Alien Deception

by Tony Ruggiero

  “Subconsciously, she was provided the stimulus to apply suggestions to him to cause decisions based upon Council forecasts that predicted the people of Hitler's country had the potential to become a leading economic, cultural and industrial center in the European region. They possessed the drive and initiative to lead the continent into a new era, and the Council felt that other countries would follow suit and spur tremendous growth in many areas. The most important area was the space exploration program, where they felt other countries would quickly adopt Germany's concepts and improve on them.

  “Unfortunately, the Council misinterpreted Adolf Hitler's personality flaws too late. By the time they realized Hitler's ambitions were fueled by his desire for conquest and his paranoia, Earth's Second World War had gotten out of control. Hitler had taken his power and abused it to the point of annihilating millions of innocent people that he considered inferior.

  “On April 30, 1945, Eva Braun was influenced to strongly suggest to Hitler that he commit suicide, and that she join her new husband in death shortly thereafter. The subsequent fire that burned their bodies beyond recognition eradicated any evidence of wrongdoing on the part of the Council and Copolla. Braun and Hitler's bodies would be forensically unidentifiable, erasing all possibilities of anyone finding evidence of sub-neural tampering, which could indicate that alien influence had been applied. Several other attempts were employed to correct the catastrophe, but those, too, had failed. Reference: Earth Files 0005Z through 0089X.”

  "I'll be damned," Leumas said. "They really screwed that one up royally. But why does Copolla want to go back now? Surely he doesn't want to bring his past screw-ups back out into the open for others to see? Why? Why? Why?"

  He went back to reading the report. “Earth was abandoned to mend its wounds in its own fashion, according to local traditions and customs. The Council deemed the operation a complete failure. Subsequently, a motion was filed to begin an overhaul to correct such deficiencies in the Council’s methods, and procedures for personality analysis and alien performance predictions were put in place to avoid future disasters.”

  Leumas removed the micro disk from the reader and reached up to rub his tired eyes and massage his forehead. He could feel a headache slowly beginning to grip his temples as more and more questions arose in his mind. He looked down at his personal wrist timepiece, a gift from his good friend and most trusted assistant Greta, and realized that he had been in the archives for well over an hour. He forced his mind to interpret what he had seen so far.

  Earth's inhabitants, the humans, couldn't possibly have come along far enough since this Hitler massacre to warrant membership on the Council. The incident had only been about sixty Earth years ago. The planet should probably be left alone for…maybe a hundred years before contact was attempted again. It just didn't make any sense. This whole thing was a great big mystery.

  Leumas quietly cursed under his breath, "Why me? Why me?"

  He returned his gaze to the screen as he pressed the key to continue. No further information appeared.

  "That can't be all!" Leumas was disappointed and skeptical. "There has to be more information available than this. If we've had past contact, there should be reports, background information, agents assigned, and bacteria studies. Computer, bring up all additional files mentioned in this report," he said with an authoritative voice.

  "Unable to comply," the flat metallic voice returned, with no emotion.

  "Why not?" he demanded, his frustration growing very quickly.

  "Unable to comply to your request by the direction of the UCDW rules of protection and security concerns for safeguarding sensitive data," the voice stated, as if Leumas should already know that.

  "Computer, my clearance allows me access to ALL information in regards to cultures and any initial contact with them."

  "Unable to comply to your request by the direction of the UCDW rules of protection and security concerns for safeguarding sensitive data," the emotionless computer voice repeated.

  Leumas found this continuous rejection more than a little annoying, a hindrance to his meticulous research. His stomach acids began to churn.

  "Computer, have the Archival Custodian or anyone else who would be able to answer my question respond to this location in person immediately!" he directed, his anger now eroding his reason.

  "Acknowledged. The Custodian will be here in forty-five seconds," the flat voice said.

  Leumas glanced up from the screen as movement caught his eye. A humanoid figure was approaching. The figure was short and compact, with strands of long gray hair drifting in any direction they chose. He wore a long, white jacket whose pockets were stuffed to overflowing with various items.

  "My name is Robise. How may I be of assistance?" the old man said in a curious tone, eyes squinting as he tried to focus on the face of Leumas. He removed spectacles from his pocket and placed them on his large, wrinkled nose. With vision restored, his face broadened with a smile as he recognized the frequent visitor to his humble establishment.

  "Initial Contact Agent Leumas, I am honored. It is good to see you again. I continue to hear much about you and your work," he said with sincerity. Leumas acknowledged the recognition with a slight bow of his head and turned to the subject at hand.

  "I would like to access these reference files," he stated evenly, as he showed the small man the case report's file number. "I tried to access this information but, for some reason, I am being denied entry," he said and waited for the old man's reaction.

  "Let me see." Robise's rough old hands danced with amazing quickness across the electronic screens. He remained silent for several seconds after he keyed in the information, his thick eyebrows drawn together. Finally, he turned toward Leumas.

  "I'm sorry, but that information is simply not available," he shrugged.

  “I know that!” Leumas said, his anger returning. "But I want to know why. The report says those files are here, and I want to see them. I have more than the necessary clearances required."

  Robise moved closer to Leumas, and whispered in a conspiratorial voice, "I don't know where they went, but I can tell you this…" the custodian paused as he looked around the facility. When his gaze settled back on Leumas, he continued, "The order came directly from the UCDW. One of their 'special agents' came here and removed all the files. He had a directive signed by Copolla himself."

  "Copolla himself, huh?" Leumas said, stroking his chin as he mulled that thought over, feeling not a bit surprised. "That makes this even more, well—interesting." He smiled wanly. "Why do you think they did that? Have any ideas, Robise?"

  The old man smiled as well. "I, as well as those who have preceded me, have been in this facility for a very long time. Many life forms don't realize how important it is to keep a record of all the things that happen. There is more to history than anyone would ever suspect. Sometimes, history records things that others wish did not get recorded, things that they choose not to remember. Do you understand what I am trying to say?"

  Leumas nodded his head in agreement. "Do you think you would remember what this special agent looked like?"

  "Maybe."

  "You wouldn't by any chance have a copy of the information that was removed, would you?" Leumas asked, hoping for a positive response.

  "Maybe," the old man replied again, a thin smile highlighting his face. "Where can I reach you?"

  "I'll be out of touch for a while. I'll contact you."

  "Fine. Going on a trip?" Robise asked.

  "Yes. I'm going to Earth."

  Chapter Three

  GREG CARLSON

  Greg suddenly awoke and found himself in a nightclub reminiscent of the late 1940s. He blinked his eyes, hoping that it would go away and be replaced with the usually unmade bed or the clothes-covered floor of his apartment. But the bizarre surroundings remained the same. At least he was a constant; he was still Greg Carlson, he thought, although everything else had changed, right down to the clothes on his body.
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  Gazing at the surroundings, he guessed at the 1940-ish date from old photographs he had seen in books and magazines of the speakeasy establishments of the period. It was furnished with small round tables, topped with miniature lamps with shades that dangled streams of glittering red plastic beads. Perfect white linen tablecloths reached to the black-and-white checkered floor. His sudden realization of having known the details of such an establishment made him wonder if in fact that had something to do with what he was now seeing. Was his subconscious mind providing the details for this dream? But was it really a dream—he wasn’t sure. Yet the only answer for what was happening was that he had to be dreaming. How else could all of this be happening? But how often did one realize that very thought while actually dreaming? That you were actually awake in your dream?

  His hand reached out and touched one of the tables. Its cool, hard surface felt just like it should, confirming its physical existence. This surprised him. He tried to remember if he ever had a dream where he actually was able to perceive everything around him as if he were wide-awake. He didn't think so. He touched himself and felt the pressure of his own warm hand on his arm. How the heck can this be? What is…

  A strange feeling of electricity in the air interrupted his thoughts. He could almost feel his hair strands beginning to stretch upward, there was so much static in the air of this place. Something was going to happen. He wasn't sure how he knew that, but it was the only thing he was sure about at the moment. He also felt that he didn't need to be nervous or scared; whatever was going to happen was going to be a "good" thing.

  Suddenly, a crowd materialized around him. The people were all dressed in period clothing of the Forties. Greg began to walk toward them; perhaps he could learn something and possibly end whatever it was that was happening. He hesitated as he noticed that most of the people who had materialized were gorgeous and seductive looking women. At that point, he virtually lost control of what he was doing as his mind blended into some kind of scripted event, as he consciously remained a casual observer to the play.

  A thought formed in his mind with such clarity and certainty causing him to blurt out, "They're all here for me." His body shivered at the mere thought of all these women. "Of course, that's it. Why else would I be here?"

  He felt as if his body no longer belonged to him as it strutted across the floor in his fashionable clothes, the baggy pants billowing with each step; his tight-fitting shirt accentuated his one-hundred-sixty-pound muscular, five-foot, eight-inch body. His dark hair, every strand perfectly in place, shimmered in the light and added a golden aura to the dream-like quality of this experience. He almost felt embarrassed by the thoughts and words coming from his mind and mouth. Yet there was this uncanny attraction that seemed to grow as the dream went on.

  The crowd parted magically as he walked through their midst. They appeared to glow and shimmer as he neared them, like ghosts drifting between points of solid and gaseous states. They came from all around just to shake his hand. He felt the warm touch of flesh against his palm. But something told him, or somehow he knew, that these glancing touches were just empty shells of air, and this only seemed to reaffirm that there was somebody else here that he had to meet. Someone very special and he was meant only for her, not any of these others.

  A gorgeous and voluptuous blond-haired woman stepped up to greet him.

  "Hi, Greg. Remember me? I'm Karen. I bought you a drink once." Her voice was so high, it almost sounded like a squeak. She placed her hands lightly on his shoulders as she moved closer, her face only inches away from his. He could smell the too-sweet perfume that radiated from her.

  "You were so kind, you…spoke to me," she said breathlessly. "Remember? I gave you my chair and you said, 'thank you.'"

  "I'm sorry, but no, I don't remember you," he said apologetically, yet his voice hinted of a new-found arrogance as he stepped away from her hands and her warm grip, his own actions again surprising him. Although his body moved around her, his eyes remained fixated on her loveliness, chest high.

  "Oh, thank you! You are just too kind!" she said, nearly in a swoon, as he brushed past her. She stared down at her hands as if this mere touch had made them golden. She turned them over and over, and then hugged them to her body in ecstasy, pushing her breasts to the brink of expulsion from her clothing. He continued to walk on, shaking hands with everyone, not having a clue who any of them were.

  A spotlight appeared from somewhere out in the darkness and encompassed a sole woman who sat at the bar. She appeared to pose there, her back to him. In this view, he could catch glimpses of her carefully taking tiny sips of her drink. He immediately stopped and gazed in awe at this woman. She is the one, he thought. She is the one that I knew would be here.

  She wore a simple black evening dress that flowed over her body, accentuating her curves in all the right places. As he studied those curves with intent interest, he felt goose bumps suddenly arise all over his body. He stared at her hair that shimmered like black silk hanging past her shoulders, wanting so much to touch those strands of black loveliness before they disappeared into the darkness outside of the spotlight.

  He squared his shoulders and stepped up to where she sat on the barstool, a ravishing sight. He knew why she was here. She was waiting just for him, nobody else, just him. He had never felt so sure about anything in his entire life. As he reached her barstool, the room fell eerily quiet.

  He gently placed his hand at the base of her barstool, noticing even more how the black dress clung to her body. He inhaled deeply and let her perfume tantalize and tease his senses. It affected him like one who is addicted to a drug and has just found a bountiful quantity. He had to have more, and more. His head became giddy as his mind searched for the perfect words that would entice this woman to be his. Words that would make her simply melt into his arms. He felt no control as his smoothest voice spoke warmly and seductively to her. "You look like you're waiting for someone. Someone like me. Well, I'm here now. You and I have a destiny to fulfill. We will go to the stars together and experience things that others have only dreamt about."

  The woman slowly began to turn toward him. Time felt as if it stood still as he watched her face slowly rotate toward his plane of view. Then, suddenly, without even the slightest hint or warning, her face disappeared and was replaced with darkness.

  He screamed, "No! No! I must see your face!"

  But the darkness kept coming and he knew it would keep him from her, his woman. As he plummeted into the darkness, he screamed again.

  ****

  "Damn it, that hurt!" Greg shouted, as the box of files he was reaching for fell from the shelf, glancing off the side of his head. He held onto the ladder with one hand as he rubbed the spot on his head with his other hand as the box continued its gravitational trip, ending with a resounding w-r-u-m-p as it hit the floor.

  "Damn it!" he shouted again, but the pain was not as bad as the disappointment he was feeling at not seeing the face of the woman in his recurring dream. This time he had gotten closer than ever before to actually seeing what she looked like.

  As far as the box taking a whack at his head, he knew he had no one to blame but himself. This incessant daydreaming he was experiencing was getting worse. At first, it had just happened when he was sleeping, but now it was taking over even his conscious moments. Not that he minded about the women, or really just "the woman," in the dream. But that box weighed a good fifty pounds and, with the height and speed, it could have caused some serious damage, possibly even killed him, if it sent him hurtling off the ladder to the hard cement floor.

  Well, what's done is done, he figured, as he continued to rub the knot on his head for a few seconds. Finally composed, he climbed down the ladder. When he reached the bottom, he noticed the time on his watch, and was relieved that it was time to call it a day. This is a good thing, he thought. Especially with the way things have been going lately. Who would have thought that working in a Naval Reserve Records Center in New Or
leans would be such hazardous duty. But it wasn't like this usually. Only recently had the bizarre near accidents been occurring. In fact, it was a strange coincidence how his clumsiness appeared to be getting worse as the dreams became more intense and frequent. This was something that required serious thought over a beer as soon as he got out of here.

  He hurriedly made his way to the time clock, probably the quickest thing he had done all day. As he stood before the almighty guardian of time and money, he became fixated on the archaic time machine and the manila punch cards all arranged neatly in their little slots. He had never realized how he was just one cardboard slip of paper among the many, with nothing special about it, no individuality.

  "I need a change before I become lost in the pile. I'm meant for greater things or, at least, something other then this," he said out loud, catching a few stares from other workers waiting impatiently to punch out as the last stroke of the clock indicated the exact hour. He removed his card and let the mechanical teeth bite into it. He winced at the solid thump of the machine as if it had done bodily harm to him, then quickly placed his card back amidst the myriad of others, and headed for the elevators. He punched the "down" button of the old elevator, and waited for its steely doors to open. He jiggled his car keys in his hand as he waited impatiently, still seeing the herd of uniform manila time cards in the back of his mind. "Just lost in the crowd," he muttered, as his thoughts drifted back to the dream, where he was an individual who garnered attention and who obviously had some self worth. Still, it was very strange. Why was he having these dreams, these images of going to a bar to meet a woman? Why was she so important?

  The chime sounded and the doors of the elevator slowly opened. As he automatically stepped forward, he suddenly dropped his keys, and bent to pick them up. As he grabbed them, he instinctively looked forward and felt his heart jump in his chest. Instead of staring into what should have been the elevator floor at this angle, all he saw was the darkness of the elevator shaft.