The squalors gathered. The death bait games not only offered an opportunity to eat but to erect more scaffolding to build their escape route.
The squalors, as humble and desperate as they were, still formed a makeshift leadership amongst the many. Women and children took priority and the males fended off the beasts from the forest area to protect the kinfolk.
One Zaagan squalor commanded respect. At 1.90 metres in height he stood out, way and above the average height of a malnourished angry mob of Zarduzian second class citizens. Clothes were an issue; often the skins of slaughtered beasts offered the only method of dignity. The warriors of this impoverished mob stole from the death baiters they overcame and ate the scraps afforded them.
Anchorax Tizor held the discussion with a group of 50 or so warriors. Those who wished to volunteer for the front line – gamble with the possibility of being fried alive should they miscalculate the reactivated force field surrounding the wall – were being honoured in a ritual in case they perished in battle. They had the pick of the best-looking young females the previous night and had been adorned with war paint – albeit dye from the natural plant life, but nonetheless these individuals were celebrated as gladiators for the cause.
One of the gladiatorial warriors pointed at the wall; the dorkers had been spotted and a mêlée of activity erupted as the group frantically signalled fearfully at the machines heading their way.
Anchorax waved his warriors aside; the squalors began to gather looking up at the night sky, a wonderful kaleidoscope of colour. What was this? These were not death baiters. Had the elite decided to invade? The Zaagans cowered and Anchorax stood tall, defiant.
Dane spotted the crowd; he would be lynched if this went wrong. Looking behind he could see his comrades proudly following. He had the translation helmet at the ready, which Dane hoped wouldn’t fail him. He felt their anguish. The stench of rotting flesh − the discarded dead − began to drift upwards as Dane lowered towards Anchorax. Dane knew immediately the warrior still standing held the command.
Dane needed a symbol, a gesture that would say beyond doubt that this was not an aggressive mission. The dorker was set to automatic landing, a slower descent than normal, one that would ease the tension − a descent designed to eradicate fear.
Dane held his arms out, a gesture of universally accepted language to indicate vulnerability. Anchorax trusted no one; his weapon was basic compared to the might of the Undarthians – ‘Is this the plan, to lull me and my warriors into a false sense of security?’ thought Anchorax. ‘Then again, they are outnumbered several thousands to one’.
Dane, a mere 20 feet above the ground, arms at his side, pointed at Anchorax and then at himself, a gesture to indicate only they two should meet. Dane turned and ordered his comrades to retreat, again signifying that he alone should talk with the stranger standing tall beneath the dorker. Anchorax understood immediately, clearing a path for Dane to land amongst the squalors.
Dane dismounted, walking four or five metres from the only machine that could save him if the meeting degenerated into a battle − he held his hands high. Anchorax threw down his weapon signalling that he understood and walked towards the warrior whose height matched his own, equally formidable.
‘My name is Dane Vhastek. I am not Zaagan but Undarthian. I mean you no harm.’ The translation helmet worked well; his opponent had understood.
‘Anchorax Tizor. I am Zaagan, an underprivileged soul,’ he replied.
‘That was obvious’, thought Dane. The opulence of Larquiston disgusted him even more as he witnessed the truly heartbreaking conditions the poor of the city had to endure.
‘Your planet is dying, slowly. Your sun is expanding; the conditions in the cities are worsening with over population as the cloning farms continue to extend life. The cities are overcrowded and the citizens face certain death if they dwell beyond the walls. Those who control you are prisoners of their own making. I offer a solution. A land of freedom − fresh pastures where the star is young and the life is good − but it comes at a price.’
Dane had dangled the carrot of a better life; it was the price the squalors may have to pay that could sway this otherwise friendly meeting, into uncertainty.
‘It’s the ‘at a price’ that worries me,’ replied Anchorax as Dane’s translator worked its magic and converted the words from his opponent’s mouth into a format Dane could understand.
‘Not the same price your race will have to endure if you remain here though,’ explained Dane. ‘Look, I have clearance for you to join me in the city, behind the great wall; we can discuss terms there, peacefully. I give you my word.’
‘How do I know this isn’t a trap?’ said Anchorax.
‘A trap? You’re a warrior − would you risk throwing yourself at the mercy of someone you didn’t know, a being who outnumbered you 1,000 to 1?’
Anchorax deliberated for a few seconds. Here was a warrior who stood before him, an alien being he had never met and yet strangely admired − a being after his own heart.
‘I want a banquet delivered. They will eat well tonight. Then I will follow you.’
‘You have my word; a banquet will be delivered. Will you assure the safety of those bringing food?’
‘My word is assured,’ replied Anchorax. Both understood that to be the truth. A true warrior is good to his word.
Dane had taken the first step. As a warrior, he was not adept at negotiations, but with Anchorax he thought he saw himself, a mutual respect existed, unspoken. This would be an alliance of great importance.
*******************************
Elizan was impatient. Dane had been some time. ‘Had he perished?’ she wondered. The warrior had ridden over the great wall, his fate in the hands of the squalors − low life in Elizan’s eyes.
Omalius shouted, ‘Look, there!’ At the sight of the dorkers returning triumphantly and the flowing locks of Dane Vhastek, Elizan was almost sent into ecstasy. Her brown eyes, though not as stunning as her sister’s electric green, welled at the thought of Dane’s success, moreover his safe return − more important than she cared to admit. She had never felt so infatuated with any other being, especially a non-Zaagan. It mattered not.
‘We must throw a celebration, gather the most illustrious in Larquiston!’ announced Elizan.
‘I fear we have no time, it is already mid-evening,’ stated Omalius.
‘I demand it!’ The tone of Elizan’s voice suggested the outcome was not in question.
‘Immediately!’ confirmed Omalius. ‘I will attend to it immediately, so forgive me for my outburst.’
‘Send the munika to greet Dane and his comrades, also gather the humans and whoever accompanies Dane from beyond the wall. Put them up in our best quarters, let them freshen up and invite them to a banquet. I want the finest holographic musicians, the finest food and drink,’ said Elizan, ‘and send the best cosmetic artist and clothes designer we have to my room.’
Omalius sensed the reason behind her final comment, but who was he to stand in the way of a flirtatious female determined to get her way?
Patrick and Demitri had watched the munika assemble. The spacecraft was secured, their vantage point a perfect view. A noise emanated from the heart of the craft, the lower exit door had been activated. Patrick looked at Demitri initially with trepidation but nonetheless donned their headsets as had been instructed by Dane, essential to understand the barking noises from the being that was hollering outside the craft. Patrick initially feared that the munika might be detaining them until the translator kicked in. It was one of Dane’s warriors calling them to exit the ship. The look of anguish soon turned to the excitement of a child on Christmas morning, eager to open the vast array of gifts bestowed in the traditional fashion. Another adventure, what lay ahead? Who knew? Both were like that child − wildly excited.
The crowd had gathered and the sense of immense change was in the air.
Anchorax, bemused, malnourished and confused, looked up. The bu
ildings were of an opulence and beauty beyond comprehension; the Zaagan citizens, healthy, beautifully manicured and eloquently dressed were a sight. They may have been an alien race − such was the difference between the squalors and the elite, yet both inhabitants of the same planet – Zarduzian.
Dane could see the anxious worried look that this could be a trick of some kind. Dane held out his arm inviting Anchorax to embrace an arm lock handshake, a demonstration of solidarity. They locked forearms, as brothers.
‘Welcome to Larquiston,’ announced Dane. ‘You will eat well tonight, we have much to discuss.’
Anchorax merely nodded in acceptance; his trust in Dane Vhastek, the being who had almost nonchalantly ventured over the boundary, the great wall, was growing by the minute.
****************************
Elizan had her beauticians and availed herself of the finest dress wear. She had bathed − the purest cleansing oils, fused with clear water, in the most decorated bathing tub, assuring her cleanliness. Her dress, a fusion of white and gold and low cut to display her magnificent toned back, but low enough at the front to display an equally perfect cleavage. A red and gold head piece staged the look. She was at her most elegant − preened and ready.
Omalius entered Elizan’s quarters − the munika guarding the room had gained permission to allow Omalius to enter through the magnificent gold doors of Elizan’s room, decorated with a perfectly etched cityscape of Larquiston.
‘Forgive me, Elizan, but the guests await you,’ said Omalius, aware that she was running late but not wanting to overstep the mark by demanding Elizan get a move on. Who was he to stand in the way of such a stunning creature, preening herself for the task ahead to win over her suitor?
‘I am fully aware of the time, Omalius. Are the guests being well looked after? Are they being entertained?’
‘Just as you instructed. All is in hand.’
‘Then I will enter when I am ready and not before,’ said Elizan. Omalius knew his place.
‘As you wish,’ replied Omalius as he retreated, bowing, backing towards the same magnificent doors he had entered a few moments earlier.
The great hall was set; Omalius was in wonder at the precision with which the great citizens of Larquiston had prepared such a spectacle at such short notice. The finest delegates were in attendance, all eager to learn what this banquet might reveal. Dane, his comrades, Patrick, Demitri and, of course, Anchorax, were all seated at the head dining table, all awaiting the entrance of the host, Elizan. Drones acted as waiters gathering food from the water feature ponds surrounding the hall; jets of water suspended the bowls of Larquiston’s finest culinary offerings − easy pickings for the drones, now part and parcel of life in the capital.
The entrance was special. The music, courtesy of the holographic instruments, trumpeted the emergence of Elizan as she walked slowly, teasingly, down the winding steps leading to the banquet hall. Dane was mesmerised as was Anchorax.
The seating arrangement, designed for maximum effect, saw Elizan at the head table, afforded to their important guests. Dane and Anchorax were at either side, Omalius to the left of Dane, Patrick and Demitri alongside Omalius, with Dane’s comrades alongside Anchorax. At the centre, Elizan, smack bang next to her preferred suitor, Dane Vhastek.
She drew closer as the table of guests stood in respect, each admiring the spectacle approaching. A Zaagan helper pulled back the chair and Elizan inched towards the seat. Instinctively, Dane held out his right hand and Elizan locked her left with his; the gesture intended to assist her posture in easing into the seat, yet her lingering clutch portrayed her intentions. Dane did not recoil for his grip lingered also.
Omalius sensed the sexual tension.
‘Good evening, Elizan, may I say how wonderful you look,’ stating the obvious. Elizan treasured every moment.
‘Why, thank you, Omalius, I trust we have been looking after our guests.’
‘Indeed. We have a new guest. Perhaps you might like to introduce him,’ suggested Omalius, looking directly at Dane. The translation helmets were afforded each non-Zaagan.
‘This is Anchorax Tizor. He has agreed to hold discussions,’ said Dane.
‘Oh! Discussions can wait,’ said Elizan. ‘Welcome, Anchorax. Please enjoy the hospitality first. Let’s talk later.’
Anchorax, both perplexed at the brazen dismissal of his plight, yet mesmerised by the sheer beauty of his host and the opulent surroundings, found no words to suitably reply and merely nodded in agreement.
Omalius immediately ushered help and a barely dressed Adonis instantly responded. The men in fluorescent blue trunks, wearing just braces on the upper torso, each magnificent Zaagan specimens, were setting the tone for the most colourful event. Equally, the women, scantily dressed in white and gold dresses, an obvious distraction for Elizan’s guests, were also a spectacle to behold.
The evening would be long. Dane wanted urgently to strike a deal for better privileges for the squalors remaining, whilst convincing Anchorax to back his cause on Earth.
Elizan had other ideas as to where the conversation should lead. It would be an interesting banquet.
CHAPTER 19
THE INTRUDER
Klade was in an unknown place without insider knowledge of the layout − he was clueless. The date was 22nd February 2018. He was a day behind Stave. The wait until Stave arrived in his time capsule would be challenging. He needed to mingle somehow. ‘This was not a well thought out mission’, Klade thought.
The hangar had remnants of a science project dotted about here and there and the Trollozyte craft housing the portal amplifier was instantly recognisable to Klade. He scanned the hangar, ducking in case any officials were lurking about − he needed to think quickly. First move, the time capsule.
The time capsule wasn’t heavy and slid easily along the concrete floor of the hangar at the Area 51 base. Klade saw a vacant area to the rear; a tarpaulin-like covering was lying listless over what he perceived to be redundant machinery. ‘Perfect’, he thought. He hid the time capsule, disguised it amongst the archaic machinery to such an extent that Robert Stave would not see it. Klade knew that if Stave happened to see the hidden time capsule he would suspect foul play.
Now the tricky part: waiting for Stave’s arrival without being arrested himself. He was a highly trained soldier from the future, his armoury way superior to any the military in 2018 could offer. His tactics in warfare in 2218, facing Drayzaks and highly sophisticated drones, were way beyond any basic surveillance the soldiers at Area 51 could throw at him: ‘This would be an easy mission’, Klade thought.
********************************
The light was bright, very bright. To focus was impossible, his hands tightly bound so unavailable as a possible light shield. Noises emanated − muffled noises, voices. ‘Where the hell am I?’ thought Klade. His far superior fire power had been of little use. He remembered he had accosted a military soldier at the base; it had been too easy, the stun facility on his 2218 weapon worked perfectly. An unconscious victim, he just needed his uniform and would be able to mingle unnoticed.
‘Why was he staring at a blinding light, tied?’ thought Klade.
The security cameras had traced him crossing the yard. Cameras were not installed in the hangar for fear they could be hacked into. The Americans didn’t want to broadcast their alien treasure, but the yard, that was heavily guarded and cameras were rife. Klade had severely underestimated the technology in 2018, unlike Stave whose operation was planned − he knew when Hank would be in the hangar, he knew he could kill and not be seen, to disrobe Hank and don his military uniform would not be witnessed by cameras. He could hide the body and dispose of it in the desert once dusk set in. Klade had no plan and was easy pickings for the guards protecting the base at Area 51 if exposed to the cameras that he hadn’t envisaged.
The mutterings became a little clearer.
‘State your name,’ instructed the computerised voice – typical of the voic
e in movies of that era when a military interrogation was taking place.
Klade was still getting accustomed to the lights.
‘State your name,’ repeated the voice, now clearly more irritated due to Klade’s lack of response.
Klade had to think. How long had he been here? Would Stave be arriving in his time capsule the day after? This was a disaster.
‘Where am I?’ asked Klade in a bid to buy time whilst he figured out his predicament.
‘State your name,’ said the relentless voice.
‘Look, I am not going to answer your questions until I get some answers myself,’ replied Klade. His eyes, now becoming accustomed to the light, focused on a shape, an oval shape. The time capsule. He was in trouble.
‘State your name,’ an ever-persistent voice asked.
‘How long have I been unconscious?’ asked Klade. This was a critical question. Klade noticed another object on the opposite side to the time capsule. It was the same shape; it was the other time capsule.
‘Approximately 36 hours,’ the voice replied.
‘Then I’ve missed Stave,’ Klade inadvertently blurted out.
‘Who is Stave?’
Klade had nothing to lose. He was tired and being interrogated and, not only was his mission in jeopardy, but he had the possibility of not returning to 2218. ‘You have two machines in this room; I travelled in one of them and Robert Stave in the other. If you wish to save the human race from a terrible future, then you must untie me. We need to stop Stave!’ insisted Klade.
A pause in the questioning. The faceless men behind the two-way mirror needed time to weigh up the situation whilst deliberating how the questioning should proceed.
‘You claim to know about our future. What proof do you have?’
Earth vs Alien Page 13
