Alien Deception

by Tony Ruggiero

  "Perfect," Leumas grumbled. "More of a mystery."

  "Not a mystery. More like a conspiracy," Greg stated.

  "What do you mean?" Leumas asked.

  Sarah understood the meaning of Greg's comment. "Who had the most to fear from the body if it was real?"

  "We did," Edward replied. "And now it will look like we set off the explosion to get rid of the evidence. I'll have Agent Brahm check the site and get samples."

  Greg rubbed his hands over his face, and then grimaced. "And the unknown device will add to the accusation that maybe there is an alien or outside source directly involved in Earth affairs, thereby giving credence to the reporter's claim."

  Sarah bit her lower lip. "Whoever it is, they're keeping us on the defensive."

  "Which is—" Greg sighed, "—exactly where they want us."

  * * * *

  The FBI, Secret Service and local law enforcement officials were sifting through the remains of the wing of the hospital that had been destroyed. It consisted mostly of ash and small debris. However, it was devoid of any evidence an alien body had been there.

  One of the Secret Service agents, Special Agent Charles Brahm, was one of the president's personal guards as well as one of the four secret attachés for the Council. President Samuel had requested Brahm investigate and report any significant findings to him so the president could, in turn, relay the information to Greg and the Council.

  "Not much left, is there?" Agent Brahm asked the fire marshal who had responded.

  "No, not at all. This'll be a tough one to figure out," Fire Marshall John Hanna said, scratching his head. "We've sent samples to the lab to try and determine the type of explosive used. But I can say this much. I've never seen this type of destructive force before or this type of incineration, and I certainly have seen my share. Spent some time in Desert Storm, saw a lot of explosions, but none come close to the devastation of this one."

  "Neither have I." Brahm, however, suspected evidence would reveal the explosive was a substance familiar to him and the UCDW.

  "Whatever it is, you can bet the press will be all over this and the president will be in some deep shit."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's too convenient. All this shit at the press conference and now this. I wouldn't want to be in his shoes."

  "I see your point. You'll let me know if you come up with anything."

  "Sure."

  "Thanks."

  Deciding it was time to head back and make his report, Brahm moved in the direction of his car. As he walked, he noticed a gaggle of reporters were massed just outside the cordoned-off area, waiting for the opportunity to unload their barrage of questions at any passerby who might possess some information and be willing to share it. Agent Brahm gave them a wide berth. They have the scent of blood already, he thought, and they're ready to leap at anything that seems vaguely interesting.

  There was nothing else he could do here except forward his report immediately and get the sample of debris for analysis to the Council. The president would have to come up with something. Not only were the people of the United States looking for answers from him, the rest of the galaxy also wanted to know from the Leader of the Council what was happening.

  * * * *

  Raymond Schume stood in the front of the crowd as he jotted descriptive comments in his notebook as to what the site looked like, and described in words what the stench of the burning debris smelled like. He couldn't see much because the cordoned area was several hundred feet away from the nearest activity. Out of the corner of his eye, he recognized Agent Brahm heading away from them.

  One of the President's personal guards here? That's kind of unusual.

  "Agent Brahm," he shouted. "Can you talk with us?"

  Brahm kept walking, not acknowledging him or the other reporters.

  "Asshole," one of the reporters said, causing a chuckle from the group. Although they would gladly cut one another's throat for the big story, they still managed to share a moment of occasional humor.

  Schume knew no one would be talking for a while. In cases like this, where there were many investigating agencies involved, the coordination of releases took much longer. Everyone got nervous about stepping on the toes of one agency until it was confirmed by at least three separate independent sources. He decided to walk back to his car where his laptop and other associated equipment were. He could use the time to think and plan his next move in light of this most recent event.

  Sliding behind the wheel of the Ford Explorer, he closed his eyes for a few moments.

  This couldn't get any better. I'm just rolling in credibility. I have them all scrambling around their assholes to find out what I know. Big pay raise time! And just in the nick of time, too, with the creditors talking about suing. Damn women keep me in hock, but that's about to change also. I'm going places. Book and television contracts will be coming my way after I break this baby wide open.

  Two months earlier when he'd turned fifty, he'd learned that not only was he half a century old, but on the verge of losing his job, being sued by several credit card companies and being thrown out of the apartment he shared with the cockroaches. How had his boss put it? No job in his future unless he got hot—real quick.

  As usual, Ray took the shortcut approach. He bought a gun. Just as he had convinced himself that suicide (after he shot his two ex-wives) was the way to go, he stumbled onto—no, not onto but into something.

  About a month ago, he had started receiving email messages from an anonymous source. He thought for sure it was a prank when this person said they didn't want money or their name mentioned in any of the stories. In fact, his caller offered him money, lots of money, if he would help. Schume gladly accepted. What did he have to lose? All they wanted was for the truth to come out about President Samuel and how he, along with others, was misleading the American people.

  Schume was skeptical at first, but the money showed up in his checking account so he checked out what he was being told. In the beginning, the information was nothing earth-shattering, but each tip turned out to be correct, proving the credibility and the reliability of the source.

  His latest tip about the new space-drive engine was disturbing. He interviewed several of those involved and found "gaps" in who was actually responsible for certain phases of the project. Scientist One would claim Scientist Two had done something, and Scientist Two said he actually hadn't. The end result was they created an engine years ahead of schedule, but couldn't tell you how.

  Then, about two weeks ago, new information had come via the telephone with the caller's voice scrambled. Short and to the point, the details his anonymous informant laid out were precise about the secret collusion between humans and aliens. The list of personnel and agencies involved in the conspiracy was long, but the top names included President Edward Samuel and Sarah McClendon. The caller referred to a secret alien organization, the UCDW, and how it was being purposely kept out of the public eye. Not even the top investigative services knew about it. The reason for this was clear—total domination and takeover of the planet Earth.

  After that phone call, Schume had been ready to dismiss the whole thing as a hoax, regardless of the accuracy established up to this point. Frustrated at losing what he had come to consider a great source and the money he received, he went out for a breath of air and was standing in the alley behind the office building. He always thought best when he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against a wall. He called it meditation.

  "Got a smoke?" a voice said to him.

  "No. Gave it up. Sorry," Schume said, not paying attention to this member of the endless parade of homeless alcoholics who always managed to find him. He continued his meditation.

  "How about a quarter?"

  Schume reached into his pocket and felt for a quarter, found one and held it out. "Get lost."

  The quarter disappeared from his fingers, then he felt the largest static electrical charge he ever imagined. When he opened his eyes
, he looked up and down the alley, but saw no one.

  When he returned to his office, he sat in his chair and knew as clear as rain what he needed to do next—check into the background of Greg Carlson and Sarah McClendon. And he did. He found many things that didn't sit right. Supposedly, the president hadn't known either of these two people until after he was elected, but Schume found photos that said something different. Sarah was frequently visible but this Greg… Nobody had seen or heard from him in about two years. It became obvious somebody was hiding something. Then came the anonymous tip about the location of the alien body.

  He had made it to the location his tipster had indicated before anyone else and was able to photograph the body and make initial observations before police and other local agencies arrived. The figure was humanoid in shape, but there were many features that indicated it was not of terrestrial origin.

  Now, he rummaged through his photos, studying them for anything that might be useful. The creature's skin was marked with spots around the neck and the ears were smaller than any human ears he had ever seen. The fingers were short, about half the length of his, and seemed to have three joints instead of two. He flipped through more photos, carefully looking for things he may have missed earlier.

  These would have been worth a fortune if they had been substantiated by physical evidence, but unfortunately, that would not be possible any longer and that pissed him off. Schume could have made some big bucks selling his photos anonymously to several papers. He could still get some money, but only a fraction of what he could have gotten if the body was still intact.

  Son of a bitch, that cost me a bundle.

  His source had made all the right calls up to this point, so Schume was surprised he hadn't seen the bombing coming.

  His laptop, plugged into the cigarette lighter, beeped to indicate he had incoming email. He set the pictures off to the side. Keying in his password, he accessed the message.

  "The authorities will not be able to determine the explosive used. The reason why is obvious. It is not of this world. This alien invasion is trying to cover their tracks with the assistance of the human collaborators. Do not let them cover this up! Expose them for what they are! They have destroyed the proof for now, but there is more and I will help you find it. Together we will expose these traitors. And, at the same time, you will be the most famous reporter on the face of this planet. I will contact you later with more details. Do not discuss this with anyone else. Have transferred funds to your account to continue our battle. End Message."

  There was no indication of who had sent the message or where it was sent from, just as it usually happened. Whoever his friend was, he had extensive IT background. However, Schume felt a resurgence of his earlier exaltation that things might be going his way again after this minor setback.

  Ray Schume leaned back in his seat with a large smile on his face. " ‘The most famous reporter on the planet.' That sure has a nice sound to it."

  He started to write down some notes. A press conference was sure to be in the future if things kept going this way and, somehow, he knew they would.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Out of the filth and the scum of the universe, comes the most motivated life and dangerous life forms…they have nothing else to live for. These are the tools by which great things can be accomplished.”

  Copolla

  Carnis sat alone in a room in a cheap hotel in the spaceport district on the planet Server Three. The room was empty except for a bed, a table, and the chair he occupied. A bottle of Corsican whiskey, half-empty, and a glass sat on the table. His right hand was clenched tightly around a second glass as he thought about returning to Acuba and the continuation of his plans.

  He had found it necessary to come to this planet to arrange an event that required more secrecy than even Acuba could offer. There were still spies on Acuba who could lead to him being prematurely exposed. After this trip, things would be ready on Acuba to move ahead and secrecy would be maintained. Here on this member world of the UCDW, he would not be expected or watched for. No one would look for a dead man.

  "Being dead is hard work." His shoulders shook with his high-pitched laughter as spittle ran from his lips and fell in droplets on the table and his clothing. "I have them all running crazy. They don't have a clue what's going to happen next or from what direction I will move. The fools."

  He poured more of the Corsican liquid into his glass and drank it down quickly. He grimaced as it burned his throat, but quickly warmed to the sensation as it worked its way into his blood. He basked in its heat as he once more went over the details of his next move in a mind battered by surging waves of anger and a hunger for revenge. A knock at the door interrupted his enjoyment of his own cleverness.

  "Come," he yelled.

  A small, misshapen alien, a Cartorian, entered and slowly approached the table. The alien, Kartom, hesitated, obviously intimidated by the larger figure. His nose switched back and forth, his long whiskers probing the air for any sense of trouble. He grasped his short thin tail and held it close to him.

  "I have arranged all as you requested," Kartom piped in a trembling voice. "But the price… Ah…negotiations became a…ah…problem."

  "How so?"

  Unseen in the shadow of his hood, the stranger scowled. Carnis had come to this world throwing large sums of money around to get what he wanted, as if he possessed a bottomless purse. That was necessary to attract the talent he required. The money was not what mattered, but the insolence of these lowlife alien scum attempting to trick him did bother him. It bothered him a great deal, but his irritation would end soon.

  "They wanted another five hundred thousand credits for what they considered an extra risk. Murdering a life form involves additional danger. Murdering life forms who occupy roles of political importance attracts much more attention."

  Carnis laughed. "And what did you tell them?"

  "That you would pay it," Kartom said with obvious fear in his voice.

  "That was a bold move on your part." Carnis sneered. After a few moments of silence, he continued. "But you are correct, I will pay it gladly for a well-performed job."

  "The money…my money…will be deposited in the account I specified?" Kartom asked, trying to keep the quiver from his voice.

  "It's already there. When will they attack the ship?"

  "Soon. They are already tracking its trajectory."

  "Wonderful," Carnis bellowed. "Just wonderful."

  Kartom breathed a sigh of relief. "Then we have concluded our business?" the Cartorian asked, scurrying closer to the door.

  "Just about. We must have a drink to conclude our arrangement." He gestured for Kartom to step closer to the table and poured a measure of the yellow liquid into the empty glass. Carnis picked it up and handed it to his guest, who accepted it with a trembling hand. He then filled his own glass and set the bottle back on the table with a thump.

  "To a wonderful job," Carnis barked, then raised his glass to his lips.

  Kartom sniffed the glass contents and said nothing as he waited until his host had drunk.

  Carnis drained his glass and dropped it on the table. Kartom did the same, then quickly placed the glass on the table.

  "If there is nothing else, I shall take my leave of you."

  "As you wish," Carnis said, and waved his arm in dismissal.

  Kartom left without looking back, his little feet shuffling quickly down the corridor. Carnis sat in silence and stared at the tumbler Kartom had used in their toast. It was slowly collapsing as the acid implanted in the matrix of the glass, released by the warmth of the alien's hand, dissolved it, as it was no doubt doing to the stomach of the misshapen alien.

  "I hate to drink alone, but we can't have any loose ends," he said as he poured the remainder of the whiskey into his glass and drank deeply. A scream sounded from the street below and he started to laugh.

  * * * *

  The Arcturian spacecraft came out of hyperdrive and slowed t
o space-normal in the outlying reaches of the Earth's solar system. The ship contained Arcturia's two ambassadors, a pilot and navigator. The Arcturians were an affable race and it was reflected both in their actions and appearance. Physically, they were virtually identical to each other, most closely resembling Earth's pandas. On the outside, their thinking and movements appeared slow, but they were very prompt in their actions when they needed to be.

  The ship was a standard ambassadorial vessel with minimum weaponry, but with the stealth mechanisms for entering and departing Earth's atmosphere without detection. The ambassadors were returning from their home world ahead of schedule in order to resume their duties with the Council because of the incident of the dead agent's body in the great hall. The call for information had gone out for any reports of suspicious activity in their own sectors of space that possibly might be related.

  The pilot informed the ambassador when they were less than one standard hour away from Earth.

  "Do you think this information means anything?" Ambassador Krolugue asked.

  "Possibly," his fellow ambassador, Calo, responded. "It definitely should be followed up. The agent who reported the events is a reliable one and I see no reason to dispute it. Someone or something is maneuvering into a position of power and utilizing some of the worse scum in the galaxy to do it."

  "To what end?" wondered Krolugue.

  "That's what needs to be further investigated," Calo said. "To try and determine what the ultimate purpose is behind these incidents."

  Krolugue read through the report again.

  "Someone is assembling the best criminal talent under a retainer system of some sort. It's as if the intent is to have access to a broad spectrum of expertise. In addition, there are indications of disappearances of individuals rumored to have accomplished assignments of a very discreet nature. The most damning insinuation, however, was that the UCDW was, or would be, the target of some of these assignments." Krolugue looked from the piece of paper. "Will you report these findings to the Council?"