His self-pity was momentarily interrupted as their destination came into view—a dilapidated old high-set farmhouse with a crowd of scruffy youngsters outside.
-oOo-
Wayne followed Sam along the hallway and out onto the porch. There he stopped in gobsmacked amazement.
“Bloody hell,” he said softly, as the Receivers of Cosmic Bounty bowed down in supplication to their alien deity.
“You can’t do this!” shouted Sam, clearly as taken aback as her brother was. The sight of these drongos bowing down in worship was too much for her to take. Biggest story of all time my arse, she told herself. This was just pure insanity. She stepped forward to appeal to the masses, not even noticing that she was stepping out of her role as reporter and into the story itself.
She waved her arms for attention and shouted “Oi!” a couple of times. “You can’t worship Loosi Beecham for Heaven’s sake!” she yelled at them. “She’s an air-head blonde who makes a living flashing her oversized boobs in front of cameras, not a Goddess! You might as well worship Coca-Cola or, or,” she thrashed about for an example. “Shit! I don’t know, something equally stupid. Look, she’s just a woman. Like me.”
“No I’m not,” said Drukk. He’d found the past few minutes rather difficult to follow but he had understood Sam all right, and he was getting pretty fed up with this gender mix-up thing. “I’m not a woman. I’m not even human. I am Drukk, Space Corps Operative, sixth class and I want to make it clear right now that I am totally and utterly masculine. I and my colleagues have come here from the planet Vingg to bring you humans the greatest gift in the universe.” He’d meant the knowledge of the Great Spirit, of course, so the cheer from the crowd was for quite the wrong reason.
He looked at John, who seemed to be staring distractedly beyond the crowd. Probably in some kind of religious ecstasy, Drukk thought. So he looked down at the upturned faces of the humans below him. He wasn’t quite sure what emotion their hideous features might be expressing but he certainly had their fullest attention and this encouraged him to think that things were going well. “Actually, I wish they were here right now as I suspect that this is something of a pivotal moment in your conversion and I’m not really experienced in this sort of thing. Of course, I did take the mandatory religious indoctrination courses at CorpsSchool but mostly that just covered the penalties for various transgressions, how to do the Five Rites of Obedience in a space suit, and so on. Useful stuff, of course, but not quite what I need right now, if you see what I mean.”
“Hang on, everyone. What’s that?” John said, still staring into the distance, but no-one was listening.
Sam was still in a lather. She pointed accusingly at Drukk. “Can’t you see this woman is off her trolley? She’s been talking rubbish like this ever since I found her. She’s nuts, I tell you. Nuts!” The Receivers turned to stare at her in confused silence and it dawned on her that, on balance, these people thought it was her, not Loosi Beecham, who was two wagons short of a road train.
“Actually, Sis, I think Loosi really is an alien,” said Wayne, grimacing and ducking his head to show how reluctant he was to contradict her.
“Of course you do,” said Sam, suddenly deflated. She let her arms fall to her sides. Why did she bother! “Of course you do. Everybody thinks this walking Barbie doll is an alien sent to take them off to the Happy Land, except me. I’m the one out of step here. I don’t know why I stubbornly persist in this ridiculous belief in the real world.” She turned to the crowd and shouted, “I’ll just go and get this troublesome sanity treated, shall I? Perhaps you could recommend a good lobotomist? God knows you must have plenty of experience with radical psychiatric procedures between you!” She glared for a moment and was warming up for real tirade when John spoke.
“Hey, everyone. We’ve got company.”
They all turned to look up the farm road where John was pointing. A huge cloud of dust was moving towards them. At the head of the cloud was a luxury coach, looking strangely gigantic in this odd context. Behind the coach, the cloud flickered blue and red from the lights of the many police cars in pursuit of it.
With a roar of engines and crashing of brakes that drowned all further speech, the bus pulled up outside the door of the farmhouse. The police entourage formed a line well away from the farm, as if they were nervous about being welcome. For long moments nothing happened. The bus sat there silently. The police sat there silently. Nobody got out and no sound was made.
The Receivers of Cosmic Bounty regarded the bus curiously. They had been expecting a space-ship, of course, but a bus might be OK—as long as it had an interstellar drive or something. At least luxury coaches had loos and air conditioning. Two or three people started singing Show Me The Way To Go Home, perhaps as a reflex response to their expectation of a long bus ride. Others looked back at John and Drukk for some sign as to how to respond. Without doubt, the silent presence of the police cars, their blue and red lights still flashing, was making some people very nervous as they surreptitiously dropped small plastic bags containing variously coloured powders and pills, and kicked dirt over them.
The silence was broken by a loud crack and hiss and the bus door slid smoothly open. Inside, they could see the bus driver, gawping out at them, or, rather, at Drukk, in open-mouthed astonishment. Then Loosi Beecham appeared in the doorway and began to disembark. A murmur of shock and amazement went up from the crowd as she descended to the ground, long-legged and beautiful in a white satin and lace wedding dress.
-oOo-
Chief Inspector Sheila Sullivan sent word to the Commissioner that the bus had arrived and fired off orders in all directions to find out who lived at the farm and what terrorist organisation they might belong to. She cursed Barraclough roundly for not being where he was supposed to be, ordered a helicopter to take her there and spoke to the Senior Constable she had arbitrarily picked to be in charge at the farm until a more senior officer could get there.
Senior Constable Kelvin Potter was a tall, lean man in his late thirties. His face was sun-tanned and craggy and his eyes narrowed to slits as he peered through the bright afternoon sunlight at the scene in front of him. He had his car door open and he stood behind it, just in case any shooting started. Potter didn’t like what he saw. A couple of dozen hippies were standing outside the old farmhouse and a handful of people stood on the veranda. One of these appeared to be Loosi Beecham. He had to admit she was looking hot in that short, tight dress. Coming down from the bus, one by one, were more Loosi Beechams, looking like they were modelling clothes in one of those freaky modern fashion parades. God these people made him sick! Hippies and show-business types had no business out here. Kelvin Potter had devoted his life to keeping ordinary, decent people safe from freaks like this and he exalted in having the chance to round up a whole bunch more of them.
The Chief Inspector was still whittering away on the radio. What did the silly cow want now? Why didn’t they put a bloke in charge and let her get back to her domestic violence unit or wherever they’d dragged her out from?
“Sorry Ma’am,” he said, in his slow, insolent way. “Reception’s real bad out here. I can hardly hear what you’re saying.” He grinned and winked at the others, some of whom grinned back but most of whom just looked anxious. Kelvin’s reputation as a one-hundred-percent, dyed in the wool bigot, didn’t exactly strike them as best qualifying him to handle this delicate hostage situation.
“I said,” said Sullivan, “the negotiating team will be there in thirty minutes to take over. Until then, I want you to keep your distance. Don’t aggravate them and don’t approach them. Don’t even talk to them unless they ask you a question. Have you got that, Constable?”
“Sorry, Ma’am, what do you want me to talk to them about?”
This raised a small laugh from some of the guys although the rest were variously holding their heads or pretending they hadn’t heard. He saw one bloke—that creep Polanski—lift his radio mike to his mouth as if he was going to
say something. If Polanski dobbed him in, he’d be in real trouble. He spoke into his own mike.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry, Ma’am. I copy now. All understood. I’ll expect the negotiators in thirty minutes.”
He looked back at the freaks as the stupid cow started whingeing on again. No-one seemed to be armed. What was to stop him just marching in there and rounding them all up? He had thirty armed police with him. That should be enough to take care of a few hippies and fashion models. He shouted over to one of the guys to get him a bull-horn as he watched the group from the bus approach the group on the ground. Thirteen women, one of them pregnant. Twenty-odd hippies and the four on the veranda. It would be a piece of cake.
-oOo-
“Drukk!” shouted Braxx, stopping on the edge of the crowd of humans.
“Braxx!” Drukk was genuinely pleased to see the old fraud. “I have told the humans everything. They seem quite pleased to see us.”
“Then they are receptive to the message of the Great Spirit?”
Drukk shrugged. “Sort of.”
John, the guru guy, dropped to his knees. “Sky People! Sky People! We welcome you to Earth. Give us your Cosmic Bounty! We are your Receivers. We have waited for you to come.”
Then the other Receivers also fell to their knees. A babble rose from them and they made the “gimme, gimme” gesture with their outstretched hands. Some thought they should be chanting something like “We have waited! We have waited!” but no-one had had the foresight to prepare a suitable chant. So they were all just saying whatever they liked, which, in the opinion of some, completely ruined the moment.
Braxx, nevertheless, was well pleased. Beaming broadly, he led the Vinggans up the steps to the veranda, the crowd of worshippers parting before them. “Drukk, you have done well! You will be given a high position in the Church for this day’s work!”
Sam and Wayne watched the arrival of Braxx and the others with open-mouthed astonishment. Sam, in particular, was completely shaken. “There are fourteen of them!” she gasped. It being the only fact about their arrival that she could just about start to deal with.
“Fifteen, actually,” protested a muffled voice that seemed to come from about waist height.
There was a sudden violent screech and then the amplified voice of Senior Constable Kelvin Potter blasted at them from the police lines.
“All right you hippy freaks. Now you listen to me.”
Everyone turned to stare at the policeman with the microphone in one hand and the other hand resting on the butt of his police revolver.
“Who are they?” asked Drukk.
“They are called ‘police’,” Braxx informed him. “They have been most friendly and helpful during our journey here.” He gave an amused titter. “They seem to enjoy following us about, poor creatures.”
Drukk saw that, apart from the one speaking, the other ‘police’ were hiding behind their cars and pointing what were probably weapons at them. Some had moved up to hide behind the bus, or even under it. “Braxx...” he began to say, but the amplified policeman cut him off.
“I want everyone on the floor now. Throw your weapons well away from your body. Anyone resisting arrest will be shot.”
There was a stunned silence and then everyone—except the Vinggans, who were still trying to work it out—started protesting at once.
“Shut up!” boomed Potter but the babble continued. “Shut up!” he bellowed and this time the noise subsided.
Into the relative quiet, Wayne stepped forward and yelled, “Don’t shoot. There’s something really strange going on here. I think we may have been visited from outer space. Shit!”
This last exclamation was partly because Sam had grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him back and partly because Senior Constable Potter had fired two shots into the air with his revolver.
Wide-eyed with alarm, Braxx shouted, “They’re attacking us!” and raised his blaster. The Pebbles of the New Dawn instantly followed suit.
Almost simultaneously, a scrawny bloke in a bus driver’s uniform ran off the bus yelling, “Everybody get down! They’re going to kill us all!” and threw himself onto the sandy ground. Fortunately, many of the Receivers of Cosmic Bounty, not to mention Sam and Wayne, followed his example or the carnage might have been awful.
The police, anxiously watching for signs of resistance, saw the Loosi Beechams reach into their large handbags and pull out what seemed to be small sticks. They immediately, and, strangely enough, correctly, assumed they were about to be fired at and got in first with a deafening volley of rifle and handgun fire. The Vinggans, no slouches when it comes to shooting first and apologising later, returned their fire with gusto.
From her spot on the wooden floor of the veranda, where she was holding Wayne flat against the boards, Sam saw half a dozen police cars explode into flame and policemen everywhere flying though the air or running for their lives. The back and front ends of the bus were blasted to pieces too, making the policemen under it scrabble out and take to their heels. The few shots the police had managed to get off at the Vinggans rattled ineffectually against invisible force shields which sprang up automatically around their targets as the projectiles approached. “Jesus God!” she said. “They really are aliens!”
It was all over in a few seconds. The police, of whom quite a few survived, didn’t stop running until they were well out of sight of the farmhouse. The spot where Senior Constable Kelvin Potter had stood was marked only by a smoking black heap.
“I thought you said they were friendly!” shouted Drukk at a rather bemused Braxx.
The religious leader shook his head. “They are the most peculiar species I have ever encountered. So unpredictable.” He sighed and shrugged. “Ah well. Everybody up now. We have lots to do. The Great Spirit’s work won’t wait.”
Drukk’s eye was caught by a sudden movement from the bus. “What’s that?” A white flag—actually a lady’s half-slip tied to a walking stick—had been pushed through a shattered window and was being waved backwards and forwards by a trembling, liver-spotted hand.
Chapter 16: Digging In
Detective Sergeant Barraclough was on his feet again and free of all bonds. His monstrous captor was like a demon magician. It seemed that its merest word or thought could control invisible forces or conjure things out of the air. Barraclough sat now on an invisible chair in front of an invisible table spread with a Kentucky Fried Chicken Family Feast that the Agent had apparently just willed into existence.
“This is like super-science, right?” Asked the detective, his mouth full of fries. “I mean, you’re not really a magician or anything?”
The Agent’s face was deadpan but it’s deep voice smiled slightly. “Your primitive superstitions are amusing,” it said.
“So you made this then? You made a Kentucky Fried Chicken Family Feast, complete with little salt and pepper sachets and extra-flexible plastic fork and all?”
“Ho, ho, ho!” said the Agent. At least, it could have been that.
“Or is there a Mrs Agent in another room somewhere who specialises in whipping up multinational fast-food-chain delicacies for people you abduct from odd planets along your way?”
“I have no mate, human. Agents do not breed. Our masters produce us when we are needed.”
“And you don’t feel the urge to...”
“Our minds are not disturbed by thoughts of mating. We are free to focus on our objectives.”
“Doesn’t this Master-Slave thing ever bother you? Don’t you ever want to just go fishing, or whatever it is Agents like doing?”
“My life is one of purpose and achievement. I am well satisfied.”
Barraclough wiped his fingers on the tiny paper napkin that had been packed in with the meal and took a swig of cola from a large paper beaker. He tried not to imagine the reaction between the cold, chemical-flavoured drink and the warm greasy food in his stomach.
“I live alone too,” he said, remembering all the fast food he’d
eaten in his life. “The job doesn’t seem to leave much time for socialising.”
“You are a hunter,” the Agent affirmed.
“I’ve got a case to solve. So, will you help me out or not?” The remains of the food disappeared as he tossed the used napkin onto it.
“It seems our objectives are closely aligned,” the Agent agreed. “I must find the Vinggans and you seek a group of ‘Loosi Beechams’ which I believe to be the Vinggans in disguise. Can you help me find them?”
Barraclough smiled. “Easily. Will you help me arrest them?”
“Once I have interrogated them, you may do with them as you please.”
“Then it’s a deal, mate!” He put out his hand to shake on it.
The Agent studied the gesture for a moment then smiled. “A deal,” it said and reached out its own hand. Barraclough looked at the gigantic black talons he was being offered and almost took his hand back but, swallowing hard, he forced himself to take the creature’s great claw and shake it. The Agent’s hand was cool and dry, like snakeskin but its handshake was surprisingly gentle. Standing so close to it, Barraclough felt like a small child in front of an enormous adult. Trying not to show his nervous relief, he retrieved his hand, feeling lucky to still have it in one piece. What on Earth must the masters of this monster look like? he wondered.
“Very well, human, tell me where to find the Vinggans we seek.”
Barraclough took two steps backwards to make himself feel a bit more comfortable and fell over the invisible table he’d had his meal on. The Agent watched him impassively, making no gesture of help or sympathy.
“Don’t you think it’s a bloody stupid idea to have invisible furniture?” the human snapped, irritably.
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