The Sword of Gabriel: Ten Days on Earth

by Tom Holloway

  “First of all we are a kind civilization, nonthreatening. We believe in right and wrong, just as you do, yet we are more advanced than you, as our civilizations are much older. We believe in a common creator, as many of you do, and the concepts of love and honesty are critical values for us, too. And even though you do not know us, we know you well.”

  “I wish to be of service to you; and, as in your world, we have a procedure that makes these kinds of changes easier to bear, as change causes concern for good reasons. I will apply for your entry into the Consortium of Civilizations if you wish to join us. It is fair to warn you there are issues throughout the universe, and your entry into our group will bring you many changes, hopefully many good things, and protection from many future difficulties you may know about and some you are not aware of at this time.”

  “For example, there are criminals causing problems in the universe, as in the recent battle over the Pacific, which you know about. With our protection you will be insulated to some extent, and you will have peace and prosperity as your new future unfolds. I feel your thoughts, and no, there is no going back if you are approved. This is because you will not want to reverse course. Many wonderful things will occur in your future with the Consortium.”

  “You know I am here, and what I say is true, as I am part of you. You can feel my honesty. We are linked mentally. It is hard to hide the truth either way; you need to be honest with me, too. As soon as your membership is confirmed, you will move into the Consortium jurisdiction. Although you will move into this new culture, it may take years to achieve true membership or for you to catch up. It will be a passage to a new renaissance period for your civilization. You will be delighted with it!”

  “When you are accepted, you will be also part of a new world order on Earth. It will be better for all populations, especially the poor countries, as no one will be hungry ever again. And to answer your questions, yes, you will like it, and yes, there will be changes. And yes, you keep your job, and yes, your life will be mostly the same. The United States will exist as it does now. Yes, there will still be elections, and no, there are no hidden agendas. No, we will not enslave you; you will have free will and freedom. Nor will we ask you for money, and no, no fees or taxes, no gimmicks. Yes, you can travel to other worlds, and yes, there is a cost for the tickets. No, I do not know how much—it’s too complicated to tell you how it works.”

  “As for the planet where I come from, yes, it is a long way from here, trillions of miles. Yes, there is a starship here, and yes, it is military. No, no more battles that I know of. No, not sure how long the approval will take or how long it will take to find out if you are not approved. Not sure, not a concern for you now. We have to push forward and make our case to the Consortium.”

  “Sorry, I need to go. Think about joining the Consortium. Create a detailed list of questions, as I will help and advise you. John Jacobs has all you need to apply. Do not wait too long. I will be gone, yet John Jacobs will know how to contact me.”

  “You are welcome. Thank you, too. Let me know what you think might be harmful. Keep my identity secret from the public. It is premature to tell anyone about this. It would be dangerous. You will need to contact the other world leaders. It would be better if they understand and agree. I think they will want to be part of it, as none of them will want to be left out. There will be a plan of action created, and many more of us will come to help you reorganize. It may take a lot of time. Good-bye and, as you say, good luck.”

  With that, the drone is gone, no feeling of his presence, no mental connection. He is gone. They all feel loneliness, an empty, sad feeling, and all missing the comfort of the voice, then a feeling of loss. Really weird.

  All present remain speechless, total silence, looking at one another, their faces white with total shock, overwhelmed, and their energies totally drained. The knowledge of what just happened is beyond reality, a massive change in the possible future of every person on Earth. The president can hardly talk, ends up whispering, “We need to keep this quiet, and no one outside this room needs to know. We need to digest this, meet again tomorrow. I will notify you about the time of the meeting. I know you have lots of questions.”

  Looking at the chief of staff, the secretary of defense, the head of the FBI, the head of the CIA, then the generals and then the navy admiral, the president declares, “We need to find the Iranian nuclear bombs, or we may have nothing to talk about.”

  Then he looks at Jacobs. “John, you and I need to talk.”

  Chapter 29

  Anna’s Home and Life in LA—Day Eight

  Back in LA. I land the Saber partially over Anna’s swimming pool, smashing a lot of concrete with the weight and then taking up the entire backyard of her house, a big estate, just enough room thankfully. Although I knock down one fence, some concrete, and destroy a lot of lawn, the house is OK. I will need to fix the damages. I turn on the camouflage shield and put up a defense grid around the house. I can only hope her neighbors do not see anything and call the police; I’m not in the mood for a police visit. After all I have put her through, I do not want to wake Anna; I just carry her in, still sleeping, from the ship to her home.

  I am lucky to be here, as just to find the house was a challenge; I found it only by Googling it, using MapQuest. Crazy world. All this technology, and I have to Google Anna’s address to get directions. But I have made it here, and I have no right to complain. It must be eleven o’clock or so, late at night, and it’s been a long, hard day. Anna’s housecleaning service and security team know she is coming in tonight, and she told them earlier today they would not be needed. The Cyclone is overhead again, hovering four thousand feet up, in stealth mode, watching and providing information and security.

  Anna’s estate is outstanding: large, luxurious, well done, classy. I can’t help myself; I just love it. Looks like a great place to live. I am proud of Anna; she keeps a terrific home. The lights are already on, and I have the security drones sweep over the house, my drone slips that now travel with me everywhere, looking for any threats. I’m not surprised; they disable numerous listening devices hidden in the house. The FBI or somebody has been busy. I know the Cyclone has set up a perimeter around us, thus we are shielded and guarded with some serious weapons plus wall-to-wall surveillance. No one is coming in here, including FBI or any agency or any alien threat. A security grid is over the top of us, too, which can’t be penetrated by anything known in the universe. One can never be too careful. I follow the ninety-nine percent rule, which is that ninety-nine percent of the time life is somewhat predictable; however, it’s usually the one percent that gets you.

  I find Anna’s bedroom, carry her in, and put her in her bed. I need to undress her, put her in a nightgown, something she can sleep in. I feel her pain, looking at her bruises, feeling guilty and responsible. I look for and then find a white silk nightgown; she is half-awake now and totally exhausted. She undresses, and I help her put on the nightgown, after which she crawls under her covers and she is asleep immediately. I gaze at her for a bit, then kiss her on her forehead, whisper, “Sleep well, Anna,” and turn off the lights.

  After I close the door, I realize I am way too wound up to sleep. I look around and then decide to tour the house, sort of a reconnaissance. It is huge. It’s a beautiful home—it looks like Anna’s home. There are charming rooms everywhere, an in-house theater, a gym, a massive kitchen, and fireplaces throughout. It is all gorgeous. She has many photos of herself everywhere with beautiful, glamorous people, many other stunning women, and many really handsome men all looking great. They all look like they are in love with Anna. She has many trophies and awards; some are from the many charities she has supported. Her movies are successful, many framed newspaper articles on the walls, showing major hits; and, she is a true celebrity with photos from the all the talk shows. She has a wonderful rewarding life with many close friends. I am impressed, and not surprised.

  As I think about it, I am not sure what I have to
offer her. How could she be proud of me when she has so many truly elegant people around her? She has a perfect life now. She is talented, famous, beautiful, accomplished, and wealthy. Her friends would feel sorry for her for considering me over all her famous suitors. I’m not even sure I will be here much, maybe never; maybe I’ll never be able to retire. The alternative is not good, as she would hate living on a starship, and the loneliness would destroy her. It is impossible. An alien world other than Earth would be even worse; she would have nothing she loves there. Humans need humans, as I know so well.

  I am now on her second story, standing on the huge covered balcony overlooking the ocean. Even with a heavy cloud layer and rain, I enjoy an outstanding view. I am angry with myself and feel sad, too, disappointed in myself for letting this happen. She deserves better. I feel like a fool. It is better for her if I leave, although I will give her my best these next couple of days; it will be my short moment in the sun and real happiness for me. I will also try to protect her from her enemies, even if she does not know it. She does not know about the senator’s friend Luca and his son Anthony, two real criminals. Might be the only thing I do that is to her real benefit, take care those two.

  I am such an idiot, clearly selfish, doing nothing more than looking after my needs, my ten days of fun. Her life is superb without me; it would be even better if she’d never met me. I was warned.

  Since I can’t relax, too emotional, distressed by my lack of judgment, I need to do something. I decide to take a run. I need to do a hard run to work off the aching sadness and the day’s stress; it has not been a great day. I put on a baseball cap from Anna’s closet, then some sweats and running shoes I find in the guest room closet and head out.

  I hardly need to worry about security for Anna, as there is my drone security team, plus so many CIA, FBI, and NSA guys around Anna’s house they are stepping on one another. They are trying to hide from me as I head down the street. I am running in the rain from the storms I created yet making a good pace, maybe twenty-five miles per hour. The run feels good, my muscles stretching out, needing the workout, my strength returning with each stride. I know my detail of FBI guys will be hard-pressed to keep up with me, and I know the Cyclone is also moving with me, leaving the Saber back at Anna’s house to protect her. I quickly run about ten miles and decide to stop at a late-night bar all lit up, big neon signs, easy to spot on one corner. I cross over to it. The neighborhood is rough but perfect for me. I could use a drink and I love Kentucky bourbon. Time to medicate my depression.

  I go into the bar soaking wet and sweating, no surprise, looking like I have been running in the rain. I look around, not too many there. It is late, and no one pays me any attention. In one corner there are three big guys, well muscled, long-haired, with their dates—young, good-looking girls, with some class. I am surprised they are here with these guys, at this bar. Not much brainpower there. The girls have on short skirts; they’re sexy girls yet intelligent. One smiles at me. There are also a couple of guys at the bar, half-drunk, and another older couple at a far table.

  I sit at the bar, ask the bartender for a Maker’s Mark on the rocks, a double. He looks at me, hands me a towel to dry off, laughs, and in a British accent he says, “You must be from Kentucky? Maybe Fort Campbell?” He gives me my drink.

  I smile. “Thanks! Yes, I am from Kentucky and I know Fort Campbell. Have you been there?”

  He shakes his head no and looks at me real serious. With a strong British accent he exclaims, “You need to get back there. It’s not safe here. The world has become a dodgy place today, especially here. Can you believe what happened over the Pacific Ocean? Did you see all the fireworks? It wasn’t far from here. Half the world lit up. The Pacific looked like a fireball! It’s a lot more serious than the government is saying because they don’t say anything, just smoke and mirrors. Totally dodgy! Thousands of phone calls, all the TV networks asking; the president and the military say nothing. I know why. It’s all rubbish! They’re scared of what they think it really is, aliens, and they don’t have a clue what to do about it. I know what’s going on; what do you think?”

  I laugh; tell him I have no clue. I take a drink of the bourbon; feel the warmth as it goes down my throat, enjoying the taste and the comforting scent, an overall sensation that feels good. I also love the warmth in my belly and I feel the strength of the drink. Nothing like being home. I ask the bartender, “So what is going on?”

  He looks around as if someone might be listening, then he stares hard at me, troubled, his eyes bloodshot from too little sleep. “The aliens are here! They’re all around us, might even be living in this neighborhood, maybe disguised to look like us. They were out there in the Pacific today, practicing with their weapons, getting ready to take us over, kill all of us. Yes, quite lovely! Maybe they will freeze us, save us for dinner for their long space trips or some kind of bloody thing. We don’t have a chance. If they can come from millions of miles away, they have technology way beyond us, and they want something. There is some reason they’re here. It’s—”

  He stops talking. We hear a woman’s pleading voice, stressed and garbled, causing both of us to look over at the three big guys at the table. It is the same girl who smiled at me. One of them has her by the hair and is pulling her head back, trying to force her to drink from a bottle. She is crying, choking, trying to resist, pleading for him to stop. Her blouse is ripped, her hair a mess. He is much stronger and hurting her, and he is relishing it. The other two guys are laughing, and the other two women look frightened, yelling at him to let her go.

  The bartender looks displeased, staring at them yet saying nothing, then looks at me and says, “They play NPL football with the LA Chiefs and will break up the place if I call the police or say anything to them. They can’t handle the booze, and always causing trouble.”

  I laugh and say, “I’m glad I’m here to help you. No reason to call the police. I can do better! I’m in the mood, too.”

  I hear the Cyclone in my head, warning me to be careful, asking if I need more drones. I ask if there is anyone outside the building on the sidewalk. I hear a negative.

  I immediately walk over to the big guys’ table, before the longhairs can react. Barely stopping, I grab the table, gripping one side hard, then lean way back, swinging it farther back, then lurching forward in a massive jerk, throwing it forward hard over their heads, straight through the window twenty-five feet away. Since it is a big wooden table, it takes out the entire window and a big part of the wall. It makes a huge explosion of a lot of glass, wood fragments, drywall, window framing, and lots of dust. It leaves a large gaping hole looking out onto the wet night, with streetlights visible. It also makes a lot of noise on the outside street, like an explosive going off, as it lands on the sidewalk. Everyone drops back, stunned; there are a couple of loud gasps and one short scream.

  The football player with the woman’s hair in his hands has let her go, staring at me as if he can’t comprehend reality, standing there with a panicky look. I help him keep thinking that thought, as I step over to him, grab his hair and part of one ear with one fist, pulling him closer. His resists by pulling back. My other hand grips his jaw; he stops resisting, afraid I will crush his jaw, his eyes tearing up from the pain, although I am trying not to actually crush his face, careful as I can be, considering the situation. He is on his knees now. My eyes are penetrating his eyes, and his brain feels my thoughts, asking him if he feels sick. I tell him he should be ashamed. He will apologize to the girl, plus pay the bartender for the hole in the wall, and I probe his brain to make sure he agrees; he feels the terrible pain of his mind reacting to the probe, now terrified. He urinates in his pants and then starts vomiting. I push him down, drop him to the floor. He down on all fours. He can’t stop vomiting, dry heaves, moaning, and sobbing.

  Looking at the rest of them, I smile and politely ask the girl if she is OK. She nods her head, sort of a shocked, dazed reply, and her eyes really big. I ask her if it is all r
ight for the FBI to haul these guys off, as the FBI will be there in about two seconds. She just stares at me.

  I look harshly at the other two guys, not surprised by the horror in their eyes. They are terrified of me, hearing my voice in their heads. I tell them they are going to enjoy the next few hours of being interrogated by the police, NSA, and FBI. I look at the other girls, saying to them they might not see these guys for some time. Do they mind? The cavalry is coming, the Cyclone tells me.

  They all stand there thunderstruck, and I am moving again. I am walking over to the large opening in the wall, looking out at the sidewalk. Before I step out, six big guys, some in black SWAT-team uniforms, plunge through the bar’s front door and are now all around us, guns out, a couple of assault rifles, too. They are all yelling at us “FBI! Get down on the floor!”

  Everybody does except for me. I quickly step outside through the new wall hole and I am gone before anyone has a chance to react. I run hard in the rain for Anna’s house, knowing the Cyclone has assigned twenty drones to provide me with security. They will scout ahead and also cover my retreat. I am back at Anna’s home in about twenty minutes, finally exhausted and anxious to get some sleep.

  The FBI security team is delighted that there was no confrontation with Henry Johnson, just three drunken football players—although they will not be playing much football in the near future, as they will be held in custody to prevent them from talking about Henry. The rest of the people in the bar, including the bartender, and the girls, will face confinement, too. Now is not a good time to have loose lips. All the FBI needs is a panicked population thinking the end of the world is here. Aliens are on Earth. No human could have thrown that table through the bar’s wall. Henry Johnson might think he is human, as he looks human, but he is not human. The FBI can only hope he has a little humanity left in him.