by Bob Mauldin
“Uh, he’s asleep, ma’am. It’s the middle of the night here.”
“Oh.” Chagrined by her oversight, Lucy said, “Ask him to contact me as soon as he’s up and ready for business.” The man nodded, and before he could answer verbally, she beamed out.
Roland Daniels occupied one of ten cells set in two rows at the back of the third floor of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office in Aurora, Colorado. Simon occupied one of the four-foot-wide, seven-foot-deep cells in the opposite row. By common consent, neither man had spoken to the other since their arrest—Simon because he wasn’t sure what to say and Daniels because he was pretty sure anything they said would be recorded.
Daniels watched the potbellied, cherub-faced deputy with interest as he walked down the center of the corridor between the two rows of cells. Up until then, the only time a deputy had walked down this particular aisle, he’d been pushing a cart containing meals. So far, three such trips had been made.
This time the deputy stopped in front of Daniels’ cell and said, “Turn around. Back up to the bars.”
Daniels was eager to find out what was next on the agenda but unwilling to let anyone know about that eagerness, so he feigned apprehension as he complied with the deputy’s command. “Don’t get bent all out of shape there, Mr. FBI man,” the deputy said sarcastically. “I’m just taking you to see some friends of yours. And don’t try anything funny. You’ve got three steel doors and several of my friends to get through. I don’t think even you can do that right now.”
Daniels was pushed through the door at the end of the hallway where he found three more uniformed men waiting for him. Equipped with leg shackles and waist chains, two of them wasted no time getting him trussed while the third kept a pistol trained on him at all times.
Eagerness to get to the next phase of what awaited him couldn’t completely banish his qualms at being on the other side of the handcuff key for the first time in his life, and Roland Daniels felt the full weight of the chains as he was led into the quintessential interrogation room—steel door with tiny, barred window, grey walls, floor and ceiling, grey metal chairs, grey metal table and one-way mirror. The deputies pushed him into one of the chairs and chained him to it while cherub-face left. The next five minutes dragged on interminably, but finally Cherub-face returned leading two men.
Daniels took one look at the three-piece suits and said, “Well, it took you long enough. I would have thought you’d have been a little more anxious to talk to me. So, who are you guys with?”
The older of the two men looked at the deputies and said, “Out.”
Cherub-face replied, “Sir! Our orders are to keep this prisoner under surveillance as long as he is out of his cell.”
In a voice that would do a drill sergeant proud, the older man said, “There’s only one door in or out of this room, deputy. And unless you have an ultra-top-secret security clearance, you will guard him from the other side of the door! This matter is classified so secret that if you were to find out what’s going on, we’d have to kill you, do you understand?”
Cherub-face stammered his understanding and led his fellow deputies out of the room, leaving the three men alone. “Oh, and deputy, don’t even try to use the surveillance room,” the man said, referring to the darkened room behind the mirrored wall. “One of our people is there now.”
When the door closed behind the four deputies, the younger man said, “Can you believe these rubes? Thinking they can barge into things that don’t concern them?”
“Lighten up on the deputy, will you?” Daniels demanded. “After all, they did capture me and Hawke. All you guys did was put out a bulletin.” He couldn’t resist the barb even though he knew it would cost him.
“Listen, Agent Daniels, I’m going to extend professional courtesy to you, one government agent to another, okay?” the younger suit said. “We know you spent almost a year aboard their main ship, and we need to know what you know.” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, flipped one out with a practiced hand, and offered it to Daniels
Shaking his head in refusal, Daniels said, “No, thanks. Nasty habit. So, you’re the good cop. Let’s just skip the pleasantries. What do you want to know? What kind of weapons they have? I don’t know, beyond their antimatter torpedoes, and those are pretty good, don’t you think? They have a very effective method of keeping prying eyes out of secure locations. How many are there? Several thousand, at the very least, and growing daily. What are their goals? So far, I think they’ve laid all their cards on the table. Do you have any reason to doubt them? Other than your innate paranoia, that is.”
Older suit spoke up. “You realize that you’re in violation of your oath of allegiance to your government, don’t you? We can hold you until you’re old and grey, and no one will ever know.”
“Okay, so you’re the bad cop. Haven’t you guys figured out that I don’t have anything to tell you?”
“Give it a rest, Agent,” the younger man said, “we’re not the bad guys here. You and your friend upstairs are. There’s a serious situation here, and we need to resolve it. We have to know what they’re capable of and what they’ll do. An unknown group as powerful as these people must be evaluated in the context of global politics. There are too many variables, and we need to get a handle on them. You were sent there for that specific purpose. Of course, we realize you were requested by Hawke. What we’d like to know is just what, exactly, did you do to impress them that much?”
“Impress them?” Daniels laughed at the younger agent. “Sometimes pissing someone off can get you the same results. It’s the in-between that can get you killed.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No. Just an observation made from many years in the business.”
“You were supposed to report in when you got back, Agent Daniels,” the older man stated. “We had no way of knowing when you’d show up, but then we find your fingerprints on a stolen vehicle in the D.C. Metro area. Imagine our surprise! Your superiors and mine have been waiting very impatiently for the information you have, and you decide to disappear? Not an option, Agent,” he said leaning over the seated prisoner. “We have complete access to your files. You were the first FBI agent in the western United States to be liaison to an ALERT team, the first agent to get close to one of the principals in the situation, and the first agent to get aboard one of their vessels. And you were supposed to report your findings to your superiors in Washington. Then you don’t report in. Of course, we put a bulletin out on you! So, what are you going to tell us that will help to get you out of the shit pile you’ve fallen into?”
Daniels smiled. “You’ve just given yourselves away. DIA, right? Has to be, actually. They’re the only ones outside the few FBI agents acting as liaison to local law enforcement that know about the ALERT teams.”
Daniels and the two agents were alluding to the several teams of experts who’d been put together and kept as special units since the crash of an alleged unidentified craft in the New Mexico desert in the late forties. The acronym stood for “Alien Landing, Emergency Response, Tactical,” and the teams were scattered around the United States and the world to be able to respond at a moment’s notice to any alien incursion into U.S. Airspace or to try to recover alien technology. The purported objective of these teams was the capture of an intact ship for study, and Daniels was not only a sidewise member of one of these teams, but he’d been aboard one of the ships. The powers-that-be couldn’t let him slip out of their grasp, and they couldn’t let him keep his knowledge to himself. From his lofty vantage point of a dozen years’ service in the FBI, Daniels knew what was ahead. Not from personal experience, but from rumor. “Just remember, guys, I’ve had the same training as you have at resisting interrogation. Anything you get from me will be highly suspect and unreliable.”
“We’ll keep that in mind, Agent, but we’ll go ahead just the same.” The older man spoke with finality. He walked over to the door and banged on it. When cherub-fa
ce opened the door, he said, “Take him back to his cell. We’ll arrange transport for him and his accomplice. You are to keep quiet about what’s going on in here, understand? Not one word to anybody, or you’ll live to regret it, deputy.” Turning to his partner, he said, “Let’s go. Time to report in.”
Baron Manfred von Schlenker stood on the battlements of a castle that had once hosted Hannibal on his trek across the Alps. For four and a half centuries, the castle had been the main western protection for the town, and later city for Zurich. Now, the many-times modified bastion guarded only one man’s wealth and position in the rarefied world of sociopolitical, jet-setting movers and shakers.
The Baron leaned against a crenellation that had once protected the castle’s archers from invaders below and now graced the three-by-five postcards in the gift shop open on the first floor from nine to five, five days a week. Deplorable as that was, the Baron decided long ago that if tourists were going to show up on his property anyway, he might as well make something out of the situation. Now the grounds were littered with signs directing tourists to the tours, (three daily at nine, noon, and three), dungeons (mostly fake), and the gift shop (filled entirely with cheap souvenirs).
Easily accessible from only one side, the castle looked down on the intersection of two valleys. The other three sides provided, he believed, the most spectacular views of the Alps and Alpine valleys in all of Switzerland. It also provided a view of the land he’d “rented” to the Terran Alliance.
Gazing down at the complex in the heavily forested valley below, he replayed the day’s events in his mind. Seemingly unaware of the lengthening shadows that swallowed first the lowest depths of the valley below and then the upper reaches of the hills, he didn’t move until the sun turned the snow-capped peaks carmine with its final rays.
The old man groaned as he stood erect, feeling every one of his seventy-two years. Every year the Alpine cold seemed to settle deeper into his bones, and this August night promised more of the same. He slowly moved back into the recesses of the castle and down to the library, mercifully warmed by the modern heating system situated on the other side of the wall and hidden in the labyrinthine bowels of a false dungeon. The disparity often amused the old man but never more so than on that night.
Labeled as a hopeless progressive by even his closest friends, he enjoyed the anachronistic picture he presented to the world by residing in the family castle while capitalizing on its image. The heating system was just one of the innovations he’d introduced. Modern lighting and electricity-generating systems, as well as shortwave radios to keep in touch with the world in the event of necessity, alarms, and intercoms were either well hidden or displayed surreptitiously, as was the fluorescent lighting.
Tonight, he smiled slightly as his mind calculated possible futures and poured a brandy for himself and another for the woman sitting in front of the fire. “Margit, love, I feel my time upon me,” he said as he slowly settled into his favorite chair.
“Hush, husband. You’re not ready for the midden yet. You have many years yet to irritate me.”
“I don’t mean tonight, woman, but don’t be surprised if it should happen. I saw the count today.”
Long thought to be haunted, the castle had a reputation for being home to Count Ludwig von Strassenweg, hung by the troops of Hannibal on their march. Refusing the immense army passage across his lands, the troops simply wrapped a chain around his neck and lowered him over the walls for all to see. Not surprisingly, they had no trouble gaining passage across lands not their own for quite some time after that. Now, his spirit wandered the halls and was seen by one person or another from time to time. Local folklore had it that if one were to see the count three times, their death was upon them. This sighting was the Baron’s second encounter with the shade.
Used to her husband’s moods, Margit sat quietly, waiting for Manfred to speak what was on his mind. The brandy would loosen his tongue in time.
Setting the snifter down on the table between the two chairs, the baron picked up a small round disk that lay next to his humidor of Cuban cigars. Machined to an exact circle with a dime-sized button on top, the burnished metal of the disk shone faintly in the firelight. The baron turned the device over in his hands and said, “The Security Council found in favor of the Alliance today.”
When he didn’t go on, Margit resorted to prompting. “And...”
“They have drafted a resolution declaring the Terran Alliance to be an ‘independent power’ and referred the matter on to the World Court, saying that the matter is now one of acceptance by each individual government. They also said that the Alliance has shown ‘admirable restraint’ in the wake of the incident at Camp David. In the matter of whether Simon Hawke is alive or not, an inquiry has been sent to the U.S. State Department requesting any and all information in the matter. I believe that’s the first time in history that such a body has made a demand of this nature of the United States concerning one of their own citizens. I look forward to seeing their reaction since they’ve so often done the same to others. The Chinese, in particular, will have a field day with this.”
The grey-haired woman took a sip from the snifter she’d been warming between her hands, first inhaling the aroma deep into her lungs, then exhaling completely before allowing the burgundy liquid to pass her lips. After this little steadying ceremony, she asked, “And this affects us how?”
“Both the Japanese government and our own have formally notified the Alliance of their intentions to allow embassies on their soil. Note the word ‘embassies.’ Ours has agreed to my suggestion to rent part of our property to them. Restrictions will be imposed on the number of travelers at any one time, and they’ll have to have appropriate lodging and such things as that. Details only. Things for politicians to wrangle over. All in all, though, it’s what the Americans would call a ‘done deal.’”
“And how is it that you’re in possession of all this information at such an early date in the proceedings, husband?”
“Why, you have the honor of being in the presence of the official spokesman for the Terran Alliance, a position I took after the last visit from the delightful Captain Grimes.” The Baron smiled at his wife. “You know how I like to be at the center of things, which is why I say that I feel that my time is coming on. I’ve long believed that the future holds more good than ill, and for most of my life, I’ve been able to envision that future. Now, though, a future I never imagined has landed in our laps with considerable force, and I can no longer see what’s ahead. Too large a leap, now, for me to envision.” A wry smile passed over his face. “And I will never know the fullness of what help I create. Do you see where my thoughts wander, love? And why I say my time is coming?”
“I do, my love. And I tell you now that you may not see the fullness, but you’ll surely help an infant through its first growing pains and be the happier for it when you see the count for the third time.”
“Indeed,” the old man said “Indeed.”
“I do hope Captain Grimes has the strength for what lies ahead of her.” Margit looked at her husband. “Have you warned her about the future?”
“Of course not,” the baron said, snorting. “Sometimes the best way to shape events is to do nothing. Do you think the girl would go ahead with this idea of a ‘Terran Alliance’ if she knew the trouble that lies ahead? I think not. I think she’d hesitate, as would almost every person on the planet. Which is where one of the biggest mistakes lies. But she has one thing in common with all those people—she’ll try her damnedest to bear up under the burden once it’s been shouldered. The human spirit at its best, my dear. The willingness to carry forward with all of one’s strength as long as there’s a worthwhile goal in sight.”
The companionable silence of almost fifty years of marriage settled on the darkening library, and the warm glow from the fireplace finally gave way to errant embers chasing themselves among the cooling ashes.
“Why do you not tell th
em tonight, Manfred? Surely Captain Grimes is anxious to find out the results.”
“Tomorrow is soon enough. Let’s enjoy the knowledge that our actions have helped change the destiny of a world. Tonight is the last night of an era. Gloat, my dear. Even Hannibal didn’t have the effect on the world that we’ll have. We won’t even get a footnote in the history books, but we’ll know, and that’s enough, I think.”
CHAPTER TEN
Still stunned by the sight that had awaited her when she beamed into the hotel in Zurich, Lucy paced the length of her office while she waited for the baron to arrive. The sheer volume of people camped outside the hotel entrance was overwhelming, though not as many as had been at the airport. There wasn’t enough room in the streets for that, but the police had retreated into the lobby of the ancient stone structure, managing to keep out all but the most persistent reporters. Those few who were resourceful enough to get past the first line of defense were carted off to jail. The Commissioner of Police had said that since the jail wasn’t big enough to hold all the influx, only the worst were being held, more as a deterrent to others than any real hope of stemming the tide of humanity that had descended on his town.
Even through the double-paned glass and stone walls, Lucy heard the murmur of the crowd as they hoped to get a glimpse of... anything.
“Don’t go out on the balcony,” Commander Pike warned. “Even if you had anything to say to them, you’d never be heard over the noise.”
Lucy stared down at the sight. Interspersed throughout the crowd were dozens of camera crews—some filming the building, some the crowd, and some just waiting. Also visible were signs and banners both accepting and condemning the Alliance. “Welcome to Earth,” read one sign, ignoring the fact that the Alliance personnel were from Earth. “Return from whence you came,” was another, ignoring the same fact.
