by Chris Lowry
A civilization that mastered the complexities of interstellar travel could rule this planet in a matter of days no matter how much Hollywood made people think that the pluckiness and ingenuity of the human race would win in the end. Houston admired that pluck. Hell, he even had it or else they would all be rolling over to show their bellies to the dot beeping on the holograph.
If they showed up, Earth as they knew it was over.
Houston was a Marine at heart and Marines fight for what they believe in. He wasn't about to show his belly to anyone, unless it was that green woman from STAR TREK. She might get him to take his shirt off.
“Where are they?” he barked to one of the scurrying techs.
CHAPTER THREE
“Hey!” Carver shouted over the roar of the wind through the open window. “You asleep?”
Dawes tilted the brim of his battered cowboy hat up.
“Not anymore.”
“You just got in here. How can you be asleep?”
“The sound of the motor knocks me out every time.”
Carver moved his eyes from the long empty road to his passenger and back again.
“Hey man where you going?”
“As far as you'll take me.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“It means I'll know when I get there.”
Carver cut his eyes at the cowboy.
“You some kind of drifter serial killer? You just roam the road back and forth across the country and kill people at rest stops? Is that your game?”
“Something like that.”
“What kind of redneck talk is that?”
Dawes reached down and began to unzip a pocket on his backpack.
“You better not be reaching for a gun,” Carver warned. “For all you know I'm packing over here too.”
Dawes glanced up at him out of the corner of his eye and gave him a grin.
“Yeah? What are you packing? Lunch?”
“Fuck you man and fuck your lunch. I could have a gun over here you don't even know.”
Dawes slid a Nalgene bottle out of his pack and unscrewed the wide mouth top.
“Lunch,” he licked his lips. “That's something I haven't had in a long time.”
“Alright, alright no need to beg,” Carver scoffed. “What you drinking?”
Dawes took a gulp.
“Kool-Aid. Want some?”
“What? What did you say? You trying to say something? Black man only wants Kool-Aid?”
“It's all I've got,” said Dawes as he took another swallow and began to screw the top back on.
“What flavor you got?” Carver sniffed. “Let me have some of that.”
Dawes reversed the top and passed the bottle to him.
“Which side did you drink out of? I don't want to get no redneck germs in me. I might get sick, want to play the banjo or some shit like that.”
“I had my shots.”
Carver took three big gulps of Kool-Aid and sighed in satisfaction. Dawes reached for the bottle, but Carver took two more swallows before passing it back almost empty.
“Nice truck,” said Dawes.
“It's my cousins.”
“Borrow it,” he tried to make small talk.
“No man, I stole it. What do you think? I left it at home?”
“Sorry,” Dawes said and settled back against the passenger door of the truck. They rode in silence both staring through the windshield at the long road that stretched in front of them.
Dawes began humming an old country tune under his breath.
“What are you doing?”
“Does that bother you?”
“Hell yes it bothers me. You are a guest in my truck-”
“Your cousin's truck.”
“Don't tell me whose damn truck it is. I know who the truck belongs to. I'm saying it's mine right now. I'm driving and there ain't no room for no redneck music.”
“It's country,” said Dawes. “America's music.”
“I'm American and it ain't my music.”
“You want me to be quiet?”
“Hell yeah I want you to be quiet. Unless you got more to drink in which case you can say something. Something like, “Want some more of my drink?” But if you ain’t got that then just sit there and be quiet.”
“Okay.”
“In my truck.”
They covered another mile in silence.
“Maybe we could listen to the radio?”
“It's busted,” growled Carver.
Dawes slid across the seat and began examining the radio in the dash.
“Let's just have a little look see.”
He pulled out a nest of wires and began reconnecting them.
“I can rig this to work.”
He ducked down below the dash and began connecting and moving wires around.
“You're an expert on my radio now?”
“Your cousin's radio.”
“I heard that. Who's driving this truck?”
The radio crackled to life in a burst of static, Dawes rolled up into the seat and leaned back in content satisfaction. Maybe this would earn him some brownie points or at least a trade for the ride.
The static cleared to the sound of an old country song, Possum talking about hanging a wreath upon a door.
“Magic,” said Dawes.
“That ain't fixed,” Carver shouted.
He reached up with long fingers and slowly spun the dial. It landed on one country song after the other.
“We don't have to listen to the radio,” Dawes said in his most diplomatic voice.
“Can you fix the CD player?”
Dawes ducked back under the dash to see what he could do.
CHAPTER FOUR
A lizard sat on a rock basking in the sun as it blazed down over a desert sky. The rock began vibrating and sent the scared reptile scurrying for cover as the Truck threw up a tail of dust as it drove past, rap music shaking the windows.
Carver kept one hand loosely on the wheel as he danced and shimmied inside the cab. He missed a sign for the turn and kept rolling up the road in the desert reminding the lonely cactus that he loved it when they called him Big Papa.
“I think we missed the turn.”
Carver glanced back over his shoulder.
“Shit man, my cousin's going to kill me.”
“What?”
“I said my cousin is going to kill me!” he screamed over the radio.
“I can't hear you.”
Carver yanked the radio dial down and bathed them in silence except for the ringing in their ears.
“If I don't get this truck back on time, my cousin is going to kill me. If you hadn't fixed the damn radio...” he muttered as he searched for a spot to turn around on the narrow road.
The truck crested a small rise and Carver slammed on the brakes. The road ended at a security gate straddled by two guard houses. A twelve-root razor topped fence led off into the desert from the guard houses in both directions. They couldn't see where the barrier ended.
“What the hell is going on up here?”
Two armed soldiers aimed their rifles at the truck. A Captain stepped out of the guard shack on the left, put his hand on his weapon and approached the truck as the soldiers spread out to back him up.
“I don't like the way this looks,” whispered Dawes.
“You?” Carver said out of the side of his mouth. “It's a brother who should be worried in situations like this.”
“They're soldiers,” said Dawes. “Not cops.”
“Tell them that.”
The Captain approached the driver's side window and tapped with a thick knuckle. Carver rolled the window down and began explaining.
“Look Officer, I know what it looks like, but we just made a wrong turn-”
“You're late,” the Captain yelled.
“Late?”
He made a motion and the two soldiers lowered their weapons.
“We've been waiting on you.”
&nb
sp; “I think-”
The Captain opened the door and pulled Carver out of the truck.
“This is how it starts,” the driver called to Dawes.
One of the soldiers jerked Dawes' door open and yanked him out by the arm.
“Easy partner, easy.”
Dawes and Carver tried to hold their hands up in surrender, but the soldiers moved in and hustled them toward a waiting Humvee beside the back of one of the guard shacks.
“We're short on time,” the Captain explained as he jumped in the passenger seat. A soldier slid behind the wheel and peeled out in a spray of dust and gravel.
The Captain turned back in his seat and shouted over the roar of the wind coming through the open doors and the radio the driver had blaring country music.
“We have a limited window to pull off this launch.”
“Launch? What launch?” Dawes shouted back.
“Lunch? We don’t have time for lunch,” the Captain answered.
“You've got the wrong guys,” Carver screamed.
The Hummer dropped down a ramp that opened up in the desert floor and rolled into a gigantic hollowed out crater. The driver spun them around a circular road that swirled along the edge of the one quarter mile deep hole in the ground.
Metal floors were carved in the rock as they descended, busy work stations full of uniformed men and women that stopped and stared at the Humvee with its occupants.
“What are they looking at?” Carver snapped.
“You Sir,” said the Captain. “They're looking at you.”
“What the Fu-”
Carver almost got it out. Dawes glanced over to see what stopped him mid-sentence so he could remember how to do it later. Carver's eyes were bugged out of his head as he stared out of the window.
A sleek black space shuttle was strapped to three booster rockets at the base of the crater. It was aimed at the blue desert sky above, covered with technicians who were prepping it.
“What the Hell?” Dawes gaped too.
“Isn't she a beauty?” the Captain motioned through the window. “Completely automated too. You won't have to do a thing to fly her. They modified the shell with a titanium alloy so it should scramble their radar signals.”
“Whose radar signals?”
The Hummer slid to a stop in front of a low hanger that stretched to the crater wall.
“Listen man-” Carver began.
“Captain.”
“What?”
“Address me as Captain.”
“Address me as Emperor, motherfucker, I'm trying to tell you that you got the wrong guys.”
“You're telling me,” said the Captain as he jumped out and cracked open the back door. “I don't know what they're training you punks, but respect the rank not the man.”
“Respect?!” Carver sputtered.
Three Technicians broke away from the hanger and pulled him out of the Humvee and hustle him behind a plastic sheeted station. Carver glanced around, searching for Dawes, for anyone who would listen, but his former passenger was having trouble of his own as three more Techs wrestled him into the room with Carver.
“Wait! Wait,” Carver protested. “Wait a goddamn minute.”
A Tech with a bobbed haircut shoved a thermometer in his mouth as a second Tech stripped him out of his clothes and the third slipped his arm into a blood pressure cuff.
“I want to know what the Hell is going on- HEY!”
A fourth tech leaned him forward and slipped the thermometer into a lower orifice.
“I'm going to kick your ass,” Carver threatened. “What's your name? What's his name?”
The Techs ignored him as they strapped him into a form fitting spacesuit. The design was made especially for this mission, and it fit him like a glove. When one Tech was finished with their task, they push him one step further down a line to the next duty. It's too fast, too precise, Carver can't even struggle against them.
They spin him around to face a pretty female Tech.
“Hey baby girl,” he said in his smoothest jazz voice.
She smirked, drops to her knees in front of him and reaches into the crotch of his suit to manipulate him into a waste receptacle.
“That's what I'm talking about,” Carver rolled his eyes back in his head and enjoyed it.
It didn't last long.
The Tech stood up and snapped off her surgical glove.
“What's your name girl?”
They kept moving him down the line.
“I'm going to see you when this is over, girl. What's your number? Hey man, what's her number?”
CHAPTER FIVE
The line ended in a bare sterile room. A door opened and Carver was pushed inside by the last Tech in the line. The door hissed closed behind him. He barely had time to look around at the nothing that adorned the walls when a second panel slid open. Dawes staggered through and it shut behind him.
He wore a matching black space suit just like Carver's and stared at him before looking down at himself.
“Cool,” he breathed.
“Man, this is not cool.”
“Did you know about this?”
“Hell no I didn't know about this. What kind of- Hey!”
He jumped with a little shriek as the wall behind them slid back to reveal an elevator. Houston glared at them flanked by three staff members.
“Get in here. Now,” he ordered in a soft low voice.
Dawes and Carver were so intimidated by him they did.
They moved into the elevator in the small space the staff members made for them. The small box was big, but the group was clumped together around the General.
Dawes caught Carver's eye and motioned with his head to the back of the commanders. Carver shook his head no. Dawes made a more impassioned plea, this time adding wide eyes to the nod for more emphasis. Carver set his jaw and shook his head again.
Dawes sighed and grunted.
“You want to tell us what's going on?” he addressed the General.
“Sir,” the iron man corrected. “If we had time for a proper briefing I'd teach you what these stars mean Colonel. You will address me as Sir. I earned it.”
“Yes Sir,” Dawes cowered.
“General, specific, I don't give a fuck,” Carver began. “Sir,” he said off the General's glare. “I just want to know what the Hell is going on.”
“You were late.”
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute. I don't think we are who you think we are.”
“You're damn sure not what I expected.”
“Yeah,” Dawes broke in. “I think this is just one big misunderstanding.”
The General rounded on them in the tight grouping in the elevator. The two men tried to tried to back up but their path was blocked by the staffers.
“Listen up you numb nuts,” the General's low voice sent shivers down their spines. “I do not misunderstand. You do not think. I will think for you. This is your assignment. Rendezvous with the Lucas, determine the status of the crew and capabilities of the hostile alien force that has captured our ship. I don't want to hear another word. You were picked and trained for this mission. God knows who chose you because I sure as hell wouldn't have. But it's too late to go begging for replacements. You're soldiers. Follow your goddamn orders and do your duty.”
The elevator stopped and the doors whooshed open to reveal the gaping doorway of the ebony shuttle and a gangplank populated with more Techs.
“But General-” Dawes squeaked.
A Tech slammed a helmet on his head and sealed it shut, snapping off his protest.
They moved Carver and Dawes along the gangplank and into the shuttle where they strapped them into thick cushioned seats. The two men tried to protest, but their radios weren't turned on in their helmets and there were too many Techs strapping them down.
When they finished, the Techs bee lined for the door. One offered a departing thumbs up to the duo. Carver showed him a gloved middle finger. The door shut with a loud bang and
the hiss of pressurized cabin. The lock on the door spun shut.
Dawes glanced over at Carver. The man was screaming at him through the helmet, but no sound escaped, just the motion of his mouth and a fine spray of spittle across his faceplate.
The radio clicked on in both of their headsets.
“You'll be out of radio contact once you launch,” said General Houston. “This is a stealth mission. We don't want any transmissions intercepted. There are briefs in the computer. Review and delete them. Godspeed gentlemen. You're going to need it.”
The radio clicked off.
Carver shouted in his helmet but no one could hear his screams.
The countdown began in their headset. Carver tried to move his arms to the panel in front of him as he searched for an abort button.
CHAPTER SIX
A Humvee raced from the Guard Shack with two stone eyed MP's in the driver and passenger seat. Behind them, the corpses of the two super soldiers bounced stiffly as they raced across the compound.
They hit the ramp and caught air as they rocketed toward the control room. Techs scattered out of their way.
The Humvee slid to a stop as the countdown reached ten. The voice on the speaker echoed through the cavernous space.
The Driver jumped out and raced for the room. He pounded up the stairs and reached the two guards who covered the door.
Five.
The panels slid apart and the driver rushed across the room toward the General.
Four.
“Sir, we have a problem,” said the Driver and leaned in to whisper.
Three.
“Dear God,” Houston blanched.
Two.
“Abort,” he shouted. “Abort!”
One.
“Initiate Liftoff,” the Tech's voice echoed through the compound.
The rockets around the shuttle belched fire as the black shuttle slowly lifted out of the crater.
“Abort! Abort!” screamed the General.
He watched the shuttle trail fire through the clear desert sky as it shot for atmosphere.
“Get them back here,” he ordered a Tech.
