by Geoff Wolak
In the fifth week the police practised both storming houses, and small unit tactics; covering fire. We gave them a fuel allowance, and they practised racing up to buildings in the dated police cars, jumping out and storming inside. We brought in dated pistols and a great deal of old lead ammo, allocating them to the police, close quarter tactics practised, the men soon quick on the draw.
In the eighth week, the weather now warming up – and worrying us that it may lead to border skirmishes – we handed back the first batch of recruits. They were immediately pinched by the President, now to be his Presidential Guard, a matter of odd timing, or good timing.
A disaffected army general decided that he didn’t like the President very much, and we could all understand why. The general organised a type of coup. Whilst the President was hiding under his desk, our police shot dead the attackers with ease, none of our police offices injured or killed, the President retrieved from under his desk. A week later, a family member of the general that had organised the coup - and subsequently been hanged for his efforts, got close to the President. Pistol raised, the President crapped himself and screamed like a girl. Our police moved, forming a human shield, several shot and injured before they killed the attacker, plugging the man with twenty rounds.
The wounded police stood firm, even whilst bleeding, and helped the President away. The wounds of the police were patched up, miraculous recoveries witnessed. The President, predictably, sent us a request: could he have a few more officers please? I felt a negotiation coming on, a shopping list, and I asked to meet with our fearless leader.
When the President came down, flanked by his new bodyguards – our own trained police unit – we sat and had hot chocolate, our human guards chatting to their Seethan friends through data-pads, shoot-outs discussed. The President thanked us, which surprised us, and asked for more men to be trained. We delicately explained that if we trained many, the Preether may be unhappy, and may wish a war, to which he suggested that the Preethan President could have twenty men as well. We pencilled that in.
Next, I asked about the oil field in Wyoming we had discussed. He would honour his agreement and hand it over to the Preether, and this week. I pencilled that in as well. Would he sit with the Preether and look at a map, and a border line that they would both keep? He was amenable to that, but suggested that the Preether were the ones that did most of the attacking. From what we knew, he was right.
Meeting concluded, we signalled our ambassador to the Preether, and he gave the Preether the news. They were happy about the sand-oil field in Wyoming, agreed to the police training – which their spies had already informed them about, and would sit and look at a border. They then went away, and moved a tank battalion to the aforementioned border.
We all sighed, and I uttered a few rude words. Looking at the map, the film about a burst dam came to mind. I gave our soldiers a nudge, and the drones would be working overtime – as busy little beavers. That night, drones cut down several large trees growing along a riverbank, followed by two dozen trees upstream. We soon had a small log jam. More trees were felled upstream, soon a log jam created worthy of a sixty foot long beaver. Water started to breach the banks, a soggy mess created over a wide area. That soggy area widened till it touched the first tank track, a bridge support failing. The bridge did not collapse, but just rested at an angle.
Preethan Tanks tried to reposition, throwing up a great deal of mud, and a fuel truck suddenly caught fire. The advance was getting bogged down. Literally. The next suitable bridge was a good twenty miles south.
The tanks were duly moved south, and crossed the bridge with our blessing, since it led towards the oil field they were being allocated. A Seethan with a white flag met them on the roads and said, ‘This is yours now, we’re leaving.’ And off he drove. The tanks surrounded the oil field mines, and the Preethan nightly news broadcast reported a great victory after a long hard battle.
After I had picked myself up off the floor from laughing, I sent the story to Jimmy. He came back on with, ‘Politicians, behaving like arseholes, is a universal constant. Still, it’s the end result that matters.’
Police Academy Number Two, to be located in Denver, was duly arranged as agreed, a site found and suitable buildings commissioned, the Preether being oddly helpful at the moment. To keep them happy, even though they appeared happy enough, I indicated a few gold deposits on the map. Now they were happy, and sent crews off to start digging straight away.
May saw posturing and threats by both sides, but it seemed to be being played out in the media. When one side complained of an incursion, we checked with the drones, and often found no incursion at all. Seems that the various governments were all full of shit a lot of the time, unlike back on my world, where they were just full of shit around election time.
Grabbing the chopper, I flew up to Manson in the daylight, the craft’s radar not detecting any approaching aircraft. I returned to Susan and the kids, the weather in Trophy now improving, and marvelled at how much the kids had grown. Helen was visiting, and Selemba’s changing eyes were now noticeable at a distance, as was the crown on her head, the shape of her mouth altering. Since I had grown to be very fond of the boys, the changes were not such a shock.
My twin daughters popped back a day after my return, soon playing with either the boys or Selemba, and Toby occasionally graced us with a flying visit. Sandra was now on baby number eighty-four, many taken off-world to be adopted. Baldy had grabbed two, since his own girls were away in boarding school a lot of the time. But he had grabbed girls, and I figured he may encourage them to start families when they were old enough.
The survivors of Antarctica hardly made the news anywhere these days, and had been sidelined, most reporters aware of the drug-induced games. The survivors had been shipped to a military base on Ascension Island in mid-Atlantic, and had slowly adjusted to a warmer climate. Each was interviewed, and it soon became obvious to them that we knew everything. Many confessed, some denied ever playing the game, and some were known to have served time in solitary under the ice – for murder. They were sent to prison here, for an indefinite term. Peck, however, had been flown to The Hague, in Holland, and put on trial, something of a shock for him. That trial was to try and establish just what did go on, and just what we should do about it.
The accommodation blocks on Ascension Island were basic, but a hell of a lot better than the accommodation that the survivors had been used to. Women and children had been removed, and had undergone a long debrief to establish evidence against the remainder, and to get a full picture of what went on of a cold night under the ice. Many of the women admitted to taking drugs to pass the time, and of prostitution, but none had been sent to prison yet, or even charged. They were all being ‘rehabilitated’.
A check of their DNA revealed six women exhibiting bits of Seethan DNA, daughters and grand daughters of some of the original people that had experimented upon themselves. One old man, a boy when his father worked on the project, gave valuable insights as to the frame of mind at the time. Those insights made me want to shoot them all. Seems that the old man’s father had worked on bio-weapons, outsourced by the CIA on that world to South Africa during the height of the Cold War, and that those experiments included geno-viruses targeted at Africans. But, having studied the work, our best scientists couldn’t fathom how they had achieved it, which was a puzzle.
The computer game was also being appraised, at least in its technology. A few test subjects had tried it, but had not raped or killed anyone in the virtual world. They had virtual sex with many movie stars of the 1960s and 1970s of that world, who were similar to our own historical ladies. With the right drugs applied, the effect was stunning, those having played the game swearing they could believe it was real - as well as believe how dangerously addictive it was. The technology was banned, as were the drugs, and there was little interest in it here, other than the fact that Sandra has accidentally mentioned that Seethans enjoyed sex online.
&n
bsp; Various governments discussed the idea, but none saw any benefit to it. Safe sex was not an issue here, and college kids swapped sexual partners every few hours; what need was there for a computer link? The governments eventually decided that the game might be relevant to a species that produced twenty babies every six weeks, but not to boring old humans.
Jimmy then surprised me by announcing that he had grabbed the technology for a secret project. I was shocked. Then he mentioned deep space flights, and I said ‘Ah’, but was still shocked. His game, however, would not use drugs, and would not involve breaking the law. Baldy had been given the technology as guardian, even handed details of the drugs. If a non-addictive variant could be found, then he’d look at it.
When Jimmy came to visit us, Susan queried the use of the game, and its dangers. Jimmy said, ‘There exists a game called … Time Traveller, where you – the player – start out in 1984 and try and fix the world. Depending on the difficulty level you set, it takes around – oh – twelve years to complete.’
I smiled and nodded. ‘That should make a long space flight interesting, a very hard game to complete!’
Jimmy said, ‘It may be a little addictive, as well as a little annoying, but on a long flight it would be essential to stop memory fade, or even depression. I have psychologists looking at it. We’re thinking of ways to get exercise linked in somehow, also important for long distance flights.’
‘The Seethan police college is going well,’ I mentioned to Jimmy.
‘Bet you anything … that the army over there pinch a few officers,’ Jimmy retorted.
‘It’s only a handful of officers,’ I said defensively. ‘And besides, we’re selective about who we inject.’ Jimmy suddenly froze, and stared out of focus. After twenty seconds I glanced at Susan, before turning back to Jimmy. ‘You … OK?’
‘No,’ he said. He lifted his phone. ‘I want the DNA of each Antarctic survivor double checked for anomalies, then checked again; top secret, top priority. Then I want their base searched, then around the base, then under the damn base, every inch. Top priority, and keep it quiet.’ He ended the call.
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
‘That crashed alien ship has been bothering me. Only a government could build such a ship – a ship with stealth ability and temporal ability, a project that would have taken time, a political consensus reached, and a shit load of money spent. When I visited the Seethan world in the future they didn’t have the technology, and we’ll influence them from here on. So … what event caused them, and us, to agree to build such a ship – and to send it back?’
I exchanged a look with Susan. ‘Something important. But, it crashed somehow, and no one came to rescue them.’
‘Maybe that ship was unique,’ Jimmy suggested. ‘Or, maybe there was something else going on. They came back through time, and went looking for that base on Antarctica. Why?’
‘Something there … of interest,’ I posed.
‘Something worth a paradox, or a contamination of the time line?’
‘We evacuated the survivors here,’ I reminded him. ‘The current and future Seether have no idea about them.’
He raised a finger. ‘Yes. So they could have interacted with the survivors without risking the Seethan time line. But why? Someone, went to a great deal of time, trouble and expense to send that ship.’
‘Question is … why,’ I repeated. ‘And when we find out … I doubt we’ll like the answer.’
‘Cold War America, CIA and drugs, South Africa, flu virus.’ He made a face, and stared out of the window. ‘What could interest people who have the technology to build a ship like that?’ He raised a finger again. ‘Maybe … they were looking for someone.’
‘Someone … who?’ I puzzled. ‘And why, for God’s sake?’
‘Our scientists can’t figure the technique used to create the Seether,’ Jimmy said, making firm eye contact. ‘What if … they had a little outside help?’
‘A traveller!’ Susan and I said at the same time.
‘It would make sense to try and find him,’ Jimmy pointed out. ‘But only if he’s still active, as well as a nuisance.’ He raised his phone. ‘I want every Antarctic survivor to write down the names of people they know, then draw up a master list and check that everyone that was alive … is accounted for. Check with Peck’s list, and fast as you can please.’
Two days later Jimmy issued an alert, a man known to be alive at the time of the bomb in Antarctica not accounted for – as well as Keets and his son. That man was not still under the ice, not amongst the dead, and not with the others, but had been seen that day by many people. Jimmy had everyone who had been to Antarctica checked, and cross-checked.
A Marine was then reported missing, Ascension Island scanned top to bottom. We had an intruder, a traveller, and possibly an alien, all agencies put on alert. Our portal operators went on lock-down, in case the traveller tried to get off this world, and all portals employed extra safety checks. Movements were restricted, IDs triple checked, DNA checked, even retinal scans conducted.
It was then reported that the missing US Marine had used his credit card in Missouri, just an hour or two before blood was found on a USAF military transport. Tests showed that it was our missing Marine. The US authorities went into crisis mode, soldiers on the borders and at airports. Manson was placed on high alert, people locked inside with food, the outer doors locked and pressure-sealed. The portal was disabled by access codes, and it would need three people to reactivate it; our friend would not be leaving anytime soon. The other portals, in England, France and Africa, followed suit, and locked down.
Baldy’s world closed their portal with 1938-world, and said ‘call us, soon,’ and my old world of 2048 followed suit, micro-portals left functioning. The survivors of Antarctica then all sat with sketch artists, and a composite was made up, computer enhanced, and then adjusted. Survivors would be sat down to scan six variations of the face, to say which was closest, the final picture used. It went to all agencies, soon on every TV screen and web news outlet. He had been sighted around Missouri, the area flooded with agents from many agencies.
They found the US Marine, alive, but tied up and left with a bottle of water; out intruder was not quite the monster we had feared.
Jimmy flew over to me the day they found the Marine. At the house, he sat with me. He began, ‘Our friend managed to get through our portal, get a uniform, get to Ascension Island, then on a flight to Missouri, so he’s no fool.’
‘He sounds like frigging James Bond!’
Jimmy slowly nodded. ‘He may be hundreds of years old, and he’s obviously learnt a thing or two. He spent seventy years with people in Antarctica, so he knows humans – assuming that he’s not human.’
‘Checked where your lad Christopher is?’ I quipped, getting a look.
‘Why hasn’t this guy made contact?’ Jimmy thought out loud. ‘If he has a genuine task to perform … we’d help him.’
‘You went to great lengths not to be caught,’ I pointed out.
‘That’s because the CIA were primitive back then.’
‘And to him, we may be primitive,’ I suggested.
‘He sat biding his time in Antarctica for seventy years, and was there maybe longer, so he’ll not rush in trying to escape. We … need to open the door for him.’
I stared back. ‘What?’ I puzzled.
‘A trap, but a clever one. Get the senior portal staff from Manson over here. Today.’
After lunch our guests arrived, and we sat them down in a lounge.
‘I’m hoping that none of you are dangerous aliens,’ Jimmy quipped, making them laugh. But they looked at each other nervously anyway. ‘So, I think our friend will make a play for Manson, and your portal, and we’ll set a trap. First, I’ll persuade the CIA to fake a body, and use it as an excuse to cancel all searches. That will make our friend less cautious. We’ll resume off-world operations at Manson, or at least we’ll advertise it as such, and then … then we�
��ll set the trap.
‘Now, what you don’t know … is what I suspect, in that our friend can change his appearance, and by that I mean he can change his face to look like someone else.’
‘A shape-shifter,’ I let out. ‘Shit.’
‘It’s the only way he could have gotten off Antarctica, and taken a long plane ride to the States. Anyone with a face like the composite drawing would have stood out; that guy looks sixty - with scars!’
‘Not exactly a fit young serviceman,’ I quipped.
‘So,’ Jimmy began. ‘He’ll make himself look like someone who has access, bide his time, and then try and jump through, to … somewhere.’ Jimmy pointed at the head scientist. ‘You will, right away, rig up a secret device to log all access to the portal and frequencies dialled, but without anyone outside this room knowing about it. He pointed at the second man. ‘So will you, but without the others knowing about it. Do you understand?’
They collectively nodded.
‘Now, pick a portal operator who is good at his job, yet … lives alone, works late, doesn’t have too many friends.’
They all smiled. ‘Slumber,’ a man said.
‘Slumber?’ I repeated. ‘That’s actually his name?’
‘No, we call him that.’
‘I won’t ask why,’ Jimmy quipped. ‘Now, we need a way to prove that he … is him.’ He waited.
The third man said, ‘Have him knocked out with gas, late at night – he sometimes dozes off anyway, then place a micro-particle in his spine, an isotope. Without surgery, no one could remove it. I’ll set-up a scanner, and when it goes off we just need to see it’s him. If it doesn’t go off, we’ll know that he is a fake.’
‘I like you,’ Jimmy told the man. ‘You’re a sneaky shit.’
We laughed.
‘Do it,’ Jimmy said. ‘Straight away, maximum security, tell no one. I figure we have a week till our friend arrives.’ He sighed. ‘All I need to do now … is to persuade the Americans.’
