Incursion (The Narrows of Time Series Book 2)

by Jay J. Falconer

  The squad escorted the kitchen staff and corralled them with rest of the hostages.

  “What about our guards? And the manager?” Wyatt asked.

  “Unknown, sir,” Stevenson said. “There are clear signs of weapons’ fire in the hallway and near the cold storage, but no bodies or blood; someone cleaned up.”

  Wyatt looked at Freakshow. “Must have been the professor.”

  “But that’s not all, sir,” Stevenson added. “The equipment is missing, too.”

  “The jump pad?” Wyatt asked.

  Stevenson nodded. “Someone must have stolen it.”

  “Goddamn Kleezebee,” Freakshow said, before walking to the group of patrons sitting on the floor. He holstered his twin pistols, then knelt down on one knee in front of an older, pudgy man wearing a fancy button-down white shirt and a wide-brimmed hat. Freakshow pulled a long-bladed knife from a sheath on his left side. He pressed the serrated tip into the center of the man’s neck, making a pressure divot where the blade met skin. “What happened here?”

  The man didn’t answer.

  Freakshow’s jaw stiffened as he drew the man close to his face. He seemed to study the man’s eyes for a few seconds, then he jammed the knife into his throat, slashing it to the right. Blood sprayed horizontally as he went, until the man’s body slumped to the ground. “Defiance is the shortest path to the afterlife.” Freakshow stood up, blood dripping from his knife and shirtsleeve. He pointed at the corpse oozing red on the floor, then his eyes sharpened as he scanned the remaining civilians. “All of you: Look carefully. This is the path that destiny has set you on. For some of you, this is how your journey will end.”

  “Why y’all doing this?” a round, redheaded woman in the back cried out. “Please! Let us go. We don’t know anything.”

  Freakshow walked to the overweight woman with a puffed hairdo. He grabbed her by the collar of her shirt and pulled her to her feet. “What’s your name?” he asked, leaning in close to the sobbing woman. The boils on his face were millimeters away from her chubby cheeks.

  “Leigh Ann Frolov.”

  “The hostess?”

  Leigh Ann nodded through a torrent of tears. She turned her head away, her face red and swollen.

  “Look at me!” Freakshow demanded, grabbing the outline of her jaw with his thumb and forefinger. He turned her head forward. Their eyes met in the middle. “You recognize my face?”

  She nodded again, this time with eyes wide and lips shaking. Her face seemed to grow a darker shade of red, if that were even possible.

  “Then you know to choose your words carefully. Those who don’t fail to draw another breath.”

  Wyatt could see her throat shiver, as she swallowed what must have been a dry glob of spit.

  “Where is Bernard?” Freakshow asked, this time with more patience in his voice.

  “Who?” she asked in a shaky, broken voice.

  “The manager, bitch!”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know who ya mean.”

  Freakshow grabbed the hair on the back of her head with his hand. He lifted her with one hand off the floor about ten inches. She wrapped both of her hands around Freakshow’s wrist, screaming and swinging her feet wildly.

  “Last chance or you bleed,” he said, pressing the sharp edge of his knife against the white of her neck.

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she closed her eyes and cried hysterically.

  One of the other hostages, a middle-eastern man wearing tattered work pants and a red baseball cap, his jawline layered with thick, black facial hair, stood up. He couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and fifty pounds. “Don’t hurt her. She doesn’t know anything. None of us do,” he said, sidestepping his way through the civilians sitting on the floor. He stood in front of Freakshow with an unruffled look on his face. “Please. Let her go. You don’t have to do this.”

  Freakshow’s eyes flared, then he punched the man in the jaw with the hand holding the butt of the knife. The hero tumbled backward about ten feet, before sliding back-first into the side of a nearby booth. He crumpled over, lying on his right side, rubbing his chin. He spat out a patch of blood.

  Freakshow snarled as he slammed Leigh Ann down to her knees. He yanked her head back, exposing the artery in her neck. She cried out in obvious pain. He slid his knife under her throat and sneered at the rest of the hostages. “Your silence will be her death sentence. After which, I will choose another to take her place. Who shall it be?”

  There was no response from anyone. The café was dead silent except for the buzz of overhead lights. Dust particles hovered around the lights in a slow, methodical motion, highlighting their iridescence. “Trust me, before this hour is over, one of you will tell me what I want to know, or I shall destroy all of you.”

  Wyatt thought about stepping in to stop the slaughter, but his feet wouldn’t move. He knew that intervention would get them severed, along with the rest of his limbs.

  A moment later, Freakshow gasped, letting go of Leigh Ann. He dropped the knife and grabbed the sides of his head with his hands. He stumbled toward the corner of the diner, zigzagging as he went. He stood hunched over, facing the far wall with his back to Wyatt. After a good thirty seconds, Freakshow straightened his posture, turned and nodded.

  Wyatt wasn’t sure if his boss wanted him to kill the hostess, or continue with the interrogation. Freakshow normally took care of the wet work personally, so Wyatt needed to be sure. He held his shredder rifle up and cocked his head, as if to ask the commander if he was to assume the role of executioner. Freakshow shook his head, then put his hands together and drew them apart, like curtains opening.

  Wyatt understood. He stepped forward, unrolled his mobile paper-thin vid-screen panel and activated it with the tip of his finger. An image of a redheaded, clean-cut male in his twenties appeared and sharpened into focus. The dimpled man had several raised scars on his chin and cheeks. He held the device in front of the hostages. “Anyone seen this man? His name is Lucas Ramsay. He’s wanted by the Supreme Commander for heinous crimes against the state.”

  The civilian group remained alert. This time, there were no cries or sobs from any of the detainees.

  “Come on. Someone here had to have seen this man. He was just here.”

  Again, no response.

  Wyatt touched the vid-screen again, this time the image portrayed a much older man, in his retirement years, wearing a gray beard and wire-rimmed glasses.

  “What about this guy? His name is Dr. Kleezebee. Anyone know his whereabouts?”

  Three of the hostages shook their heads no. The rest remained still and silent, their heads hanging low.

  Wyatt walked to Freakshow’s position. “Doesn’t seem like anyone here has a clue, sir. Doesn’t make sense. Clear signs of a firefight, but nobody knows what happened.” He looked at Leigh Ann. “Not even our own operatives.”

  Freakshow’s nose and lips pinched toward the middle, making the boils and lesions on his face pulsate faster than before.

  Wyatt worried that one of the pustules would explode, covering him in puss and blood. He took a step back. “It’s like they’ve all been brainwashed or something, sir. Or, possibly, they have some kind of collective amnesia.”

  Freakshow hurried to the front door, where he stopped and turned to Wyatt. “End it. End it now.”

  “But sir, this is our most popular feeding station.”

  “You have your orders, Sergeant. The SC wants no witnesses and no evidence left behind.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wyatt answered, as his heart sank. He knew what command he must give his men next.

  Freakshow walked out the front door and disappeared from sight.

  Wyatt turned to his men. “You heard the commander. Get it done. Then torch the place.”

  Wyatt followed Freakshow into the parking lot directly in front of the diner. He stopped his feet, took a deep breath, then closed his eyes as a river of soul-piercing screams rang out from the restaurant behind him. A momen
t later, five seconds of intense gunfire and then mostly silence followed, broken only by the clatter of military-issued equipment and boots walking out of the diner.

  SEVENTEEN

  Lucas pushed past Alista, wanting to get a better look at the inside of the Baaku ship. A vast interior towered above him; it was much larger than it looked from the outside. It had to be at least ten stories tall. He felt as if he were standing at the bottom of a empty well and looking up, except this well was five hundred feet wide and had industrial-style catwalks decorating the top eight levels. It reminded him of an Embassy Suites atrium-style hotel back on Earth, except the air was thick and smelled canned, almost artificial, certainly recycled and conditioned. The ground floor was empty and contained no equipment or furniture.

  This ship’s interior walls were mostly a translucent white that glimmered and swirled along their smooth surface, giving the impression they were fluid and alive. Streaks of interwoven orange and bronze colors danced inside the white, forming a hypnotic light show of fractal shapes and patterns that appeared at random. The combinations were both beautiful and endless.

  How could this much space exist inside this transport pod? His mind blinked at the ramifications. “How is all this possible?” he asked Alista.

  “Spatial Reconfiguration. One of Flexus’ specialties.”

  He looked at Flexus. “You made all this?”

  Flexus bowed, proud of her accomplishments. “I am the shaper.”

  “How?”

  “Flexus can reshape and reconfigure matter, while bending 3D space at will. It takes a lifetime to master, but as you can see, the results are impressive.”

  That was an understatement, Lucas thought. “So there’s not a mother ship parked in orbit?”

  “No. This craft provides everything we need,” Alista said.

  “Nice work, Flexus,” he said, bending down to touch the cold floor beneath his feet. The silver-speckled metallic surface was etched with a giant red emblem that featured a sprawling version of the Baaku’s religious symbol. Equidistant black lines extended out along the floor from each corner of the crest and intersected the base of the circular walls. He felt like he was standing in the middle of the giant crucifix target carved into the floor.

  “How many of you are there?” Lucas asked.

  “Seven shapers, plus one,” Flexus replied.

  “I believe he was asking you how many Baaku are aboard this ship,” Alista said.

  Lucas nodded. He suspected Alista was swimming around in his head again, because that was exactly what he thinking.

  “Precisely ten generations aboard,” Flexus said, using her usual monotone voice.

  “There are ten thousand two hundred and forty of us living in this settlement,” Alista said. “Plus Flexus and her seven siblings.”

  Lucas recognized the binary significance of the ship’s population. He ran quick calculation: 10 went neatly into 10240, meaning 1024 people per generation—a kilobyte. Plus a byte of eight shapers. Must be a mathematical coincidence, he decided, or perhaps these aliens were overly concerned with precision. “When you said ‘precisely ten generations,’ what did you mean?”

  “I think you already know the answer to that question,” Alista said.

  “The same number per generation—a perfectly balanced population, if it were,” Lucas said.

  “Balanced population is accurate,” Flexus replied.

  Lucas studied Alista’s body language, trying to determine if those cute, pear-shaped blue eyes were a front for her thought invasion force. Was she scurrying about inside his brain? He couldn’t feel anything, yet her choice of words had him concerned. If she were reading his mind again, would the uninvited presence be a risk to his already-declining mental health?

  He expected to hear something in response from the traveler, but the voice remained silent. Maybe while Alista was inside, crawling around his brain, his alter ego couldn’t or wouldn’t communicate—not a bad trade-off, he decided.

  “In Earth years, each generation is sixteen years removed from the previous,” Alista said. “I am the most senior of the eldest generation.”

  Lucas found that hard to believe. “You’re the leader?”

  Alista nodded. “Yes. My responsibly is to inject my thoughts and then interpret communications with other species. As I did with you on the ledge. All command decisions are then made collectively.”

  A collective? Like the Borg? He looked around, expecting to see a stumbling squad of technology-covered bio-men, half machine-half human. But he didn’t see anyone else. “Ten generations?”

  “We are not accustomed to outsiders. Allow me a moment.” Alista closed her eyes and tilted her head. Seconds later, hordes of Baaku—all female—stepped into view on each level of the ship above Lucas. All of them looked to be the same age and height as Alista. Lucas realized he was dealing with a race of four-foot-tall, pre-adolescent telepaths.

  A section of the iridescent wall in front of Lucas dissolved to reveal a group of older women who looked similar to Flexus. They were standing shoulder-to-shoulder with their hands touching in front of their chests, in a praying position. Lucas counted the women—there were only six, not seven as Flexus had mentioned. One was missing—possibly off doing god-knows-what.

  The first shaper of the six-pack was the only female wearing an orange-colored body suit—the rest were dressed the same as Flexus. Lucas smiled at her. She giggled and then ducked her head into the shoulder of the Baaku standing next to her. At least someone on board this ship has a sense of humor, he mused.

  “I take it that these women are your re-shaper sisters?” he asked Flexus.

  She nodded.

  “Where are all the men?”

  “We are mainly a single-gender race,” Alista answered.

  “Mainly?”

  “There are males, but none currently reside on this ship.”

  “If this is a self-contained settlement as you claim, doesn’t that make it a little difficult to have children?”

  “When it is time to replenish our population, spontaneous gender reassignment is used.”

  Lucas turned to Flexus. “Just a little more of your voodoo, I suppose.”

  “I am not involved,” Flexus said.

  “It is a reconfiguration procedure. When it is time for our re-population cycle to begin, a collective decision is made as to who will undergo reassignment and who will serve as the surrogate. Those that are chosen for reassignment enter our reconfigured chamber, where they are implanted with a supply of male reproductive cells and an appendage—”

  “You mean sperm and a penis,” Lucas said, realizing his bladder was nearly full. It had been hours since he’d emptied it.

  “That analogy is correct,” Flexus said.

  Lucas shook his head. “That would never fly on my planet.”

  “It is a tremendous honor among my people to be chosen for reassignment,” Alista said. “Those who are selected step into the reconfiguration chamber willingly.”

  “Then what happens?”

  “The participants pair off in a controlled, weightless environment where conception is initiated and guaranteed. The entire process requires only seconds to complete.”

  A bunch of two-pump chumps, Lucas thought. “When it’s over, what happens to the . . . men?”

  “The process is reversed,” Flexus answered.

  Lucas cringed at the thought. “I don’t know. Sex is one of the few things my species does well. We could never follow a strict set of protocols like that.”

  “Yes, we have noticed that your species is pre-occupied with uncontrolled couplings,” Alista said. “Our process is much more efficient.”

  “But not nearly as fun,” he replied.

  Alista and Flexus looked at each other. Neither of them smiled.

  At that moment, Lucas valued his humanity more than ever. The Baaku might view him as just a tedious, run-of-the-mill human, but at least he had some level of passion in his life. And
hopefully, while on the picnic with Carrie Anne, he might enjoy some heart-pounding, sweat-filled sex. No wonder these aliens cruised around like emotion-starved drones. All the complexities of relationships and sex had been removed from their culture.

  It puzzled him why the Baaku didn’t use artificial insemination on the female surrogates, bypassing the need for the two seconds of wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am after reassignment surgery. Maybe it was simply a Baaku tradition, one that they didn’t want to lose or didn’t know how to change.

  His bladder pressed hard against his abdomen. He couldn’t hold it any longer. “Do you have a bathroom? If not, I can just run outside and find the closest bush.”

  “May I assist you?” Flexus asked.

  Lucas wondered about her choice of words. “I appreciate the offer, but all I need is a room with a door and a toilet. I can take it from there.”

  Flexus furrowed her brow, looked at Alista.

  “He needs a private place to urinate,” Alista told her. “Construct four walls, a floor-mounted waste receptacle, and a running water source so he may disinfect himself afterward.”

  Flexus nodded. She touched the fluidic wall nearest to her and inserted her hand into the colors showering its surface. Seconds later, a segment of the wall began to slide out six feet in front of her. It looked like an oversized black phone booth, but it had no entrance.

  “Inside you will find everything you need,” Alista said.

  “Uh, where is the door?”

  “Take one step forward,” Alista said.

  Lucas did as she instructed and the front wall of the phone booth dissolved. He smiled. “Ah, I should have expected that.”

  When he stepped inside, the wall behind him reformed as soon as his body cleared the opening. The inside of the bathroom was lit brilliantly from above, and its walls were swirling with orange and bronze colors.

  He had expected to find a toilet or urinal, but the Baaku bathroom was empty, except for an open, three-inch-wide black pipe sticking up from the center of the floor. There was a vertical stream of water to his left, flowing between two cream-colored spouts sticking out from the fluidic wall. The protrusions resembled ceramic faucets and were mounted one on top of the other, about twelve inches apart. Flexus must have built the water stream backward, since it was flowing from the bottom faucet to the top, defying both gravity and logic. He shook his head.