Overture (Earth Song Cycle Book 1)

by Mark Wandrey

He circled the meadow—now effectively controlled by the Feds—until he reached a pair of marked cruisers. A 20-something black male sat on the hood of one of them with a look on his face that was hard to describe.

  “Morning gents,” Billy said to the group of four officers who were drinking coffee and eating doughnuts from a huge box of Krispy Kremes. He felt his mouth flood with saliva.

  “Lieutenant,” the man in charge said, a sergeant with severely advanced male pattern baldness. “We was beginnin’ to think we’d been forgotten.” Billy was pretty sure he recognized the man, and his Bronx accent cemented the recollection.

  “Not at all. This the perp?” he asked, nodding at the man sitting on the squad car.

  “Yeah,” the sergeant said. “He was here when the event happened.”

  “I can’t get nothing from the Feds, and the case file has squat,” Billy explained. “Can you fill me in, Sarge?”

  “Sure, you want a donut and some coffee?”

  “Do I?” he said and gratefully accepted the fare as the sergeant explained the account. Just after midnight there had been a disturbance observed by dozens. They described a bright light followed by the appearance of a strange sculpture.

  “What’s the collar for?” Billy asked at last, licking sugar from his fingers and feeling it already hitting his system.

  “Nothing, that we can tell,” a junior officer said. “We ran his rap sheet, and it’s as long as my arm. Possession mostly. A couple snatch and grabs, one grand theft auto years ago. That’s about it. No current warrants.”

  “What’s with the Feds?” Billy asked. They all shrugged.

  “We can’t figure out this guy’s involvement,” the sergeant admitted. “But some captain said book him.”

  “Typical,” Billy said under his breath. “What does he have to say?”

  “Oh, he’s a fuckin’ loon,” a junior officer said. The others all nodded. “Smiles and talks about God.”

  “Really? Let’s see him.” The uniformed officers took Billy over to the cruiser where the man sat. He noted that the guy was handcuffed to the cruisers crash bars by one hand. As Billy approached, the man looked up.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hello,” Billy replied. “Have you been read your rights?”

  “Oh, sure man.”

  “Good,” Billy nodded. “With your rights in mind, can I ask you some questions?”

  “Oh, sure!” the man said with a grin.

  “You’re waving your right to counsel?”

  “Yeah man, I didn’ do nufin wrong no hows.”

  Billy nodded and smiled a little at the man’s demeanor. “What happened here last night?”

  “An archangel of God flew down and left one of his angels to give us something.”

  “Is that so?” Billy asked, taking out a notepad.

  “Yes! It brought forth a shining portal for us to travel to heaven!” The man pointed to the barricade the Feds had assembled.

  “And what part of the Bible is that from?” The man looked confused and looked around, his brows knitting in consternation as he used his brain in ways it wasn’t accustomed to being used.

  “I don’t know, I ain’t got no religion until last night. Hell, I don’t think this was in the Bible or nuthin. But it has to be God and angels, and shit.”

  “Why are you sure?” Billy asked.

  “Because I saw the angel.”

  “Can you describe this angel?”

  “Sure, it looks like a centaur, like in the movies. The ones which is half horse?”

  Billy looked up from his notes. “A centaur?”

  “Yeah!” he said and snapped his fingers. “I been hoping I remember’d that right. Who’da thunk angels is centaurs?”

  “So why do you think a centaur is an angel?” Billy continued.

  “It brought the doorway to heaven.”

  “What doorway are you talking about?”

  The man described it as he’d seen it. The huge thing in the sky, the blinding light that went through his skin, the centaur and the blueish glowing rod, the dais and the window to another snowy world which the centaur went to, and finally, the forests of heaven.

  “That’s a fascinating story,” Billy said after the man had run down at last. “What is your name, sir?”

  “Victor,” he said, “Victor, a new prophet of God.” Victor looked up at Billy for a reaction.

  “Well Victor, do you have a legal last name?”

  “Not anymore.”

  Billy glanced up at the sergeant who handed him Victor’s wallet. Billy jotted down the full name from the faded and expired ID. “Can you draw this portal you saw? Maybe the centaur?”

  “Angel,” Victor corrected him. Billy shrugged and waited. “Sure, I guess.”

  “Can we get a sketch artist?” Billy asked the sergeant.

  “Waste of time,” the man said but left to make the call.

  “None of this matters,” Victor said.

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re all doomed. You, me, the city, the whole damned planet. We’re all going to die if we don’t go through that portal to heaven!”

  Billy was about to say something when another helicopter roared low over the meadow. It turned and flared, setting down in a cleared area on the other side of the obscuring barricades. Billy was fairly certain he’d glimpsed the white logo of NASA painted on the tail.

  “What the hell is going on here?” he wondered.

  * * *

  “Oh, this is just bullshit!” Mindy moaned and pointed, rolling her eyes and spilling the bowl of popcorn. Jake nabbed it before more than a few kernels could spill.

  “Dearest, it’s just an episode of ‘Star Trek,’” Jake said, next to her on the couch.

  “But it’s supposed to be an alien world far from Earth,” she persisted. “Look at the sky! It’s obviously Earth. Look, there’s the Little Dipper!”

  Jake sighed and got up to get more popcorn. She grumbled and watched the show through veiled eyes. People had accused her of ruining many good sci-fi shows by nitpicking. She’d always said that spending millions to make realistic aliens was wasted if you could look at the stars and see your backyard.

  “The movie Stargate at least tried!” she yelled toward the kitchen.

  “Yes, dear,” he said, trying not to sound patronizing, but not really succeeding. She looked at him askance as he returned to the couch, popcorn in hand.

  “Scott Bakula, what a hunk!” she said under her breath.

  “I heard that.”

  Mindy chuckled and went back to watching the show.

  Later, after the episode, Jake reached for the remote as the DVR finished the playback and switched to live broadcast.

  “Tonight at 10, a special development in New York City, where police have cordoned off a large part of Central Park.”

  Jake pointed the remote.

  “Wait,” Mindy said and sat up for a better view. It was a short teaser for the later newscast, and there were few details. It showed a couple of seconds of a reporter standing near a line of police cars talking about an event from the night before, an event that was being kept secret while authorities investigated.

  The segment ended with a view of Central Park filled with trucks, trailers, and several helicopters. As soon as the news anchor promised more later, Mindy snatched the remote from Jake and backed the DVR up to the long view. Going frame by frame, she found what she was looking for. On the tail of one of the helicopters was the unmistakable NASA logo.

  “What would NASA be doing there?” Jake wondered aloud, voicing what Mindy was thinking. She handed him the remote, her mind elsewhere. “You want to watch something else?”

  Mindy shook her head. Jake settled on a sitcom they routinely watched. It was about a bunch of scientists, and the everyday people they lived with. Mindy liked it because of the eclectic mixture of pop culture and super nerd. Jake liked it because it was funny.

  After the show, the late news came on.
Sensing she was interested, Jake switched to the channel that had aired the earlier teaser. The story was the lead.

  “Some time this morning, NYPD uniformed units encountered something highly unusual. As no additional details have been provided, interest in this story is intense.

  “All requests for additional details from the NYPD have been directed to the FBI. Inquiries to Washington have not been answered at this time.”

  Again, there were long-lens views of the scene, which appeared to have been taken from an apartment overlooking the park. Large concrete barriers had been erected around the area, as well as booms housing powerful, mercury vapor lights.

  “Why the lights in the daytime?” Jake wondered. Mindy shrugged. The reporter continued talking.

  “There are reports that the initial responding NYPD officers are being detained by federal agents for questioning. We will be following this story as it develops.” The long view panned a bit, and there was the helicopter with the NASA logo. “This is Todd Bakerson reporting from—”

  Mindy tuned off the TV and leaned back on the couch, absently scratching her chin in a way Jake recognized as ‘deep thinking Mindy.’

  “You think a satellite or something else crashed there?” he wondered. Mindy looked at him a moment later.

  “Huh?” He shook his head and repeated his question with a wry smile. “Oh, no. Or rather, I doubt it. There would have been a thousand cellphone videos.”

  “Little green men?” She snorted, and he put an arm around her. “I’m going to start dinner.”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes,” she said. After he was gone she spent some time on her tablet searching for more details. It paid little dividends. Drudge did mention that NASA had been sighted, the first confirmation of her observation.

  She eventually gave up and joined Jake in the kitchen to cook dinner. Her mind continued to work on the mystery.

  * * *

  Lt. Billy Harper carried two Styrofoam cups in one hand and a grease stained bag in the other as he pushed the entrance button for 14th Precinct’s Interrogation Room #12 with his butt. Inside, Victor sat behind a table and continued to give details to the sketch artist.

  The artist looked up as Billy entered and gave him a woeful expression. She’d been complaining for over an hour that this was a waste of time. But Billy was in charge, and the artist was a civilian. Billy reminded her she was getting paid. Muggers or angels, it didn’t really matter what she drew.

  Billy put a cup of coffee and the greasy bag down in front of Victor. Inside were a couple of double cheeseburgers and fries. Billy took one of the burgers and left the rest for him.

  “Thanks, Lt. Harper!” Victor said and dug into the food.

  The artist had a special two-screen laptop, one of which folded out so Victor could see. The image of Victor’s angel still looked pretty crude.

  “Are you sure this is a legitimate use of my time?” the artist asked.

  “I’ll sign the voucher, Jennifer,” he assured her. She looked at him and shrugged.

  He’d had Victor in custody the entire day, moving him to the precinct six hours ago. They had his full deposition and the sketches of his angels. There was even one of the portal to heaven. Billy figured, why not?

  “You know,” Jennifer said without looking up, “regardless of what voucher you’re willing to sign, we’re still going to both catch shit on this. This guy hasn’t even been booked yet.”

  She had a point. Working for the NYPD, she was familiar with procedures. If they didn’t book him for something soon, they’d have to let him go.

  “She’s right,” he told Victor, who’d polished off the burger and was working on the fries. Billy took the remaining fries and pushed his untouched burger to the other man who gratefully accepted it.

  “But I want to finish this,” Victor said and gestured at the screen with his 2nd burger. Some ketchup dripped on the screen and Jenifer gave him a dark look, which went completely unnoticed. “And I need to think. Hard to do that on the street.”

  Billy shrugged. “Unless we have something to book you on…” another shrug. “I could try vagrancy, but it’s only a class C misdemeanor. Shit, we don’t even write a ticket for that.”

  “What about this?” Victor asked, reaching deep into the lower part of his pants pocket to produce his tiny bag of weed.

  “Well, sure,” Billy said and made a note to report the uniformed units for a piss poor pat down. What if that had been a knife?

  The weed was a Class A misdemeanor; that would get him held for arraignment, at least. He wanted to give the amiable prophet of God a few days of good food and rest. That should fit the bill, he thought. “Why give up the grass? You’ve gotten it this far. Shit, you’d probably get $500 for that in the lockup.”

  “I’m never doing drugs again,” Victor said and took a big bite of burger. “It’s not right with God.”

  “Okay, sure. When your attorney asks, tell him you want to plead guilty to minor possession. He’ll probably get you a plea deal, and you’ll walk on a $100 fine. You got that?”

  “Just barely,” Victor admitted. Billy reached into his pocket and put a $50 on the table. He wasn’t even sure why he did it. Victor took it with a bemused look on his face. “Why you helpin’ me, man? I can tell you think I’m a crazy dude.”

  “I don’t know,” Billy admitted. “Maybe it just feels right.” He turned to the artist. “Jennifer, when you finish that, can you email me a copy?”

  “I don’t see why not,” she replied. “You’re paying for it, after all.”

  Billy got up and put a hand on Victor’s shoulder. “Be careful. You should be out by tomorrow night,” he said.

  “Thank you, Lt. Harper.”

  Billy left Interrogation Room #12, figuring he’d just done enough good deeds for rest of the year.

  * * *

  The pilot opened the cockpit door and found the source of his displeasure standing there, expensive looking briefcase in hand and an expression of quiet distaste on his face. Behind him, passengers leaned out and looked curiously at the unusual scene.

  “I assume there’s a reason you couldn’t wait to deplane at the terminal like everyone else?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the man said without looking at him. “I can’t have you wasting any more of my time.”

  The pilot considered telling the man exactly what he thought of him, then reconsidered.

  “Ann, open it.”

  The chief flight attendant came over and popped the release, lowering the door. Luckily for Section Director Mark Volant of the NSA, the plane he’d hopped from Dulles was one of the little ones with an integrated boarding ramp. The pilot had been unceremoniously ordered to park at the edge of the runway and discharge this particular passenger, an order he’d been quite unhappy about.

  “Have a nice day,” Volant said as he headed out the door.

  “Go fuck yourself,” the captain responded with a smile. Volant’s head spun around, and the two glared at each other for a moment with the flight attendant standing by nervously. Finally, Volant laughed, shook his head, and went down the steep ladder. He’d noted the pilot’s name and would pass it on to his assistant. Captain Vincent Foster had better have kept good tax records.

  Outside, a pair of FBI agents were waiting. Fifty yards further, a Jetranger helicopter sat, engines hot and blades rotating.

  “Agent Volant?” an FBI agent asked.

  “Yeah, we ready?”

  “Yes sir, follow us.” A minute later, as the annoyed captain maneuvered his plane toward the terminal, the helicopter’s engines roared and the machine rose into the sky, turning west from LaGuardia Airport toward the city.

  “Here is the file,” the agent in charge said and handed Volant a red file folder, sealed on all sides, bearing a yellow tape that read “Top Secret—SCI NOFORN CNWDI.” He grunted, took the file, and pulled a holdout knife clipped to his holster to cut the fiber-impregnated tape. The file didn’t contain many more
details than he’d gotten when he walked into his office six hours earlier to find his director sitting behind his desk.

  “What a surprise,” Volant said, taking his hand off his gun.

  “There are a lot of surprises this morning,” the director said. “Have you seen the news?” Volant narrowed his eyes and thought.

  “The thing in NYC?”

  “Bingo,” the director said and pointed his finger like it was a gun. Volant ran the news through his mind. He’d flagged it as a possible person of interest caught by a local, with the FBI now involved. Potential terrorist? Couldn’t be anything at their level. Now he was reevaluating that conclusion.

  “I figured you’d be here because of that Iranian satellite they’re preparing to launch.”

  “I would have been, but because of NYC, I decided to farm that out. This is much more important.” He tossed a folder onto Volant’s desk and spun it around to face him, showing the NASA logo.

  “Something to do with Uranus?” Volant asked.

  “Funny,” the director said. “The data was sent from the FBI to NASA. Look at it.”

  Volant picked the file up and opened it. Interesting stuff, if you were an astronomer. “Okay,” he said after a minute, “I’ll bite. What does an asteroid have to do with the FBI and NASA in Central Park?”

  “That’s what we need to know. I’d go myself, but I don’t think that’s wise at this point. So, I’m sending you instead.”

  Volant looked up from the file as the East River passed below him. It was easy to find Central Park; there were at least two dozen other helicopters circling it in the growing gloom.

  “Sir,” the pilot said over the intercom, “the FBI is challenging our landing authority. They want us to land at the air terminal in mid-town and say they’ll have a car waiting for you.”

  “Do they?” Volant asked. He leaned forward and handed the man a card. On it was his name, position, and a code phrase. “Give them my name and that code. Tell them we’ll be landing in a few minutes.”

  The pilot looked at the card, then glanced back at Volant before nodding and speaking into the boom mic. A moment later he spoke again.