke.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Stewart fired back, his mind just doing word association and throwing out the first response that popped up when the word sir was so forcefully shoved into his ear.

  New Guy didn’t get the joke, but he knew it was a prompt for him to speak. “Bruner is here.”

  This caught Stewart’s attention. That name always caught his attention. It was the one name that automatically stopped him in his tracks. He tried to downplay it. “Perfect . . . where is he?”

  “He’s walking up the hill, about fifty yards from the top,” New Guy replied.

  “Okay.” Stewart regrouped. “Everybody just stay out of sight.”

  “What about you?” Web asked, gazing up at the massive ship that blocked the skyline.

  “I’m going to figure this out.” Stewart looked down at the console with a new resolve. Pressure always brought out the best in him. The window screens, he thought. “Let’s get some light in here.” The large screens crawled upward. The dark compartment was transformed as the daylight poured in. The outside world was visible now, and Stewart could clearly see the problem: he was pushing straight toward the ridge. If he crossed it, the entire park would see him. More important, Bruner would see him.

  Bruner wasn’t a bad guy; he was actually one of the good guys. He was in his late fifties and a little pudgy, with thick black hair just below a completely bald scalp. He wore thick glasses and a business shirt with an open collar. He had dedicated his life to proving the existence of alien life-forms on Earth, and as evidenced by his proximity to the current situation, he was good at his job, though he had never quite nailed down the proof he needed. The only problem with Bruner’s job was that it came into direct conflict with Stewart’s job, a big part of which was to conceal all evidence of the existence of aliens.

  “He’s still on his way,” New Guy warned. “Do you want me to take him out?” His voice was suddenly more official. Through the scope, he watched Bruner trekking up the hill, his stride slowing from the increasing incline.

  “Give me a second,” Stewart called back.

  “You don’t have a second, sir.”

  “Just give me a second,” Stewart insisted.

  “It’s already been a second, sir.”

  Bingo! Stewart slapped a button and two joysticks rose from the console, just as you would find in an airplane or helicopter. Stewart smiled at the familiar sight. He applied a gentle pressure, and the ship began to ease backward. Mindy watched as the shadow slipped down the hill and crossed back over her, more purposefully this time. Her eyes were wide with amazement. It was sheer admiration for Stewart’s adroitness.

  Web’s face sank as he noticed an obstacle in the ship’s path—a very large, very proud oak tree standing in the middle of the open field. “Watch the tree,” he said to no one but himself, as he leaned to one side, as if to steer the ship.

  The ship continued on course, oblivious to the natural landmark in its path. Web spoke up this time and directed his voice into the radio mic, “Watch the tree.”

  A symphony of rustling leaves, snapping branches, and stretching limbs resonated through the field as the mighty ship invaded the tree’s space with Web watching helplessly. Finally, the roots gave way and were ripped from the soil, allowing the tree to topple backward and crash to the ground.

  Mindy had a perfect view of the fallen tree, with its enormous base of dirt-packed roots and leaves fluttering through the air like confetti. To her, the vibrating leaves sounded like roaring applause, and that’s how she would describe it in her report. She assumed this was an accident, but Mindy was too new to be sure. Web, on the other hand, knew it was an accident, but not one that would have any ill effects.

  “What tree?” Stewart asked.

  Web shook his head. “Never mind . . . you cleared it.” He shifted back to the other problem: Bruner’s mostly bald head, which was about to come popping over that ridge any second now. “We need some stealth,” Web urged.

  Stewart stared down at the controls, irritated. “Why would all the buttons be blank,” he growled into the mic.

  An idea leapt into Mindy’s mind and sprang out her mouth without even giving her a chance to review it. “For better visibility.”

  Stewart paused for a fraction of a second to process this. Suddenly, it clicked. He knew exactly what she meant. He slapped an overhead button, switching it from night mode into day mode. Like magic, the console illuminated with familiar symbols. His hand pounced on the button to activate the stealth.

  At first, only small sections of the ship began to fade from view, like jigsaw pieces. But as the stealth generators continued to warm up, there was a rapid chain reaction. Mindy watched as the last few pieces twinkled off the skyline, giving way to a clear view of the clouds. The shadow on the ground faded. As far as the eye could tell, the ship was gone. Stewart relaxed into the pilot’s chair. Then suddenly he remembered. “Don’t shoot!” he called into the mic.

  New Guy released his finger from the trigger, as Bruner reached the top of the ridge. Bruner stared into the open meadow below. It was the worst sight he could have imagined: the field was calm and peaceful. A bitter disappointment settled over him . . . the kind that can’t simply be shrugged off after a few moments of pouting. Bruner saw the uprooted tree. He saw the girl sitting alone on the red-and-white blanket with black lines crisscrossing its surface. But they didn’t trigger any suspicions. Mindy saw Bruner as well, and she did her impression of nonchalance, but her act made no difference. First, she was too far away. Second, he was not inclined to suspect anyone of covering up an alien encounter. Bruner never considered the possibility of a secret agency working against him. Why would the government pay one agency to seek out alien activity while paying another to cover it up? Of all the questions that swirled through Bruner’s mind over the course of his life, this one never had.

  Bruner’s hip squawked, “We got nothing.”

  Bruner lifted the radio to his mouth, without breaking his trance on the field below. “I got nothing here, too,” he reported, unable to conceal the regret in his voice. A sudden urge to redeem something for his efforts burst forth, and he channeled it into the radio. “Question everyone in the park.”

  The voice of reason answered back, “We don’t have as many people as we used to, you know?”

  Bruner squinted and swallowed this harsh truth. “Question as many as you can.” An old familiar compulsion was pulling at him—a steady, throbbing impulse to drink . . . from the bottle stashed under the seat in his car . . . from the limitless stock that filled the shelves of the nearest bar.

  4

  Karl Bruner & the Alien Research Agency

  The Alien Research Agency was a group of government agents, led by Karl Bruner, which was dedicated to proving the existence of alien life-forms. Today, the tiny agency was a shell of what it used to be. A few years back—actually five years back—alien research was at its peak, and Bruner’s agency was the prime beneficiary. Government research dollars poured in, swelling the group to a total of 168 members, with 52 agents and 116 operatives, which included professionals from all walks of life, from dentists, to botanists, to auto mechanics. It wasn’t the collection one might expect for an agency tasked with finding extra-terrestrial life on Earth. However, to Bruner, it made perfect sense.

  Bruner had always taken a realistic approach to the search for alien visitors. You
wouldn’t find any psychics, ghost hunters, or palm readers in his agency. To Bruner, all that was nonsense. If there are aliens out there to be found, he often huffed, we’re going to use the same techniques to find them that we use to find anything else. Bruner implemented this plan with the precision of a wartime general. Bruner, however, was not military. He didn’t believe in the military approach. Personal freedoms and individuality were high priorities for him. In his mind, one individual was more capable and competent than a hundred cookie-cutter recruits, no matter how specially trained they were.

  When Bruner assembled a team, he saw two kinds of people: those with spacey eyes and blank expressions; and those with a certain focus and curiosity about them. To him, the first kind—the spacey ones—were only cut out to be clock-punching, nine-to-five zombies who swing from cigarette break, to coffee break, to quitting time.

  The second kind—the focused, curious type—was quite a different story. One glimpse from them could make an instant connection. No résumé on Earth could equal the weight Bruner gave to that gleam in the eye, that gleam that only appeared in an eye that was looking back at you, as opposed to an eye that was busy wondering what time it got off work or how early one could leave on Friday afternoon without getting fired.

  Anyway, Bruner believed alien visitors were real, so he endeavored to find them through real means, and he designed his team for that purpose. Whether a person believed in the existence of aliens was of no consequence to Bruner . . . at least, not when he was assembling a team. In its heyday, the team covered every base. Detectives combed the landscape for evidence, just as they would during a routine homicide investigation. Psychiatrists evaluated the demeanor and mental state of eyewitnesses. Physicians examined those who claimed to have been abducted. Electricians checked the power lines and grids at locations where blackouts were reported.