The Sword of Gabriel: Ten Days on Earth

by Tom Holloway

  Susan smiles, saying, “You’ve bought the store out! Let me help you check out. I can do it from here if you have a check or credit card.”

  I nod my head. “I can give you a check drawn from a New York bank; will that work?”

  She says, “No problem.” I’m thinking that helps, as I have no cash and no credit card. I need to get some cash.

  I had long ago set up a checking account in New York City. It was on my first trip back to Earth, in 1954. I had raw gold as currency, and banks are not comfortable with raw gold. However, I retained the services of a small, distinguished New York law firm, Lindemann, Noakes & Beagle. I asked them to manage the transfer of the gold to US dollars. Then, over a period of time, they converted it to US currency, about $900 million. It was a lot of money at the time. It wasn’t easy making the exchange and avoiding the curious eyes of banks and the government. The law firm was successful, however, and created an investment trust fund for me. Now, many years later, it is worth many times more.

  I keep $50 million of it in an interest-bearing checking account, usable immediately. The total value of my trust or investment fund is about $9 billion. The firm invests much of it in equities and about 20 percent in short-term conservative bonds and bank notes that are easy to convert to cash. I give the law firm all the investment returns to reinvest. As their main fee, to their delight, they get 10 percent of the annual investment profit, which is massive, averaging $60 million a year. They receive an additional 0.001 percent of the total investment as their fee, which is another $10 million. They seem more than pleased with the arrangement, as it is very generous. In return I require their absolute loyalty. I do not care about my personal investment revenue, as it stays in the trust, reinvested, and I do not want a large 1099 going to the US government to draw attention to my name.

  The law firm goes to great effort to cover my tracks, shielding me from the government and others, keeping me invisible. They use their talents well and are paid well. In addition to their investment fee, the law firm automatically takes out any expenses I use for services as needed. They are making a lot of money for doing a small amount of work, yet it is vital to me. Over all these years, they have prospered, and I am by far their oldest, largest, and best client. They need me, and I need them.

  Besides keeping my name hidden and confidential, they also do various odd jobs for me. They supply a limousine and chauffeur when needed and keep a large rooftop luxury penthouse for me in New York City, mostly so I have an address and a normal residence to stay when there. Actually, I own the building. The law firm bought it years ago for me, as it was then two massive parking garages, both able to hold a lot of weight. It was converted to one huge building, with lots of storage space and several apartments; the top floors are mine as I have my living quarters in two full stories. They take up thirty thousand square feet. It has a wonderful panoramic view of the city yet in a secluded area that is mostly warehouse buildings. It has several more stories for storage and then there is staff, housing them and their families. No one else lives there.

  In secret, my drones built many parts of the building, partially to keep it top secret, as some of it was off-world technology, difficult to build and highly sophisticated, not Earth stuff. The weird stuff like infrared security systems, grid defense shields, laser communications, cyber lattice, grid matrix armament, fusion direct target weapons, were all installed using drones. The place is an armed virtual fortress, independently supplied with water and electricity. The atmosphere is also controlled in the building, mostly independent of offsite air. Drones secretly maintain the systems, presently staffed there.

  It is also fully people staffed, and the employees are still not sure about me, as I am gone for such long periods. The staff is always shocked when they see me after each ten-year period, as I change little in my appearance. They are sometimes even terrified of me, and I spend a lot of time calming them down. I hardly age, and it freaks them out. I think they think I am a vampire, which makes me laugh. They keep the drapes drawn when I’m there, which is really funny.

  Most of the staff members have been here thirty or more years, and there are large living quarters for them, too. They live nice lives. The staff consists of a butler, an excellent cook, two housekeepers, and a handyman/maintenance guy. They were sworn to secrecy when they were hired, and they have taken this seriously. They are compensated well to do what they do. Their children, who once lived there, are now grown and gone. They come back, though, visiting, bringing grandkids, as this is the home where they were raised. Interestingly enough, they never come when I am there.

  The best part of the place is the roof. I can land the Ship Tender or the Saber on it, although a tight fit for the latter, yet it has a massive helicopter-landing pad suitable for landing and can be covered with a movable roof. I can land and then use the roof to hide the Saber, coming in at night only. The huge building was reinforced to handle the weight. Being a car parking garage helped. Unfortunately, the staff knows about the Saber; I use the slips to help them keep it a secret. The slips are mentally inserted and guide them away from awkward situations when issues are presented, thus protecting them, nothing more. I always enjoy being with the staff when I am here; they are like family. All have been faithful to me. I have sent all their children to college as my thanks for my privacy and their loyalty. They are paid well, and they have a nice pension plan. Unfortunately, even with me trying to be extra friendly, trying to be thoughtful, they still fear me. I attempt to reassure them on every trip back.

  At times the law firm will provide military mercenaries for me to do odd jobs and provide security for my building or, if needed, for specific issues. They supply me with cash when I am here, pay people off when needed, and donate to several charities and organizations I wish to support. They deal with any government officials when needed. They balance the bank accounts monthly and give the bank an address and a persona, an agent of record, someone to be me when I could never be me. Over the years I have done a few things they needed to cover up for me—nothing terrible, just awkward. They also prepare overview updates for me on the last ten years of Earth activity, which they download to me when I arrive each time. This includes election results, world leaders, any ongoing political crises, a world monetary report, important world events, and scientific innovations.

  The law firm has never questioned me, not once. They do not want to know too much about me. They always do as I ask, never question why or ask who I really am or where I am from. I have given them no real identification, no federal ID numbers, and no address outside of New York. I receive little written correspondence. They have seen me only a few times, and I am a complete mystery to them. I have been this way for almost sixty years. When I go to the firm’s office, they are totally freaked out, almost enough for me to laugh about. I think they think I’m some kind of old Mafia guy who looks young after many operations or maybe a CIA assassin. Maybe some do think I am an alien, and they are laughed at.

  I know the law firm would never cheat me or report me to anyone. I am very sure of that, as I think they are truly frightened of me—go figure. I pay them well, I’m always friendly to them, and I appreciate them.

  Unfortunately I can never use Henry Johnson’s official identification, not my original social security number, as I am dead, lost at Normandy Beach in World War II. The law firm helped a lot, as it created an identity for me, doing what they could while staying within the law. I am sure this lack of identity concerns the law firm and is of some humor to me. For example, when I call even for little things, they jump, act scared, stop doing whatever they were doing to help me. I know everyone in the law firm knows the name Henry Johnson, and they speak it as if they wonder about me, probably frightened by the possibilities.

  As I am essentially a very old client, most of the original attorneys are gone; only two original partners are left who have known me the entire time. The new generation of attorneys now working there hardly knows me. They may wonder
why I am still alive and why I look so young. They are nice at all times; they do act as if I am really important and are very polite to me. When I visit they close the law firm to any other visitors, for confidentiality and for my protection. I tell them the fewer people who see me, the better; although, I don’t blame them for their anxiety. After all these years, they have no clue who I am or whom I really represent. If they only knew. Not good for them to really know; guessing is fine.

  Meanwhile, back at Barnes & Noble, Susan helps me check out my purchases, working quickly, a hard worker and smart. I write a check and give it to her. She looks at me with kind eyes. I think, What a sweet girl. I hope she has a good life, although intuitively I know there is a problem. She appears worried, maybe even a little fearful.

  I have to ask, “Susan, are you OK? You seem worried.”

  She looks up, startled, and hesitates. Finally, after a few breaths, she sadly says, “I am fine, just a long day.”

  I don’t believe her, as I am now reading her thoughts, yet I feel uncomfortable about prying. I change the subject. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  She looks at me strangely and says, “Not really.”

  I say, “It sounds like you did have one. Boyfriend problems?”

  She looks at me angrily and says, “Why are you asking me this?”

  I am surprised by the outburst and say quickly, “I’m sorry, Susan. You look like a very nice person, and I feel concerned for you for the same reason. Maybe because you look really worried, maybe afraid. I hope I haven’t offended you. It is certainly not my intent. You do have an issue, don’t you?”

  She says, “I really am losing it. I didn’t think it showed. I have to go out in the parking lot tonight after we close to get my car, and I’m worried about it.”

  I am surprised. “Why?” I look intently at her.

  She is in tears now and she blurts out, “He may be out there, a crazy guy. I went on one date, and he beat me up, and now, of all the things that can go wrong, he stalks me. Although I have a restraining order from the court against him, he still has threatened to kill me, and he is really scary. What can I say? I don’t know what to do. He was out there last night and the night before, and maybe he will be tonight. I’m parked a long way from the store, and it’s dark where I’m parked.”

  “Do your parents know about him?”

  She tears up again. “There is nothing they can do, and they think the police should be helping me. The police are nice; however, they can’t guard me every minute. I didn’t tell them everything. He really beat me up badly. He did more, but I don’t want to talk about it, and he said it would be worse if I told the police. He also threatened to burn my grandmother’s house down with her in it. He could do it. He scares the hell out of me, and he is bad news, a total psychopath! He actually wants me to date him, says he’s sorry. Last night he wanted to give me a gift. I didn’t look at him; he really scared me. I just got in my car and left. He started swearing at me and threw the gift at the back of my car.”

  I smile, and then laugh, which surprises her. “Susan, it’s your lucky day. I can be there for you. Actually I’m quite good at this, the right man at the right time. You could say I’m an expert with this kind of person. Truly it will be my pleasure to help you tonight!”

  I am thinking, Lucky for me, too. What a great day, twice today, a second predator.

  Susan looks at me with a questioning, doubtful expression. She looks me over, trying to figure out if I look up to it.

  I add, “This is what we will do. We both go out the door. Now that the store is closed, we may be the only ones out there. I’ll wait with my packages. You go ahead, get your car, come back, and get me with the car. I’ll watch for him from here, so we don’t scare him away. If he doesn’t show, we can maybe hang out some this evening. Maybe I can treat you to a good meal, stay until you feel safe.”

  She doesn’t look happy, more like confused and disbelieving. She fidgets with her ink pen, not sure what to say, doubting me.

  I continue reassuringly, “What have you got to lose? My being here can’t hurt. Here’s the plan. We wait for him to seek you out. And if he’s out there tonight, maybe he’ll start to approach you when you get to your car. I can reach him before he gets to you, and it will not be good for him. Let’s say it will be a life-changing event for him. I guarantee he will never bother you again. What do you say?”

  She looks at me intently, nods her head, with a hopeful look. Then she smiles, actually laughs, and says, “Are you sure?”

  I reply, “Without a doubt.”

  Out the door we go. There are people still in the parking lot. I know it would be better to find him now, know where he is, if he is out there. I have a response about this from the Cyclone immediately. I now know where he is. Amazingly enough, yes, he is actually here. He is armed with a knife, which is unfortunate for him.

  The Cyclone wants to take him out immediately—one shot from the starship and he is gone. I tell the Cyclone to send down some reconnaissance slips and have one insert itself into his brain and to do it carefully, so he will not know it happened. I do have plans for him, could use the initial report from the slip to check his DNA, identify him, find out everything about him, and maybe let the slip probe his brain for some memories. He probably has done this before. I know this behavior is habitual, and he probably enjoys it, needs the criminal scores, like trophies. Maybe he has done something really bad in the past, enough to have him arrested.

  I just need one crime the police could use so they can put him away. It would be better to let the locals handle this; it’s really not part of my jurisdiction or my business. We are hacked into all kinds of Earth databases: hospitals, banks, police, CIA, FBI, IRS, NSA, Secret Service, KGB, Scotland Yard, and Interpol, everything there is in this world. I ask the Cyclone for everything on him as fast as possible. I’m starting to get excited. Hand-to-hand combat does not come that often, now the second time in twenty-four hours. I am delighted. I can’t help it. I can feel my muscles tense. The anticipation and adrenaline are a rush!

  Susan, you and I are both blessed tonight, or at least I think so.

  She walks away, looks back, now frightened again. In a scared, quivering voice she says to me, “You’ll be there if he comes for me? I am a long way out, at the end of the parking lot.”

  I smile and say, “If he does something, I will be there. I’m faster than I look.”

  I am starting to receive data downloads, even some memories from the man’s brain, coming from the Cyclone communications system, received from the slip embedded in his brain. Yes, he really is one sick guy. He has hurt several human females, and yes, he treasures those memories. No question of what needs to happen to him.

  The slip is probing more, and it reports an alarming specific memory from him about a fourteen-year-old girl named Natalie Alder. Several months ago he abducted her from a party as she was outside talking on her cell phone. He took her, beat her, raped her, and buried her alive although unconscious. Her dead body is only eight miles from here in a shallow grave in a forest at a state park. Her parents don’t know about her death, just think she is missing. She was very young, and it was a cruel death. It is hard not to feel a great rage toward him. Yes, I think eventually I will let the slip do its final work, to eat his brain. He has earned it; he has done some bad stuff. When triggered the slip works just like a little mind worm, causing havoc in his brain, unbelievable pain coming in waves. It is effective in behavior control also. He will be confessing all his crimes tonight. I just have to keep from killing him myself.

  I drop my packages on a bench by the door, standing ready. Susan is still walking toward her car, slower now, looking in all directions. It is hard to see, as the parking lot is not well lit. She makes it to the end, maybe forty yards out, then turns to open her car’s door. I see him, a big fellow, not far away, maybe twenty yards. He is going for her!

  Startled, I move quick, yelling, “I’ll be dammed. Run, Susan! He�
��s going for you!”

  The man is making a mad run at her. I am now moving fast, too. She turns and screams! I’m there quickly, and he is there, too, focused on her only, screaming at her, “You bitch!” And his hand is up high, clutching a knife.

  He never sees me until I snatch the upraised hand, getting a really good grip. My momentum carries me forward, and he comes with me. Then I stop moving, causing his body to swing out fast. I grab his shoulder with my other hand, gaining speed to lift him off the ground high, then pulling him all the way around me again, gathering more speed. He looks like a golf club being swung by a golfer. At the peak of the swing, I let him go, and his body goes into flight. He has this totally disbelieving, terrified look on his face. He sails seventy feet, maybe twenty feet high, in a perfect arc, screaming the whole way, and then hitting a car hard. It sounds like an explosion of bending metal and breaking glass, then he bounces off and hits the pavement several feet away.

  He is now silent, lying there on the blacktop. A concussion has knocked him out, his head bloody. Unfortunately I crushed his hand when I grabbed him, mangled the knife and hand together, bloody, one big gob. It will be difficult to pry apart, most painful. Hitting the car was not good for him either.

  Susan is astounded, wide-eyed, as if she saw the end of the world. Actually I’m surprised, too, and it’s hard not to laugh. It was definitely a home run. I’m having the slip that is still in the man’s brain keep probing for more memories. With him being unconscious, it will be able to move in his brain without concern for his reaction from the pain.

  The slip overwhelms his unconscious mind, pulling not only his memories and thoughts but also energy, which could kill him. I do not need him dead yet. He needs to tell the police about Jennifer’s body and any others. It’s important for her parents to know what happened to their daughter. The slip will stay in his brain until he has told the police everything and will leave him only after justice prevails. He will be confessing everything he has ever done, in overwhelming pain and in terror only I understand. It will be awful for him, but he gets no sympathy from me. He has earned the reckoning.