The FBI monitored the infrared surveillance equipment installed next to the floodlights. While they scanned the outside of the house with their equipment set up in the family room, the CIA tapped into their signal to make sure the amateurs didn’t miss anything. But the Feds knew nothing of the cameras inside the house. These signals were transmitted to remote receivers located in a dirty green and brown-colored RV, parked behind a knoll on the shoulder of the utility service road, up the hill behind the house, a quarter of a mile away. The knoll hid the lower third of the van; the remainder was hidden by chaparral and trees.
The camouflaged RV was loaded with an array of video and audio monitors, complete with joystick controls that allowed the pan and tilt cameras to be manipulated for optimum viewing. It also provided creature comforts; toilet, shower, microwave oven, and a miniature fridge/freezer unit.
The CIA could see, hear, and record any activity or sound that occurred inside or outside the house. They could monitor any RF signal made by cordless phones, cellular phones, or hand held transceivers. They could listen to every outgoing and incoming telephone call via their line taps.
Every one of Mariah’s achievements was analyzed, dissected, plotted on a graph, fed into a newly developed computer program to predict future developments, and discussed at great lengths by all those involved regarding her usability in the Central Intelligence Agency’s worldwide covert activities.
There was a shroud of secrecy thrown over “Operation: Maximum Magician.” Only a select handful of people knew of it. Even the Director of the CIA was given general information and non-exact details. The less he knew, the better, both for him and the agency. Knowing her every move did not make Winters less tense. In fact, his stress level caused him to develop neck pains.
She continued to refine and expand her talents. He was pleased, but he instinctively knew he was not getting the complete picture. It was what he imagined that made him goosey. Gabriel Winters never let himself forget she had physically manipulated that child molester in Canada. He also held personal reservations about her innocence in the death of Everett Hinckley in New Mexico.
Chapter 6
Siddhartha placed the root, the solam tebrosm, he had developed in the hollow then covered it evenly with treated soil. Kneeling on the hard-packed ground, he was able to ignore the muted roar of the hot sharuq blowing steadily from the south, his body protected by his SRIG, a sapphire blue, skin-forming, Self-Regulating Insulated Garment.
He had approached the Elvilivians, natives of this planet, with an offer to develop a food product that would grow in their inhospitable clime. Hardly more than fine sand and pebbles, the soil on Elvilive could not sustain its population, forcing the inhabitants to barter for necessities with industrial products of limited value. Siddhartha hoped his tedious laboratory experiments conducted on this hybrid would provide negotiating leverage.
They were a hostile, paranoid race. Before their eyes, he had appeared in a nearly blinding flash of light from a hole in the endless black sky. They were sure it was a demon that hissed as the hole closed behind it.
They knew not of hyperspatial transport points. They knew only that the demon hovered above the ground and, as the light receded, floated down.
Five of the Elvilivians advanced and took a predatory stance, their three arms bending inward, their clubbed hands flexed. As they attacked, Siddhartha glided easily away. He was a diminutive man with deep golden skin, hair as black as the eternal night, and eyes of ebony which radiated peace and serenity. His stride was fluid, graceful, and bespoke of strength and agility.
Before they could recover, he was behind them; how they wound up face down on the ground was still a mystery to the aggressors and those who witnessed the swift and precise maneuvers of the alien. Gaining their respect, he would come to be called Oolatorh—friend.
The root was shielded from the incessantly swirling dust as long as he held it. But it was now planted and exposed to the variations and severities of this unreceptive environment. The final test must be conducted under conditions native to Elvilive: Siddhartha would kneel here until he was certain the tuber was firmly anchored.
“Another root, if you please,” he said, distractedly.
With a soft whirrrr, the LZ-Ssn that hovered exactly fourteen inches from Siddhartha rotated on its axis. Its central core with two glowing green illumines—its “eyes”—on coiled metal stalks remained stationary as receptacle number eight now faced him. The hatch opened silently and the tray slid out, dispensing, as requested, one solam tebrosm wrapped protectively in a soft silicone cloth. When Siddhartha removed it, the tray slid back and the hatch shut.
“Please to dispense the soil now.” Siddhartha cradled the root in his hands, not taking his eyes from it.
“As you wish, Siddhartha,” intoned the LZ-Ssn in a proper British accent.
He smiled. Ton Re’Sateron’s fine touch was evident in the reprogramming of this unit that now addressed him by name. Indulging the botanist who wished for a more life-like companion to accompany him during his experiments, Sateron had added several new features. One was a second green illumine, the “eye” that served no other purpose than to balance the “face.” The other was an auditory core stocked with colloquialisms Sateron had discovered by studying broadcast signals picked up from the orbiters monitoring Earth.
Rotating once again, the LZ-Ssn stopped when the soil receptacle was in the proper position. The hatch opened, the tray slid out, and a small bucket of uncontaminated Elvilive soil was dispensed.
“Oh ... please to pardon me,” Siddhartha muttered, “I need first the clippers.”
“Coming right up.”
The tray slid back into the receptacle, the hatch closed, and the LZ-Ssn spun again; whirrrr, open, slide—and there were four clippers with different length blades.
Siddhartha picked the smallest. Leaning slightly forward, he pushed the clippers through a permeable barrier into a beaker of sterile solution close by his knee. With a pinging zzzzzzt, the LZ-Ssn hastily backed up in order to maintain the programmed fourteen-inch distance from the human. As Siddhartha straightened, the LZ-Ssn drifted back to its original position.
“Now the soil,” he said, absorbed in trimming tiny filaments from the base of the light brown root. The tranquil expression, which rarely left his face, was altered by intense concentration.
“At your service.” Whirrrr, open, slide ... soil.
Siddhartha’s brow furrowed uncharacteristically as he wet his lips with his tongue. Pausing to glance left then right, he murmured, “My, my ... where did I leave the trowel?”
With an “I will find it,” the soil instantly disappeared inside its receptacle and the LZ-Ssn’s flexible neck uncoiled to a height of ten inches. Beginning a circumferential scan, one green “eye” turned red and began to blink, reverting to a solid-state condition when it homed in on the discarded instrument. The LZ-Ssn flowed forward, stopping when it was directly over the tool. Lowering an articulated arm from its central core, it delicately lifted the trowel with a replicate thumb and first finger. It was halfway back when Siddhartha cried, “Drat, I forgot the yellow marking sticks!”
Practically skidding to a stop, the LZ-Ssn once more extended its neck coil, found the marking sticks some ten feet from its present location and hurried to the new coordinates. Gathering up the sticks with a second arm, it headed back to the human, once more positioning itself at the appropriate distance
“I will take the trowel, thank you,” Siddhartha said absentmindedly, his attention still centered on the solam tebrosm. The articulated arm that held the trowel bent at the elbow, bringing the instrument close to the human’s left hand.
“Happy to comply.”
Siddhartha ignored the proffered tool and stared at the root. “Hmm ... I believe I must mist again before I plant,” he murmured. “And please to give me the digger before the soil so that I may make the hole larger. Oh
my, I have dropped the clippers!” So saying, Siddhartha retrieved the fallen clippers, leaning forward at the same time to reach the beaker of sterile solution.
Whirring as it rotated, the LZ-Ssn began to open the receptacle that housed the mister while simultaneously skittering backward to maintain its proper distance as both articulated arms swiveled rapidly to prevent injury to the human.
Shuddering slightly, all trays disappeared, the hatches closed, the elbows straightened, and the retrieval arms retracted into the central core.
“Siddhartha, your instructions are unacceptable. I cannot process multiple directives and imprecise commands while concurrently preserving your safety. I will maintain present stasis until I receive a singular intention.”
Properly chastised, Siddhartha was about to apologize when the portable MERs communicator on his wrist began to pulse. Frowning at the interruption, he brought the device to eye level, quickly scanning the display.
Excitement smoothed his creased brow. The root was carefully placed back in its cloth and covered with the loose ends. Rising stiffly, he brushed dirt off his SRIG that covered his entire body including his head, but not his face. With a “Please to remain here until I return” to the LZ-Ssn, Siddhartha touched the HOME button on his transport belt. Bathed in the blue-white glow of the HST, he disappeared.
Chapter 7
Emmanuel ran his fingers lightly over the hard surface he had just sanded, his eyes closed as he savored the sensation. The wood, highly prized Entandrophragma mahogany, felt as smooth and as unblemished as an infant’s skin. Although his back ached from the labor of the past hour, it was well worth the temporary discomfort as he pictured the surprise and gratitude on the faces of the Anorasians when presented with these lovingly crafted rocking chairs.
The square, unadorned back, meticulously carved to accommodate the Anorasians’ broad shoulders, was upholstered with woven cotton, substantial and fibrous, and dyed an azure blue. Deceptively strong, the slim and gently curved arms were partially covered with the same fabric. Brass tacks edged the cloth uniformly to secure it tightly in place. The legs were rounded and contoured, sturdy but elegant in their simplicity. The whole chair balanced perfectly on the smooth rockers.
On his knees also, Simon, his android companion, thumbed the slide on the needle laser. The beam instantly retracted and the pencil thin device now lay coldly in his palm. His wooden device was at the same level of completion as the one the human currently stroked.
“My apologies, Master, I do not comprehend.” The slight frown on Simon’s face was a tribute to the detail oriented designers on Hakilam, the Anorasian home world. “Why do you use antiquated equipment to create your chairs of wood? The laser will rid of imperfections to within a micron, millions of times more precise than the paper with grains of sand you rub into the surface.” While Simon was programmed for tone modulation, he purposely kept his vocal reproductions neutral so as not to appear condescending or arrogant.
Emmanuel grinned as he opened his eyes. He stood, flexing his legs to rid them of stiffness. “Agreed, student, but the finishing by hand adds a personal touch that a cold laser cannot.
“Here, Simon; run your fingers lightly over the unclothed wood on my chair. Can your fingers not communicate to your brain the feeling of accomplishment?” With a twinkle in his eyes, Emmanuel continued. “Can you say the work truly comes from your heart if you do not spend long hours of painstaking labor, suffering sore muscles and lack of sleep, plus developing a scratchy throat from wood dust?”
Simon rose and moved toward his Master’s chair. Placing his fingertips on the arm, he slid them up to where the wood met the upholstery then down in an exact imitation of the gentle caressing motion he had observed. But he was disappointed: he did not receive the aforementioned cranial stimulation described by his Master. What happened in the brain of these humanoids that they continued to enjoy labor intensive work when Anorasian technology would eliminate much time and effort? Shaking his head, he shifted his shoulders, emulating his master’s shrug. He would never comprehend a race that clung to wasteful practices for the sheer joy of the doing.
The android’s silence spoke volumes and Emmanuel chuckled as he raised his arms above his head and stretched extravagantly, weary yet pleased with the result of their labor. Turning to activate the particle collector that would rid the shop of wood chips and dust, the device on his wrist drew his attention. The NMIP aboard the MERS was sending a signal.
His eyes aglow, Emmanuel turned to Simon and said excitedly, “I am summoned to the lab. Please activate the air circulator once the collector is finished. Then shut it down and allow the collector to operate once again. We cannot stain until the room is completely free of wood dust. I will return as quickly as possible.”
So saying, he pressed the HOME button on his belt. Enveloped by the protective energy field, he disappeared in the HST’s blue-white glow.
#
Out of the corner of his eye, Ton Re’Sateron noted to his dismay that al-Amin was now nearly abreast of him. The human sweated profusely, his heart and lungs functioning at maximum rate. Even so, the Anorasian knew he could not slow the pace. They raced across the hard packed sand, the ocean trying to lure them into its depths by tickling their hot, bare feet with cool water. Neither noticed. Intent on their race, they also failed to see that the sun had created a pair of running partners in the form of elongated shadows.
The Full-Motion, Multi-Dimensional, Audio-Visual display room provided one method of maintaining proper skeletal strength and muscular development. Sateron did not enjoy the more relaxing mode preferred by his colleague. The results were the same, but he needed exertion and competition to stimulate him both mentally and physically.
The spherical room permitted participants to choose from a multitude of experiences: soaring mountains to climb; shrouded forests to hunt; and vast oceans to swim. Images projected on all surfaces allowed for complete participation within the structure. Specialized energy fields simulated surfaces, textures, smells, and weather conditions coincidental with each chosen representation. Therefore, if someone chose to climb a mountain, they would experience thin, cold air plus sharp rock projections as hands and feet tried to find purchase.
The sphere even took variance of size into account when programmed for competition—which was the reason why the five foot nine human was slowly overtaking the seven foot Anorasian.
Sateron sprinted for the goal just in sight, but he had spent himself in the beginning and now had to watch al-Amin pass him with a triumphant grin and a wave of his hand.
Reaching the finish several seconds behind, Sateron threw himself down on the soft sand next to his opponent. As his breathing slowed, his heart settled into its normal forty beats per minute. He peered at al-Amin, noting with satisfaction that the human was just as exhausted as he—and secretly proud that he had been bested by one with the heart of a warrior. With no self-delusions, Sateron knew that if drawn into combat with this human inside the FUMOMULDAV, he might be soundly thrashed.
“You skipped across the finish line like a female,” Sateron growled. “If I had known you would prance in self-satisfaction, I would not have allowed you to cross before me.”
Bristling, al-Amin staggered to his feet. With fists jammed on his hips, he stood above the Anorasian, feet spread apart, chest out, black eyes flashing arrogantly.
“You allowed me to win? Bah! You were so wobbly at the end, Old One, I had thoughts to hoist you upon my shoulders and carry you across just so you could tell the others that you finished rather than that you collapsed in a pitiful heap before the goal ... or, better, had to crawl on all fours to reach it!”
Unable to contain his laughter, Sateron lay on the warm sand, his deep bass rumbling in delight as al-Amin joined him, his laugh several octaves higher but no less hearty.
Both stopped abruptly, bringing their wrist devices to their eyes. Sateron launched himself o
ff the sand. Grinning expectantly at each other, they hit the HOME buttons on their personal transport belts and disappeared.
Chapter 8
Ton Re’Aleris was suspended in a virtual cocoon. Electro-neural stimulators imbedded in the flexible cocoon that conformed to the contours of Aleris’ body sent measured impulses to the muscles, causing them to contract and release at regulated intervals. This stress free, physical exercise maintained proper muscle tone while allowing the participant to choose from a variety of mental stimulations provided by the multi-dimensional audio-visual display unit built into the hood of the spherical pod.
The Anorasian could listen to soothing music while wandering through fields of fragrant blossoms, the air temperature set at the user’s comfort level. With nothing more than voice commands, the view screen could transform the scene into a gentle skim across the ocean and then an athenaeum with books on shelves of polished wood.
Aleris was perplexed by the current viewing. It was difficult to understand what Sateron found so amusing in this digital signal taken from one of the many communication satellites that orbited Earth. It was proof that humans were in an embryonic stage of development pertaining to their entertainment. Why three human males standing in a circle, slapping, punching and jabbing each other was cause for mirth bewildered the scientist.
Yet, Aleris was even more puzzled at Sateron’s enjoyment of this ... this ... imbecility. No doubt further investigation was necessary to comprehend this form of humor known as “slap stick.” Floating contentedly, the geneticist watched the antics of the three humans as though they were a scientific experiment gone awry.
Aleris’ wrist device began to vibrate. A rare smile formed on thin lips, then widened. With finely attuned, highly developed psychic perception, the geneticist knew the contents of the summons from the NMIP aboard the MERS. Keying a switch on the cocoon’s overhead panel, the neural stimulators ceased instantly and the clear dome of the pod slid down until it disappeared into the base. Vaulting over the side, Aleris donned previously discarded garments then pressed HOME on the transport belt.
Prophecy Page 4
