Earth vs Alien

by Ronald D Thompson

  The Earth looked decidedly different in 2018. The distinct black pyramids, testimony to the Olympianas’ zonal advantage, in New Manhattan, were nowhere to be seen from the skies above the United States of America. Robert became very patriotic at the thought. He could pull this off and rid the planet of the scourge of the Olympianas, courtesy of Qudor Volkan’s offensive actions 200 years earlier.

  The skies were fresh, the planet blue and there was no abundance of alien occupation. This was Robert’s world, a time to which he was destined to belong. The plan was simple – destroy the portal amplifier. He was there when it had been stolen from the base at Area 51 and he knew exactly where Qudor Volkan was headed – it was an easy target. The archives suggested that the machine was harboured with the captured F16s and other stealths that Qudor had apprehended undetected with ease from the humans.

  The flight dials were as they should be and the destination was set. Robert was on his way and enjoying the ride. This beast could travel – to say it was 2018 – his experience akin to driving an original early car, say a Ford Model T back in 1908 compared to an Aston Martin Vanquish. Robert was impressed, he had read about these machines as all the rage in the early 2000s. A pivotal development in the race to steal control of the skies, commanding aerial advantage; both the Russians and the Americans competed for a superior stealth, one that would dominate.

  The sun was setting, a magnificent sight. As the red glow of our planet’s star was almost hiding in the distance, playing hide-and-seek as the plane meandered through the skies, made Robert feel alive. Once Qudor was out of the way he would introduce himself to his hero, Dane Vhastek. He would also rid the planet of the scum, the Zaagans, settle down and see out his days in harmonious bliss.

  Just then, a shudder!

  Robert looked down – ‘my visor must be playing tricks’, he thought. ‘Can’t be right’. The computer readings were skewed, the altitude reading was clearly wrong. He had no control of the flight handle, it moved of its own accord and the altitude reading was stabling. The plane was descending to be more in line with passenger flights. ‘This wasn’t in the damn manual’, thought Robert with horror. Another thought occurred to Robert, something he remembered from the history of events. It was the abduction of the F16s, the region over the skies – ‘I’ve entered the territorial space which Qudor designated as too close; he’s disabled the stealth with his electromagnetic pulse and he has control’, realised Robert gloomily.

  The stealth settled, the controls now beyond Robert’s influence in automatic mode. The destination showed the Kerguelen Islands, Antarctica. Robert would meet Qudor Volkan but not in the circumstances he would have wished.

  His fear – the dreaded Drayzaks – but Robert held the ace card.

  **********************************

  Croyolis Valentrek led the other two delegates into the meeting quarters at the Time Capsule Centre. No escorts were necessary. The Council of the Light consisted only of the most advanced civilisations; humans, Undarthians, Zaagans, Trollozytes and the likes, were all mere pawns. Their mental capabilities alone could disarm any opposition. The dress code: pure white, epitomising perfection, almost as pure as their superiority. Croyolis originated from a distant planet in the galaxy, a region known to the council as Blue Horizon, testament to the aura of the gases in the region – the planet known as Serelius was home to the Arkelites on a Kardeshev scale of V. A civilisation able to control their star, beings who had eliminated warfare millions of years in their past, eradicating the need to worship; a race so superior that fear of annihilation was redundant.

  The meeting room was silent. Samuel, Dr Laderman and Maxius awaited the arrival of the three delegates in silence. There were no last words from the condemned men. The door opened automatically, the strides of the three delegates were in perfect harmony; they entered without a break in stride. The three men condemned, rose, equally in harmony.

  ‘Croyolis,’ greeted Laderman nervously. Being aware of whom the Council of the Light had sent did not ease the nerves.

  ‘Dr Laderman,’ replied Croyolis. There was no need for the head translator; Croyolis was proficient in all galactic languages. The look on the face of the delegate who stared back at Laderman, however, said a thousand words. He knew the problem, there was no explanation needed. The thoughts of all three humans were instantly read, as easy as reading a traffic sign.

  ‘The problem is not the situation you have created. The solution you chose is the problem,’ explained Croyolis. Every statement seemed a prophecy; such was the extreme expanse of knowledge. As in a chess game, Croyolis was already eight steps ahead of Laderman, even before he gave this initial response.

  ‘We are in your hands,’ replied Laderman, almost childlike.

  ‘You have chosen a path of destruction, the very basis upon which your claim is flawed. The three time capsules were afforded you, at your request, only one to be used. You have defied orders and used all three. Two of the missions will alter your ways and one will not,’ said Croyolis.

  Clear as mud as far as Laderman was concerned. He looked across at his equally bemused colleagues as he shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘The mission that you say will not alter our ways, should we be able to fathom to which mission that relates?’ asked Samuel.

  ‘If you fathom the obvious then the problem reduces lest the problem still exists. Your claim to sole rights to this land rests on your evaluation of the problem and the manner with which you change your ways. Your species has always advocated war, a state of being the council abhor. Pursuit of evidence, a basis of the quest for truth, the council applauds. Violating trust, though, is a state by which all rights are withdrawn.’

  ‘Is there any way we can reverse that violation?’ asked Samuel, now at the point where this concoction of profound statements actually began to make sense.

  ‘The violation has already occurred. Reversal means a new strand of time, that which cannot reverse the violation, only change the outcome; not of this strand but of a different trajectory of time,’ said Croyolis.

  Dr Laderman shrugged his shoulders for the second time; Maxius was confused even before Croyolis opened his mouth and Samuel stared as if the delegate from the Council of the Light had just spoken Swahili without a translation helmet.

  ‘One time machine will not be redeemed as was always the case. You will not see a change in this Earth strand of time,’ said Croyolis in an attempt to clarify his position. It wasn’t having any effect on Maxius nor Dr Laderman but Samuel was hanging in there. ‘Your request for the Time Capsules was to gather evidence to prove your case against the Zaagans. Your plan has been sabotaged. The council will be considering all claims. You have 72 Earth hours.’

  Dr Laderman understood the statement to be a stay of execution. Maxius was still confused and stared at the superior being with a glazed look. Samuel knew exactly what the statement meant:

  They had 72 hours to right their wrong.

  Croyolis left in the same unceremonious way he had entered the meeting room only ten minutes earlier. His two delegates followed two or three paces behind. Like three wingless angels, the trio of super beings entered the bubble and in a few moments the transporter would float effortlessly towards their craft parked in the centre of New Manhattan. The crowd, which had gathered to greet these super beings, eagerly awaited another glimpse.

  ‘What the hell was all that about?’ asked Maxius predictably.

  ‘You mean, you didn’t understand the subliminal message?’ asked Dr Laderman sarcastically.

  ‘I didn’t even understand what you just said,’ replied Maxius.

  ‘Quit it, you two, while I think for a moment,’ instructed Samuel. ‘So, let me think. Croyolis must have known what would happen before they allowed delivery of the three time machines. It is almost as if this needed to happen.’

  ‘What’s the 72 hours all about, Samuel?’ asked Dr Laderman.

  ‘We have 72 hours to sort out the mess. As I said,
Croyolis was almost expecting this situation when he arrived. If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say that in a funny kind of way he is rooting for us. This is a violation and the Council of the Light do not take kindly to violations. There is a reason we have been given a stay of execution and it is up to us to figure this out,’ said Samuel.

  ‘Well, don’t look at me. I understand Drayzaks better than that freak,’ said Maxius.

  ‘We have created a time conundrum, a paradox. I’ve got work to do. Laderman, gather archive files of both Area 51, on or around the time Robert Stave arrived in 2018, then the holographic files relating to the propagation of our planet which sprouted the emergence of those who evacuated 3.3 million years ago. There are clues and we need to figure out some answers. No time to lose,’ said Samuel.

  ******************************

  The stealth bomber glided towards the makeshift ‘ice run’, courtesy of Qudor Volkan. The magnificent spearhead-shaped craft, the envy of almost all world powers in its day, descended effortlessly, expertly guided by those who controlled its flight path. Robert was helpless.

  The portal amplifier was on the right of the ice run, clear for all to see, almost brazenly in view of the man who wished to destroy the machine, pivotal in the battle to conquer the alien aggressors. Strewn across the ice, a graveyard of archaic fighting craft, once the pride of the achievements of man in the early 21st century. ‘These are the scenes from the archive pictures’, thought Robert. Not particularly helpful but awe-inspiring nonetheless.

  The ice creaked, the wheels slid as the stealth bomber was expertly, remotely guided in. The evening sky was crisp, the snow fresh, the sun a dim orange low in the sky, somewhat obscured by the early evening mist. This was not the start to the mission Robert had hoped.

  A platoon of guards walked towards the craft, eager to ensure Robert Stave did not take the easy option in anticipation of the most brutal of torture. There were questions to be asked, knowledge to be gained. The door to the craft opened slowly and Robert Stave, like a true soldier, descended slowly; slowly enough not to trigger a knee-jerk reaction from one of Qudor’s trustee warriors.

  Robert stood straight and lifted his pilot’s headwear complete with visor of an orange tint; he took a look at the posse approaching and raised his head towards the subdued murky sky. How he wished Zak Lancelot and his rebels were hiding somewhere, camouflaged on the ice, ready to pounce – but this was 2018, a far cry from 2218. He would be nowhere to be seen and the time machine wouldn’t either. Robert braced himself for the detainment awaiting him, the torture to follow, probably at the hands of the Drayzaks, the same monsters he had tried to save Ansell from a few days earlier in a different world.

  This carefully planned operation had been derailed almost at the first hurdle.

  Robert grimaced as the heavy-handed guards secured their prisoner, roughing him up a little in the bargain. Electromagnetic cuffs secured him − the translation headset placed on the head of Robert Stave ensured there would be no escape from the mental torture he was expected to receive.

  It was going to be a long night.

  CHAPTER 18

  THE SQUALORS TERMS

  Dane was ready. His dorker was poised to ascend over the great wall of this most beautiful city of Larquiston. Another adventure. His mind raced at the thought of the charred remains of the one he loved, Annaluce. His revenge would be sweet but at the moment his only thought was of the task in hand.

  His loyal commanders also poised. They would follow Dane Vhastek to the depths of hell if he commanded, such was the respect. Dane was an awesome figure in battle, invincible. Patrick and Demitri remained in the spacecraft as part of the deal made at the ice caves – this mission was far too dangerous to be carrying rookies. They would be safe in the craft until Dane’s return.

  There was something troubling Dane in the aftermath of the package delivered so dramatically in the main square. How did Qudor Volkan know that he was in Larquiston? He thought back to the incident, the crash, his capture, the rescue by Oosapeth and the abduction of Annaluce by the dastardly love rival. The bragging rights so proudly displayed by his adversary, that he had implanted a bug in the lower part of Annaluce’s brain that he expertly removed in a demonstration of one-upmanship to trump Dane – showed him that the bug he had planted in the drone was in fact a red herring. He had been unconscious tied to the stone before he awoke, awaiting his fate, a possible meal for Qudor’s trusted pets.

  Qudor had to have planted the same device in the base of Dane’s neck. He dismounted the dorker much to the confusion of his comrades who looked at each other in utter bewilderment.

  If Dane was right then every conversation he had had at the ice caves would have been delivered to Qudor, every small detail of their plan divulged. He walked towards Omalius and Elizan. Both looked at each other in the same manner as Dane’s warrior comrades – ‘Had he lost his nerve?’ thought Omalius.

  Dane walked past Omalius, placed a finger to his lips and carried on walking towards the great hall. Omalius and Elizan followed. Omalius squinted his eyes in total confusion at the manner in which Dane had indicated that no one should speak. Elizan’s heart raced as Dane held the command of everyone in the square, with such consummate ease and power.

  Back in the meeting room in the great hall, Dane spelt out the message in hieroglyphics on one of their most advanced computer terminals:

  ‘We are being watched, our conversations recorded. I need a physician to remove an implant at the base of my brain – the same device Qudor used to track Annaluce’s movements, leading to her death.’

  The message was clear. Not a word was spoken. Omalius would see to Dane’s request that everyone would heed to his instructions.

  It took less than a minute to locate the device; with an improvised medical instrument it was removed. Dane required no painkiller, despite the obvious discomfort this procedure would inflict for he had a mission to undertake and he could not be compromised − being drugged was not an option.

  Dane, holding his finger to his mouth for the second time, looked at the device somewhat blood-covered and spoke, almost as if scripted.

  ‘The plan has changed. I can’t rest until Qudor Volkan is dead. We will have to resume talks later. He has murdered Annaluce. I must return,’ said Dane as he shook his head indicating he had issued a false statement. ‘I will rest a while. If you could first prepare a meal for me and my comrades, we will return to Earth to exact our revenge and return with the head of this monster, Qudor Volkan, to avenge the murder of one of your own.’

  The device was taken delicately to another room to simulate a resting period, enough time for Dane Vhastek to complete the mission. He had to be safe in the knowledge that when he returned to Earth his adversary would be unable to read the data on the device. His true mission could not be revealed.

  Elizan found it impossible to contain her inner thoughts, however, romping with her sister’s lover was a thought almost too much to bear, especially as she would be expected to grieve. It mattered not – she would have Dane Vhastek as her lover once the mission was complete – her mind was set. It was fitting that Dane’s device had been removed, for had their sexual exploits be recorded on the now redundant implant, they would be too raunchy by far.

  Dane was back on the dorker within minutes and his commands would be for his warrior’s ears alone – Qudor would have no more insider knowledge. Dane had decided that the implant would be used to his advantage at a later date. He would avenge the death of Annaluce; Qudor’s death would be slow and torturous. That was for another day. For now at least he must focus on the task in hand – a deal with the squalors.

  *********************************

  The great wall was magnificent – some feat. Its size was impressive. The engineering, even for a robot workforce, was as good as Dane had ever seen. Omalius had seen to it that the force field surrounding the wall would be temporarily shut down, at least until Dane and his warriors had safely
navigated the wall. Dane had arranged to call through when it was safe to return in order that the same arrangement could be exercised.

  Both Patrick and Demitri marvelled at the real hero, Dane Vhastek, going about the most ridiculously dangerous tasks as if it were delivering papers.

  ‘Is he going to come back alive?’ asked Demitri in somewhat broken English.

  ‘Doesn’t matter how many squalors there are, my money is on Dane,’ replied Patrick in a defiant manner. How they both wished they could join him, travel on the dorker over the great wall – that would be an impressive addition to anyone’s curriculum vitae.

  Dane disappeared over the wall, closely followed by two comrades, reminding Patrick of the scene from E.T. as the bicycle crossed paths with the brightly lit moon. Patrick smiled at the thought.

  The evening, somewhat overcast but bright enough to form a shadow of the great wall over the barren land, home to the billions of squalors, desperate, starving, left to fend the intolerable daytime heat from the expanding sun blitzing Zarduzian. All creature comforts gone, the power balls served as energy only for the elite in the 37 capitals, for they were mere pawns in a game where the elite never lose. The cloning farms ensured life beyond the normal, a life span of several hundred years awaited the hierarchy, food grown for the privileged on the floating cities – once deemed to be the saviour of the planet’s shortage – only to be snatched away from the poorer souls of Zarduzian once the walls were erected.

  The squalors had little to celebrate, trusted nobody, got by on scraps, but were united. Rebels had begun to form; one day they would topple those who chose to mock them. The sheer numbers of squalors would overcome the regime. Their technology purposely denied was a stumbling block against the might of the privileged, yet a loophole in their security might be prevalent during the death bait games, even if a few thousand had to die trying to build a ladder. The electromagnetic force field was down, only temporarily, whilst the baiters flung themselves off the wall. Over time, small measures would be taken to slowly but surely build the ladder. There was just the one blind spot where the guards on the wall were unsighted.