Most humans in the year 2218 knew of the incident on 15th February 2018. They knew of the alien capture of the portal amplifier on 23rd February 2018. Klade was sketchy on his history but he figured that he knew enough to get himself untied.
‘You had an incident recently − the 15th February to be precise − an abduction in a place you know as Rome.’
‘That is common knowledge,’ said the voice. ‘What of it?’
‘That was an abduction by an alien race. You will now be aware of an alien called Daxzus Zaetsalsae. He is a Zaagan from the planet Zarduzian. Only those close to your president would know that.’
Silence again, a pause to deliberate.
‘Where are you from?’ asked the faceless voice.
‘From your future. Look, we are wasting time; these delays may change the course of events in your future. Stave murdered one of your soldiers, a man named…’ his memory suddenly faltered. Klade closed his eyes, trying to place the name of the murdered Area 51 operative, ‘…a man named Hank. Hank Richards.’
‘Tell us about the future.’
‘You really wanna know?’ asked Klade, now deeply annoyed that he hadn’t been untied but subjected to more relentless questioning. ‘It ain’t pretty. If you wanna change it then I suggest you untie me.’
‘Tell us about the future,’ continued the faceless man. He had a direct line to the president’s office. They needed guidance with the questioning so the call was made.
‘Why don’t you find out for yourself? It’s easy. Put me in one time capsule and an official of your choice in the other. You’ll soon see how horrible your future will be.’
‘What year are you from and where are you from?’ were questions now being prompted by the president.
‘I’m from the year 2218. The place names have changed. You know the place as New York and we know it as New Manhattan. We know Stave downloaded the details of the layout at Area 51; he downloaded details on how to fly a stealth bomber. If you haven’t captured him then he’s probably stolen one. If I’ve been unconscious for 36 hours, then how would I have known about that if he has, I suspect, stolen one?’
The voice went silent. The delay seemed forever and thoughts went through Klade’s mind. Did they plan to kill him? Would they destroy the time machine? More worryingly, would they try to use the time machine, oblivious of the consequences?
An unlocking sound behind Klade startled him. The sound of military boots on a concrete floor was as evident in 2218 as it was recognisable now. Two heavily armed soldiers undid the clasp that held his hands behind his back − a relief. Klade rubbed his wrists to try to get the blood flow back to normal; he looked up at the soldiers.
‘Move! Up now!’ ordered one of the soldiers. The other just stared and neither were remotely friendly. ‘Follow us.’
Where was Klade being taken? Would they believe his story? Would he be able to find Robert Stave? This next hour or so would either shatter his chances of returning to 2218 or hail him a hero if, with the help of the technology in 2018, he finds and prevents Robert Stave from carrying out his plan.
Klade looked behind as he left the room, one last look at the time capsules before he embarked on the most important hour of his life, one which might see him permanently anchored to 2018.
He dare not think of that possibility.
CHAPTER 20
HOLOGRAM ARENA
The year 2218 was a far cry from the world Robert Stave and Klade had returned to in 2018. The geographical certainty of the borders established in 2018 had been replaced by a territorial nightmare created by the alien races who challenged the humans for occupation. A total of 44 zones had been established; countries were now reformed into zonal territorial occupancies with each zone controlled by a different species.
Religion, as was known in 2018, was replaced by the one spiritual belief. The emergence of other aliens, confirmation beyond doubt that our species was not privileged in the cosmos, reduced religion to a less reliant ancient ritual upon which to base a belief of our origin. It became perfectly obvious that these far superior beings had removed all doubt of the question – are we alone in the universe? Any human in history purporting to represent an omnipotent benefactor was dismissed.
Life was challenging. The zonal areas were protected and a rule was established that humans would work in harmony with the alien dominant force in any particular zone. A small number of zones were still dominated by humans, but our species numbers had been diminished greatly by the ‘great alien wars’. The Drayzaks were responsible for much of the damage. Aliens transported their own species, via portal travel, to spruce up the numbers and hence, humans learned to live with their new-found predicament.
The world lost most of its sport. The games, which dominated greatly in 2018, were no longer − a new sport had emerged.
********************************
Samuel Parker, Dr Laderman and Maxius were left dumbfounded by the meeting with Croyolis. Clearly there were issues; time may well have been changed in the past as a result of a knee-jerk reaction to Robert Stave sabotaging the time machine. They had been left with a conundrum, one that would need enterprise, archive investigation and intuition to fathom out the potential consequences of their actions.
‘Gentlemen, I suggest we take time out to consider how we move forward,’ announced Dr Laderman − his address clearly a remnant of his British ancestral heritage before the re-sculpturing of our world geography.
‘Suits me,’ agreed Maxius. ‘My brain is scrambled anyway. That Croyolis guy speaks in riddles. What exactly does he mean about one timeline was destined and the others not? I mean, how in hell are we supposed to fathom that?’
‘I suggest we try to fathom it out before we report anything to the hierarchy. Listen, one of the rebels might be able to shine some light on Stave’s plan. Anyone got a contact?’ asked Dr Laderman.
‘I haven’t got a contact as such, but I know where they hang out. In fact, I know precisely where a number of the rebels will be hanging out tonight,’ said Maxius.
‘At the Hologram Arena!’ exclaimed Samuel.
‘Exactly! At the Hologram Arena!’ confirmed Maxius, puzzled that Samuel would be aware of that fact.
The Hologram Arena was a sporting arena, in a fashion, driven underground. With the advent of the alien occupation in many parts of the 44 zones, the historical dominant sports were abandoned. Each of the 44 zones was autonomous as each was responsible for its own recreational activities. There had been no import of alien sports, such as death baiters, as the conditions on Earth did not lend themselves to alien sports. Humans and aliens alike eerily found their own source of entertainment, for a new fad was sweeping rapidly through the 44 zones known as − the Hologram Arena.
********************************
Samuel’s vehicle waited outside the centre. He entered the DeLorean-type car. The computer voice greeted him, as was customary.
‘Home?’ asked the on-board voice.
‘Home first, then wait whilst I change,’ replied Samuel.
‘Rachmaninoff?’
‘Yeah, the usual. Second Concerto in C minor, Adagio section.’
‘Perfectly in order.’ The music began as Samuel closed his eyes to contemplate his predicament. ‘A hard day?’ asked the computer.
‘If only you could understand’, thought Samuel. ‘Yes, you could say that,’ he replied.
‘Where would you like me to take you after you have changed?’ asked the computer.
‘The Hologram Arena,’ said Samuel.
‘That’s a little off territory, if you don’t mind me saying, Sir.’
‘I’ll override your geographical limits,’ said Samuel. As previously mentioned, this was an area called the ‘no-go zone’ to which vehicles could not generally enter.
‘Whatever pleases you,’ said the voice.
‘Could you access the Rebel files? I need a name.’ He knew he didn’t need to say ‘please’ to a computer voice.
‘Bringing up the files now.’
The transparent screen at the rear displayed a Google-type list. Samuel whisked the images aside, one by one. The information displayed everything from Drayzak attacks, rebel arrests, drones gunning down rebels outside the allowed territorial jurisdiction and, of course, faces. Samuel studied the faces − humans who had sought to rid the planet of an alien presence. It was futile.
There were many faces, but one stood out − name: Zak Lancelot.
*****************************
The Hologram Arena based in the no-go zone, attracted undesirables, humans and aliens alike − a kind of underground betting cartel. Life was grim most of the time; both the humans and aliens needed a recreational outlet. The games had grown over the years. First it had been a fight to the death, an alien bare-knuckle fight, but over the years more sophisticated arenas developed across the globe, culminating in an arena of the highest technological wizardry, commonly referred to as the Hologram Arena.
Samuel pulled up outside the New Manhattan arena − a seedy area where aliens and humans alike risked being shot down on sight by drones policing the peripheral. The sun was low, the evening young and the territory menacing. Samuel wasn’t sure how he would gain access, only that he was to meet Maxius at precisely 8.30pm as previously arranged.
Maxius had organised clearance, at least the drones would leave them alone. The streets were quiet, streets that scarcely resembled the hustle and bustle when the city was known as New York in the 21st century. Drones dominated the skyline and Drayzaks also in their own territorial region. This was a dangerous area. Human communication in 2218 was far and beyond mobile phones. The new fad was holographic images displayed in front of your eyes, projected via an almost invisible headband that gave dimensional, graphic and geographical information immediately to hand. Software incorporated to warn of drones or any creatures that might pose a threat meant that this apparatus was pivotal to negotiating safety within no-go areas of the city. Only special software, developed by rebels, could safely negotiate the dangers, of which Maxius had access.
Maxius and Samuel were in synch on the holographic image. The coast was clear and the arena pinpointed.
‘Over there!’ shouted Maxius. ‘See the grey-looking building?’
The grey building was an old disused warehouse, some three tiers high, almost non-descript from the outside.
‘Your entrance clearance is built in to the hologram − stick by me,’ instructed Maxius.
The games were but half an hour to commencement. A scurry of undesirables, alien and human alike were milling towards the vacant-looking building.
‘Where’s the door?’ shouted Samuel. He had never ventured into the no-go zone. Maxius, on the other hand, was a regular at these underground sports events, equivalent of cage fighting or bare-knuckle fights back in the early 21st century.
The holographic imaging convinced the drones that the exterior was an unused building − one of many decrepit fixtures, forming part of the city but not yet modernised by the dominant alien force.
‘Look at the graphics,’ instructed Maxius. ‘The true arena will reveal the entrance. Ignore what you see with your eye.’
‘Unbelievable,’ said Samuel. The Hologram Arena was not for many; most who attended these underground events were not to be mixed with. Back in the day, seedy gentlemen’s clubs may have been hidden, the exterior camouflaging the entrance, locked doors with peepholes and secured entrances, known only to those in the established elite. This was the version in the year 2218, much on the same principle, except with further advanced technology.
As the two neared the entrance, the hologram, via the headband, revealed the entrance. The pass encrypted within the headband allowed both Samuel and Maxius to enter unhindered through a doorway around two metres wide and three metres in height. It was in an arch form, concealed by a clever mirage, which, without the software, appeared to be a solid wall. Secret archways were spaced some ten metres apart, replicating the Coliseum in Rome.
Anyone not procuring an entrance pass would be attended to by an alien − not a pleasant encounter.
Samuel stopped at the top of the tall steps leading to the seating area. The sight before him was nothing short of miraculous. An arena of the most technologically advanced. Seating of upwards of 30,000, almost a carbon copy of the old Coliseum.
Holograms in 2218 were as close to the real thing as was possible. To decipher a hologram version from the original was almost impossible, even side by side. This technology, used in the alien wars to exaggerate numbers, created the perfect opportunity for the development of a game. It was a battle to the death, with one twist – an arena full of warriors where only some were authentic and some were merely holograms.
‘This is truly spectacular,’ said Samuel.
‘Yeah, not bad, one of the few things of beauty these aliens have introduced,’ replied Maxius in a very matter-of-fact way.
‘So, how does this work?’
‘The evening is usually four or five bouts − to the death. The ceiling projects the holograms whilst the aliens or humans are blindfolded before being introduced into the arena. The arena is pitch black as the warriors enter in cages from underneath the floor.’
‘That’s an impressive ceiling. I’ve seen these ancient images before. Looks like the Sistine Chapel,’ said Samuel.
‘Yeah, I think that demonstrates the warped sense of humour these aliens have,’ replied Maxius.
Samuel took his seat and looked around. He contemplated why our world was at war with these alien species, why each was determined to control our planet and yet there were aliens among our own people who sought the same kinds of recreational outlets that we humans craved. Next to Samuel, an alien. He introduced himself as Faz − nothing more, nothing less − just Faz. His headset translated his words. The alien looked human, they all did; only the language determined their origin.
The arena went dark; spectators were harnessed to avoid panic, a potential mass brawl or murder. The darkness seemed forever. Before an announcement in English to appease the humans, the countdown began. Samuel closed his eyes, held his breath and questioned the wisdom of his choice to attend.
With the arena lit, roaring from the crowd was followed by encouraging shouts. The giant screen, non-holographic but cubed in shape, displayed the names in the playing field. Twelve cages, 12 beings, each with a number on the tight blue tunic and armed with a weapon.
‘What happens now?’ asked Samuel as the harness released allowing him to move freely.
‘You bet on a winner,’ replied Maxius, almost annoyed that his compatriot, while weighing up the field, asked such a stupid question.
‘Look at the screen, the stats are up against each player − number of kills, agility, speed, etcetera,’ explained Maxius. ‘All you have to do is place your bet.’
‘How?’ asked Samuel, not noticing that Maxius had activated the elevation of the clear touch screen embedded in his seat arm. Maxius leant over and activated Samuel’s.
‘Thought you said some were holograms?’
‘Some are. If you bet on a player who turns out to be a hologram you lose twice your betting odds.’
‘How many can I bet on?’ asked Samuel.
‘A maximum of three. The rules of entrance are that you must place at least one bet on each of the bouts but no more than three bets on any one bout. You can either win or lose a fortune,’ explained Maxius. ‘Don’t worry, Dr Laderman will cover your losses − call it expenses.’
The beings or holograms, each in cages, stood proud. Battle would commence. Players held their own chosen combat weapon. Based on gladiatorial battle, the weapons ranged from long handled forks to daggers − some armed with nets, some shields. The sight was spectacular. Samuel placed his bet; one million credits on number six, Maxius the same on number one – ‘my lucky number’, he thought.
Zak Lancelot was at the games, as predicted, sitting three rows down from Samu
el and Maxius. Samuel had locked in his profile on his device afforded to personnel at the Time Capsule Centre − primarily to check out volunteers for their time travel programme. The device was a small wristband, covered by the garment Samuel wore.
‘Maxius, I’ve got a message,’ said Samuel. ‘Zak Lancelot, three rows down, fourth or fifth seat to your right.’
‘Copy. Send me the co-ordinates; I’ll lock in on him. We’ll catch him at the break. In the meantime, enjoy the show.’
Each cage lifted, each warrior ready. The arena, three quarters the size of a football field saw the warriors take position, some backed towards the oval-shaped wall separating them from the baying crowd. The cubed screen showed a frantic betting frenzy as the odds changed by the second for each warrior. The first victim, hologram number ten, evaporated on a kill strike. The crowd roared and some moaned at the loss of their bet. Many millions had been awarded to the house on the first elimination. Eleven more, some of which would evaporate in a translucent pixilation, while others would physically die.
‘How many are real and how many holograms?’ asked Samuel.
‘Usually 50/50, but you are never quite sure. Sometimes the odds are in the house’s favour; it might be 70% holograms or sometimes the other way round. It all evens out in the end,’ replied Maxius philosophically.
‘If it’s on expenses, do I have to hand over the winnings?’ asked Samuel, wearing a cheeky grin.
‘I never have,’ replied Maxius with a chuckle.
The second, third, fourth and fifth victims came in quick succession as the action became frantic. Two kills were real, one with a dagger to the throat and one a fork to the stomach. The crowd roared. ‘We haven’t moved on much since ancient Rome’, thought Samuel, but had to admit that the thrill of a live kill was exhilarating.
Both he and Maxius were still in the running. Two gladiators in the arena squared up, number one and number six. Either Samuel or Maxius would be disappointed. Samuel’s gladiator held a net and a short dagger while Maxius’ gladiator a long fork. An interesting match.
Earth vs Alien Page 14
