by RJ Johnson
“Why do you look for them?” He had asked her.
“For who?” She murmured.
“Aliens, I guess.” Alex said. “I mean, I know Star Wars and Star Trek, and pretty much every movie in Hollywood has us convinced there are aliens out there, but in the whole entire experience of mankind, there’s not a shred of evidence they exist.”
“This is some sexy pillow talk you know that?” Emily chuckled. She turned, kissing Alex on the cheek. It was rare feeling, but she felt incredibly safe with this man who had wrapped his arms around her. He had been a pretty good lover too, and that was probably rarer than extraterrestrial life.
“I'm just saying, you know, don't get me wrong, the whole idea of aliens is fascinating to me, but we’ve never got any proof of them. So, why aliens?”
“For one, there's a lot more to it than just aliens. I also do a lot of really fascinating radio astronomy, charting supernovas, the center of the galaxy, that kind of thing.
“Yeah, but you said aliens...” Alex accused playfully.
“Well, then, I'll give you the same answer anyone in my field would give you. The Drake equation.” She replied.
“Drake equation?” Alex thought to himself. “Sounds familiar.”
“It's pretty famous. You probably read about it in some bad science fiction novel trying to rationalize aliens in their story or whatever. But, yeah, back in the 60’s, the founder of the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence, Frank Drake, wrote a formula determining just how many radio-transmitting civilizations there might be out there. The formula’s not really anything too serious, since we don’t really know all the answers to the variables in there, but it is a good and simple little math equation that can give you an idea how many might be out there. Some of the values we know a lot about, and we can plug those no problem into the formula, like the rate of star formation in our galaxy for example.”
“What else do you use?” Alex asked fascinated. He loved hearing her talk, though since she had just slept with him, she could be reading him the phone book, and he would have been just as fascinated.
“Well, from that, we take, umm, how many of those stars have habitable planets, which we don’t really know, but for the sake of argument, let's call it ten percent. Then a fraction of those planets that develop life, a fraction of those that get intelligent life, and the fraction of those that are broadcasting, and then however long they broadcast for, surviving technology and all that of course, and voila!”
“We’ve got how many ET’s are out there.” Alex said, not really getting it. He was too busy staring at her eyes.
“Bingo.” Emily smiled at the man in bed with her. It felt comfortable.
“What do you mean, ‘survive technology’?” Alex asked bemused.
“Well, I think Drake looked at us as an example for a lot of things, and since we’re so great at killing each other, and finding new ways to kill each other, he put a variable that asks how many civilizations can get past killing each other. I mean, you gotta remember, he came up with the equation during the height of the Cold War. He has a pretty good point. Plus, science is only going to get faster from here, you know. Pretty soon we’ll have some pretty unimaginable stuff, and how long do you really think we can avoid killing ourselves?”
Emily slumped back in bed. It was the most depressing part of the Drake equation. The number of civilizations had to equal at least one, as it included humanity, but the lack of results in finding other intelligent life so far did not bode well for the overall survivability of a species in the universe. The idea that humanity wouldn’t make it past their technological phase of development was the most ominous part of the Drake equation to Emily.
Alex swallowed, “I didn’t mean to bring you down.” He touched her face and smiled. “I’m just trying to figure out the nuts and bolts of Emily Smith. She’s a pretty lady that I’d like to know better.”
She smiled, and they fell back into each other’s arms. The sense of dread Emily had experienced melted away the moment Alex kissed her. This was something she thought she could get used to pretty quickly.
The images faded away as Alex awoke with a metallic taste in his mouth. The world appeared fuzzy around him, but it slowly came back into focus as he remembered where he was and how he had gotten there.
Alex struggled to move his legs, and found that his body was not cooperating with the orders he gave it. His painful gasps were only getting worse. He had survived some pretty harsh conditions and even some pretty bad field wounds, but never anything like this, and Alex didn’t have any options or help this time.
The brush around him was becoming shapeless as precious oxygen left Alex’s starved brain cells. In the distance he thought he could hear his father urging him to get up and keep moving.
It was then that Alex spotted a hungry-looking coyote. It began to close in on Alex, its wounded prey and meal for the evening. It kept its movements slow and cautious. Man, even in his dying throes, could be dangerous, it knew, but the coyote had waited for a meal this long. It could wait a few more minutes.
Alex watched the animal move closer to him, a sense of dread filling his stomach. The animal was quite large, and its fiery red eyes pierced into Alex's soul. For a moment, Alex thought he was hallucinating; he thought he could see a stone matching the one his father had given him hanging off the top of the coyote’s ear.
Alex painfully tried to turn on his side and move away from the animal. He was unarmed, and unable to move quickly. In his condition, he doubted he could do much to stop the wild animal from hurting him further, or worse, finish him off.
The coyote moved closer to Alex, growling and barking in a low tone. Alex watched, his breathing labored as he struggled to stay conscious. He moved his arm painfully, trying to get away from the animal that sniffed Alex’s bloody pants.
As Alex shifted his weight, the stone his father had given him moments ago fell into contact with Alex’s body. At first, he didn’t notice the blue glow emanating from the black stone, but soon, the light spread out and enveloped his entire body.
The coyote, which had gotten too close, yelped and skittered away from the glowing man. Alex cried out and coughed violently as his body began to repair the damage from the fall. He trembled with pain as his bones knit back together, the skin stretching itself and repairing its rips and bruises from only moments before.
A few seconds after the blue glow had subsided, Alex stood up on his own. Staring at the coyote that had nearly made him his meal, Alex shook his head and gave him a mock salute.
“Not tonight, pal.”
The coyote barked in response before turning and running back into the brush and away from Alex.
Rubbing his head, Alex wasn’t so much concerned with the whys or hows of his miraculous healing as he was with finding a way to escape the people who had just thrown him off a cliff and murdered his father.
Alex’s stomach fell at the memory of his father falling over the side of the cliff, but compartmentalized it as his training kicked in. There was no time to mourn; he had to find his father’s body and hope that he could do to him whatever it was that had just healed his own injuries.
Keeping low and moving hurriedly through the dry and brittle scrub brush, Alex snuck around towards where he thought his father’s body might have landed. Unfortunately, as he drew closer, he saw that he was too late. Two workers in hard hats, directed by the large bald man in the inappropriately warm leather jacket, had already found his father’s body, and were loading it into the back of their Chevy Suburban.
Alex bit his knuckle and tried to keep from screaming at the thought of his father’s murderers having his dad’s body. But he was too late; it would be certain suicide to charge in there without a weapon of any kind.
Tears rolled down Alex’s face as he watched the men finish loading his father’s body into the Suburban. The truck started up, and as it bounced away on the uneven desert floor, Alex composed himself and began to think on how t
o escape. His father had had the keys to the Jeep, and without that Jeep, food or water, Alex didn’t stand much chance in the desert.
The only thing to do was to wait for the sun to completely set, so that Alex would have the cover of darkness. After that, he thought, he could maybe hike out to the highway and flag down a passing vehicle.
He watched from a safe distance, and watched as a veritable tent city was built alongside the dark and imposing mesa. Powerful halogen lights lit up the side of the mountain as vast amounts of mining equipment and large drilling machines began to attach themselves to the side of the mountain. In only a few short hours, with heavy equipment and manpower, the area surrounding the mesa had become like something out of a conspiracy theorists’ wet dream.
Billions of stars twinkled above Alex as he approached the camp quietly, using every ounce of his training to escape detection. He ducked behind some thick manzanita brush as a Suburban roared down the road in front of him. The truck stopped, and two men with heavy-duty work gloves got out and began unloading heavy fence poles from the rear and roof.
The first worker, a burly man whose belt buckle proclaimed him as Master of the Female Body, complete with near-pornographic detail, grabbed the first of five poles set on the rooftop of the Chevy Suburban.
“The holes were dug last week, from what the foreman tells me. Our job,” the burly Master said to his companion, “is to cement ‘em in at least four feet deep.”
“Jesus,” the smaller man said as he struggled with the poles, “What do you think Kline’s protecting up there?”
The burly man shrugged, his fat face narrowing as his thoughts turned greedily to thick envelope of cash that the man who had hired him had given him earlier today at the bar where he spent most of his days. “Don’t matter to me. Ten thousand dollars for a few days' work is more than enough to keep me from asking any questions.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at his companion, “Probably be a good idea if you didn’t ask any either.”
The smaller man nodded as their forms disappeared down the dark road, carrying the heavy fence poles. Alex snuck into the road and kept his body tight against the truck as he made his way to the driver’s side. Hoping the two men were as dumb as they looked, Alex said a small prayer and pushed the button to open up the driver’s side door.
To Alex’s immediate relief, the door popped open. Hoping against hope that his luck would continue, Alex used what little light he had to search for the keys. He was rewarded with the clinking of metal in the cup holder in the truck. It seemed that while the burly man might indeed be the Master of the Female Body, his critical thinking skills needed work. Alex grasped the keys out of the cup holder and put them into the ignition.
The two men hadn’t walked far down the road, so when they heard their truck start up and the lights come on, they turned back to see who was stealing their Suburban.
Alex threw the stolen vehicle into gear and pushed the accelerator to the floor, the car fishtailing slightly as it struggled to find traction on the loose desert soil. Great plumes of dirt flew out behind the Suburban as it beat a path out and away from the two construction workers.
The two men, dumbfounded at the turn of their luck, dropped the two poles they were carrying as they watched their ride take off into the desert night. The smaller man handed the radio he was carrying to his friend.
“I’m gonna let you call this in.”
The burly man scowled as he grabbed the radio away from his smaller companion. He dialed a few numbers and clicked the side.
“Mr. Tate, we’ve uhh, got a problem.”
Chapter Seven
Alex pushed the accelerator as fast as he dared on the dark and poorly maintained Joshua Tree dirt roads. He kept the lights off as he raced away from Kline and company in the stolen Suburban.
Alex had to find a main road and get on it. With every second Alex spent away from civilization, it was another second his father’s murderers had to catch up with him and finish the job they started.
Along with finding a road, Alex knew he had to find the police. Looking at the dashboard, he found the on-board navigation. After he tapped a few keys, the pleasant female voice came through the Suburban’s speakers.
“Where would you like to go today?”
“Police Station.” Alex called out.
“Searching.” The computer accessed the hard drive full of maps and directions. “Joshua Tree Sheriff's Station, computing directions now. Take next left hand turn.”
Going to the police was a risky proposition for Alex, considering the scary people who were out there looking for him, but Alex figured that there wasn't anyone in Joshua Tree who knew anyone looking for him. He’d talk to the sheriff, raise hell, and then disappear once he knew his father’s body was recovered by the authorities. The revenge could come later; he had plenty of resources set aside for just that sort of occasion.
Gritting his teeth, Alex urged the Suburban faster, the truck bouncing violently over the uneven surface of the dirt road. He hunkered down, his knuckles turning whiter as he held tight onto the steering wheel, aiming for the paved highway road, hoping he would make it there before the men chasing him got to him first.
Chapter Eight
Kline sat in the hermetically sealed trailer that had been specially designed by his firm. The office had been specifically designed so that he could have it towed to any location on earth, either by a helicopter, or more conventionally, on the back of semi truck trailer. The truck hauling his trailer had rumbled to a stop only moments after Kline and company had landed. He had locked himself in the trailer, insisting that he not be troubled by anyone. Geoffrey Tate did not like disobeying his boss’s orders, but in situations such as these, there was little choice.
The billionaire was lost in concentration, and almost didn’t hear Tate cough politely, announcing his presence. Annoyed, Kline brushed some dirt off the plans in front of him and acknowledged Tate's second cough.
“What is it, Mr. Tate?” Kline asked, not bothering to lift his eyes from the papers on his desk.
“We may have a situation, sir.”
“Situation?” Kline deemed it appropriate now to raise his head and look his number two in the eyes. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Apparently, one of our Suburbans was stolen from two of our workers out in the desert where they were building the perimeter fence.”
“So? Probably some migrant workers passing through the area, and the two idiots didn’t lock up.” Kline shook his head impatiently, “Thank them for their service, offer them our special ‘severance package’ and then lose them in the desert. Understood?”
“Sir, things may be worse than a stolen truck.”
“How so?” Kline’s voice became dangerous.
“The two men who were here when we landed?”
“Yes, what of them?” Kline asked, his voice growling, never a good sign.
“I’m afraid we only found one body.”
Geoffrey braced himself for the inevitable temper tantrum his boss was so adept at throwing. He didn’t have to wait long, as Kline rushed towards him faster than Geoffrey’s eyes could follow. Suddenly, the bald assistant found himself airborne, as Kline raised him over his head using only a fraction of his available strength.
“He got away?” Kline’s anger permeated the room. The psychosis in his eyes was clearly apparent. This was a kind of murderous rage one rarely sees in anything resembling a human being. “I threw the man off a cliff!”
Geoffrey attempted to wheeze out a response, but found himself unable to with his bosses' tight grip around his throat. Kline, disgusted with his second, in command dropped him to the ground and whisked himself away to his drawings as if nothing had happened. Grasping his neck, massaging it where the collar had cut into his skin, Geoffrey approached Kline’s side also as if nothing had happened. It was a trick he had learned over the years. His boss's anger could rise and subside within minutes, each time as unpredictable as the last.<
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“Do you see these plans, Mr. Tate?” Kline pointed to the schematics in front of him. Geoffrey remained silent, another trick he had learned.
“These surveyor maps show absolutely no mineable ore or natural gas deposits here in the middle of nowhere. Do you know why I’m here, Mr. Tate?”
Geoffrey wordlessly shook his head.
“No, you don’t, and neither does anyone else. I want to keep it that way, so brainless, dimwitted do-gooders do not come out here and ask a lot of questions that we are not prepared to answer without resorting to violence. And you don’t want that, do you, Mr. Tate?”
Geoffrey shook his head no, and Kline nodded, his faith restored in Geoffrey. Kline walked over to the wall examining more surveyor maps keenly, forgetting for the moment that he had nearly killed his most valued employee only seconds before.
Without warning, Kline turned to Geoffrey. His subordinate winced, expecting another attack. Instead, in a low, kind voice, Kline said to him, “Mr. Tate, I believe all our Suburbans can be tracked through their GPS, can they not?”
Geoffrey, ashamed at not thinking of this sooner, nodded his head.
“Well then, it’s a simple matter of turning that on and finding him, isn’t it?” Kline asked, his eyes glowing with merriment instead of the murderous rage that had been there only a few moments before.
“I’ll get right to it,” Geoffrey murmured.
“Excellent, Mr. Tate, excellent.” Kline rubbed his hands gleefully. “Take a chopper, find our little nuisance, and put him in the ground.” Kline’s eyes narrowed as Geoffrey began to exit the room. “And Mr. Tate…” Geoffrey turned and looked at his boss, expecting another threat against his life. “Please be sure to not miss this time, yes?”
Geoffrey, not wanting to argue the point, exited Kline’s office, typing furiously on his PDA’s keypad. He had narrowly avoided his boss’s wrath; he would need to prove to Kline, once again, just how valuable his talents were, and why he was paid as he was. His PDA beeped in response to the text message he had just sent out. Geoffrey flipped it open. The text read:
