by A. D. Winch
Agent Angel leant forward, “Anybody got anything they would like to add on this?”
Nobody spoke.
“The situation is not perfect. In fact, it’s an absolute mess. I’ll only be happy when you know where all three of them are. Find the elf! Fortunately, we don’t need them yet, but that all depends on what’s been happening elsewhere. And we do have bait to lure Black Queen out of her lair. Martel and Caron report!”
First Lieutenant Florence Caron spoke from her screen. She looked directly at the camera and seemed to look at everyone in the room, even though she wasn’t there.
“We are currently talking with Monsieur et Madame Benjamin. The two of them are obviously deluded in that they refer to themselves as the grandparents of Black Queen. Our aim is to try and find out as much as we can about Black Queen in order to build an accurate profile. In particular, we are looking at milestones in her development and mapping this against the achievements of a human child from birth up to her current age of thirteen.”
Professor Schwarzkopf asked, “What have you discovered so far?”
Before they could answer, Agent Angel commended him, “Good question, John. That’s what I’m after. People, in this room, who aren’t afraid to ask questions and to challenge the current status.”
First Lieutenant Caron looked to her left and, from the adjacent screen, First Lieutenant Martel answered, “Obviously we are basing this on the testimony of two old people who believe that they are Black Queen’s grandparents. However, we do not see why they, in particular, the old woman would lie to us. When she is cross-questioned a day or more later, she gives identical answers and appears to love talking about her ‘granddaughter.' To use her word.
“My question was about the child. Not about the grandparents,” said Professor Schwarzkopf.
Agent Angel smiled and looked at First Lieutenant Martel, who had clearly become agitated.
“I was getting to this. I just felt that it was prudent to set some context first.
“You’ve set the context, Lieutenant,” said Agent Angel. “Now answer the question.”
“Black Queen is more advanced than a human child. Crawling, walking, talking, fine motor skills, writing, mathematic skills, strength are all far ahead. It does seem, however, that both Black Queen and her ‘grandparents’ do not fully understand this.”
Doctor Bandura jumped in and added, “That tallies with what I’ve found out.”
“I know,” said Professor Schwarzkopf. “But the evidence that Doctor Bandura has already shared with me is solid, empirical data. What use is this anecdotal evidence that you are telling us now?”
“Another good question, John!” and Agent Angel rubbed his hands gleefully.
“Through our research, and based on the milestones and abilities that are already coming to light, we should be able to predict future capabilities with some degree of certainty. We can then use this information to plan out the lives of our Identical Hybrid Beings. We will set targets of what needs to be achieved and by what age as they grow. Thus ensuring that the vast harvests of IHBs will achieve their full potential at the same ages, if not earlier.”
“Valuable,” said Agent Angel. “An added benefit is that Mr. and Mrs Benjamin are two people who Black Queen probably loves, if it can love. People, or those beings that think they are people, will do anything for love,” he looked at Professor Schwarzkopf, “and I’m sure we can use this to our advantage at a later date.”
Professor Schwarzkopf held his look and tried to smile as if it were a private joke between the two of them. He was not going to let Buddy Angel know that he had grown to hate the man. Not yet.
“Caron and Martel’s work is going to be worth zip if we can’t create Identical Hybrid Beings,” said Agent Angel.
He let his words sink in before facing the screen labelled Djupidalur, Iceland, “How is that going? Iceland tell us about your IHB progress.”
“Progress is limited,” said the male face in Iceland reluctantly. His brown moustache twitched as he spoke, and he was obviously squirming in his chair.
“Why?” asked Professor Schwarzkopf.
“The blood of the subject is extracted in Morocco. It is immediately placed in test tubes that are then placed in a container chilled to thirty-three point eight degrees Fahrenheit. This is the correct temperature for human blood storage. And I would like to emphasise that this is for HUMAN blood storage. The samples are then flown directly to us, and we receive the sealed test tubes in less than a day. However, when we remove the blood and start to work with it, we find that it degrades unusually quickly. Human blood does not do this. Either there is a problem in the transportation process or the problem is with the blood. I’m not alone in having this issue, am I? Does anyone else have this problem?”
The faces in Australia, Alaska and Diego Garcia all nodded and agreed.
“What are you going to do about it?” demanded Agent Angel, not even attempting to hide his frustration.
“The issue could be the blood itself,” began another scientist. “If we could use other samples such as stem cells or cerebrospinal fluid or bone marrow instead this may work better.”
“This is all possible but painful for the subject,” said Doctor Bandura. “Miss Kurtz and I did consider this but it will involve leaving marks on White King’s body that we would have to explain. We did not want to do this. White King would become suspicions and it is currently unaware that we have induced it into a coma for days at a time until any wound heals.”
“Can we get these samples?” asked Agent Angel.
“Of course we can,” answered Doctor Bandura.
Professor Schwarzkopf joined the conversation, “But the boy will know. To take the three samples that you propose will require invasive surgery. A scar will be left and extracting cerebrospinal fluid is a very unpleasant procedure.”
Agent Angel banged his fists on the desk, “I don’t give a damn. As soon as it put the knife to Lieutenant Gomez’s neck, it gave up all right to being treated pleasantly. Doctor Bandura, do you have anything else to add about White King?”
“Not really. As I said, its results are phenomenal. What it can achieve is truly staggering. The benefits of being brought up by a wealthy family are that they can offer more. White King took all it was presented with. It could at least match and probably better any sportsman, musician, chess player, thinker or intellectual of his age. I could go on, but it is not relevant to the conversation now,” he paused. “I am more concerned that we are not using it correctly to aid the development of IHBs.”
“I agree, Doctor,” nodded Agent Angel, “We’ll come back to this point at the end. Before we handle that I want to know about my UFOs.”
“Nothing to report,” said Kurtz flatly, her face like stone.
Agent Angel glared at her, “That’s not what I want to hear.”
Kurtz’s expression did not change, but she didn’t know what to say next.
“As I said, nothing to report,” she said defiantly.
Even though Professor Schwarzkopf was enjoying her predicament, he didn’t want their team to incur the wrath of Agent Angel and to have the project taken out of their hands.
He coughed as the cigar smoke reached his lungs, but this gave him time to think about what to say.
“Kurtz does not want to recognise the breakthroughs we have actually made or is too modest or too stupid to share them.”
Kurtz glared at him but did not try to stop him talking.
“The two pods and the dart are incredibly complicated pieces of machinery. Even though we feel that the dart is considerably older, it appears to be much more complex in its design. If I can make a comparison,” he coughed before continuing. “The pods are like the first ever production line motor cars, for example, the Model T-Ford. Whereas the dart is like the most modern concept car but even more advanced. We cannot fully explain this."
Professor Schwarzkopf spoke confidently and expertly. As he did so, he made
sure that he continued to look at everyone in the room, daring them to challenge him.
“The pods have been constructed using materials that can be found on Earth and also using chemical compounds which, though we feel would be possible to manufacture on Earth, have not yet been. The dart, on the other hand, appears to be entirely Alien technology. We are reticent to ‘dissect’ the dart. However, since our unproductive visit to see the boy in Morocco, we have decided that we are going to take apart one of the pods in the next few days. After it is in pieces, we will try to rebuild it using what we have learnt and the structure of the other pod. It is our hope that, in doing so, we can learn how to fly it and discover why it is impenetrable. Clearly, this intelligence would be of incredible use to the US military. We are confident that this will lead to further breakthroughs and increase our own understanding. Within a few years, the arms industry of my adopted country will be manufacturing their own versions of these pods and raise the stature of America’s military capability to even greater heights.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” hollered Agent Angel, pointing his cigar triumphantly towards Professor Schwarzkopf.
I know it is, thought Professor Schwarzkopf and pulled his jumper back up to his chin.
“Right, that just leaves White King and what we are going to do with him,” said Agent Angel. “We’ll farm those other samples you all wanted and send them out to you all. We’ll see if this works better than our current use of his blood.”
“Do we all need to do the same work?” asked the face in Iceland, “I have other work waiting and this seems a waste of resources.”
Agent Angel turned crimson and roared, “These are my orders, and you will obey them. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Sir,” came the meek reply.
“I like to use different facilities for insurance purposes. Until the world’s blinkered view of cloning changes, my view won’t change. This research is too important to me and our country to have it all done in one location. Understand?”
The scientists working on the IHBs nodded.
“Doctor Bandura, we can’t afford White King escaping. It has made one attempt already, and in my mind that’s a warning shot across the bows. Sedate White King heavily this evening and when it is asleep have it put on a plane with an armed guard. I want it here in Roswell, within twenty-four hours.”
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***
Chapter 9 – Unsettled
Eric woke up with a splitting headache and his body felt cold. He rubbed his temples and tried to relieve the pain but it didn’t work.
If only Andrea were here to look after me, the thought.
Involuntarily, he shivered and fumbled around for his duvet. It had disappeared. He leant over the side of the bed and reluctantly opened his eyes to search on the floor but the room was pitch black. As he turned onto his back again, he realised that his body ached, the bed was uncomfortable, and he was desperate for the toilet. Gradually, as he woke up, his senses became more alert. It slowly dawned on him that he was not in the same room. This room smelled musty, as if it had never been cleaned.
Despite opening his eyes, Eric could see nothing. Even when he waved his hand in front of his face, he couldn’t see it. He swung his legs off the bed and felt around until they landed on the floor. With arms outstretched and using pigeon steps he explored the new room and was concerned by what he found, or to be more precise, what he didn’t find. Apart from the bed, the room was empty. There was no chair, table, sink or toilet.
Eric felt along a rough wall until he reached a large metal rectangle. A thin line of light came from underneath the door. It lit up the tiles on the floor directly in front but did not extend further into the room.
Eric banged on the metal, but the noise just sounded like a dull thud. No one came.
“I need the toilet,” he shouted, and tried banging again but he couldn’t make it any louder.
After several minutes, Eric reluctantly accepted that the door was not going to open. He moved away and shuffled to the furthest corner of the room. His bladder was bursting, and he could not hold it in any longer. He pulled down his flies and peed into the corner against the wall. The relief was great, and he could feel the warmth rising towards his chilled body.
Once he had finished he moved back to his bed and sat down. The smell of urine filled the room, and Eric’s feeling of relief was replaced with one of regret.
Maybe I could have held it in a bit longer, he thought to himself, but it was too late now. It was too late to regret a lot of things. If he hadn’t tried to escape his previous cellblock, he wouldn’t be here. If he hadn’t stormed onto to the beach in Ireland, he wouldn’t have been caught. If… but it was pointless to look back. He had to look to the future, whatever that would be. He had been told that he was going to die before he was fourteen anyway. If this were true, he was determined not to spend his last few months in this cell. He lay down on the hard bed and focused on Ursula.
I must let her know, he thought.
It had been hard to keep track of time in his other room but here, in the darkness, it was impossible. There was not even a window to see when the sun rose and set. It was truly a cell.
Sometime later, Eric heard a key turn in a lock. The door flung open, and the light blinded him. Burned into his retina was the silhouette of a large person entering the cell. The door slammed shut and, before he regained his sight, a strong hand gripped his neck, lifted him off of the bed and pinned him against the wall.
Strong minty breath blew into Eric’s face and then his captor spoke.
“I’ll be your guard. My name is Sir. Do you understand?” asked a deep American voice. He spoke fast and sounded impatient.
“Yes,” croaked Eric.
Without warning, a fist rammed into his stomach and knocked the air out of him.
“I was told you're smart. I see no evidence of that so far. Let’s try again. My name is Sir. Do you understand?”
“Yes…, Sir,” Eric squeaked.
“Better. Now let’s start with some rules. Number one, if you are good to me, I will be good to you but if you are not good to me then…” Ominously, he did not finish the sentence. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” the fingers around his neck tightened, “Sir.”
“Good, I think we’ll get on just fine.”
He pulled Eric along the wall towards the furthest corner from the door.
“Number two, we do not pee on the floor. We’re not animals here. There’s a bed pan under your bed. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You’ll need something to mop that up with. As we don’t have a mop, you’ll have to do,” and he threw Eric into the puddle. “I think you’ll find your clothes are just as absorbent as a mop.”
Eric lay in his own urine, waiting to get his breath back. The guard stood above him, and Eric could feel that he was being observed. It was a good opportunity to do the same. Eric tried to focus on what the guard was thinking, and different images filled his head. He saw himself bathed in green on the floor, a puddle spread around his back, and two words jumped into his mind, ‘alien scum.’
Gradually, the image faded away, and the stench of ammonia became overpowering and made him want to retch. He stood up slowly and fumbled for the wall. He could hear the guard walking towards the door and a key turning from outside.
“Don’t even think of following me,” warned the Guard.
Brilliant light blinded Eric as the door opened. All he could make out was a silhouette of the guard pointing something at him.
Eric stumbled to his bed and leant against it. His wet clothes clung to his skin, and the acidic smell made him want to vomit.
This is not good, he thought, not good at all.
Eric lay on his bed and tried desperately not to cry.
“Don’t be a loser,” he told himself. “You can beat this!”
His attempt to motivate himself kept the tears at bay
but only just. He lay in the dark and contemplated what could happen to him if he remained alone in this cell. His main fear was that he would go crazy. Passages from Granddad Benjamin's military books came flooding back to him. Prisoners of War spoke about keeping themselves mentally and physically strong. However, solitary confinement was another story. With only himself for company, he was really scared he would turn into one of those people that he saw walking down the streets talking to themselves or shouting at invisible enemies.
Maybe they have gone through this too, he thought, and he suddenly saw them in a different light.
“But I'm not alone," he whispered to himself. "Ursula, will keep me sane.”
Once again, he focused his mind on her and tried to relay what was happening to him.
An hour or so later, he was disturbed by the noise of a key, but it sounded different from earlier. At the bottom of the door, a thin letterbox opened and a tray was pushed through. It scraped across the tiled floor. Eric tried to make out what was on the tray, but the letterbox closed before he was able to distinguish the lumps.
The smell of the food reached his nose, and he realised he was hungry. It was not appetising but, fortunately, it was stronger than the smell of urine. Eric jumped down from the bed and walked towards the tray. He was not the first to arrive. In the light from the bottom of the door, he could see four clawed feet and a long tail standing on his dinner. He jumped towards the tray and caught the rat as it darted away. The creature squeaked and tried to bite him.
“You can have the leftovers,” Eric told the rat and let it go.
Eric picked up the tray and held it towards his nose. He couldn’t work out if the bad smell were the food or the rat. It didn’t matter. He had lost his appetite and dropped the tray back on the floor. A few minutes later the rat returned and continued its meal.
The bed was hard but preferable to the floor, so Eric lay back down and closed his eyes. His head filled with images that took his mind away from this place. He could see a frail old lady with a walking stick and a man who kept changing. One minute he was a tramp, the next he looked like Granddad Benjamin. Eric could sense that Ursula was worried and unsettled.
