Day = 1
In a dusty brick apartment, within a city on a river, a man woke
up.
He did not know why he was there in the small and musty room,
with stained off-white walls and dim yellow light filtering through the
blinds. Nor did he know even who he was, or what. In this daze, he
swung his legs over the hard, lumpy bed he had been lying upon. It was
covered with a light, dirty brown bedspread that fell onto the worn
carpet floor. Standing warily up, this man swiveled, eyes observing the
small room he was in. The walls were featureless aside from stains and
holes in the plaster, and the ceiling was sagging and discoloured. In
one corner was a door covered in brown, peeling paint. Across from it
lay another door; this one white but equally disheveled. Putting a hand
to his head, the man walked slowly over to the white door, and putting
his other hand on the know and turning it experimentally, he pushed it
open with a disturbing creak.
On the wall inside was a light switch. Unknowingly, he fumbled
for it, then blinked as a light came on, revealing a tiny, decrepit
bathroom. It consisted of – these things he knew – a dirty toilet, a
shower stall covered in mildew, and a short drooping counter with a
cracked sink set in to it. A box lay upon the counter, and the man
stepped over and picked it up. Opening it, he saw first a piece of
paper, folded in half. After he had extricated and unfolded it, he
could tell that it was a letter, consisting only of a few lines:
Hello. Your name is Iota. Within this box is contained a
wallet with an identification card – perfectly valid – and
a credit card. Do what you will with these.
Ask no questions and you will be told no lies.
V.I.
The man – Iota – puzzled over this. Why would someone leave him a
note like this? Who was this V.I., and what was the purpose of the
cryptic message? And what more did he know that Iota didn’t? Most
importantly, why was he like this in the first place?
For the moment taking the letter’s advice and putting these
questions out of his mind, Iota pulled out the skinny leather wallet
from the box and flipped it open. Just as the strange note had said,
within were an identification card, with what Iota assumed must be his
picture, for it could not identify him if it was not, and a credit
card. At least, Iota guessed that it must be a credit card. The term
was new to him entirely, and he understood neither word in the given
context. This piece of plastic he ignored, placing it back inside the
small card slot of the wallet. The other card he held up to the light,
examining the features of the portrait printed on the front.
The man in the picture had severe features with an air of
depression about them. He had strikingly purple eyes – they seemed to
be the aspect of the face that drew Iota’s attention away from
everything else. Lowering the card a bit, he caught a glimpse of
himself in the cracked and tarnished mirror in front of him. He
realised immediately that this would be a much better way to observe
himself, assuming the man in the tiny photo was indeed himself.
A brief inspection proved this to be true. His purple eyes were
even more entrancing than before, though he struggled to think of a
reason why this could be. At last breaking his gaze away from his own
eyes, Iota studied the rest of his face, and saw it was much the same
as the picture. He had a large, Roman nose and a grim, straight mouth.
Parting his lips, he could see a row of yellowed and pointed teeth.
Behind his head, long and greasy black tresses of hair fell straight
down, sharply away from his slightly sloping forehead.
After staring into the mirror for a few minutes more, the man
turned his gaze downwards to look at his clothes. They were black,
unrelieved but somewhat faded. Baggy pants made of some thick, tough
material were covered on the back and the sides by a long black trench
coat. It had a deep hood attached to the back of the neck. Underneath
this, he had on a simple black shirt. Studying his hands, Iota realised
they were covered in cracked leather gloves. He hadn’t noticed that
before.
The text on the identification card stole Iota’s attention away
from his clothing. It verified that his name was indeed Iota – but here
it was followed by a surname, Aeillo. Iota Aeillo. He considered this
extension in his mind, then said it out loud. The sound startled him,
causing him to jump backwards in surprise. Looking around nervously and
shaking his head, he returned his concentration to the plastic in his
hands. Besides his photo and his name, it had a description of his
physical features and his age. Iota wondered about the point of the
physical description, because, after all, he could see himself and come
to all these conclusions by himself. He was tall; almost a full two
metres in height, and skinny; the weight given said only 63 kilograms.
And his eye colour could easily be determined from the photograph. His
age, however, seemed less superfluous, because he did not know it
himself and no method of estimating had occurred to him. Indeed, he had
not even wondered about age until this moment. He was 29 years old. His
birthday was June 6th, 19--. Shrugging, he decided that this was of no
great importance either. Sliding the card back into his wallet beside
the other, unknown one, he turned towards the other door and
contemplated.
Surely, if he had entered this room, even without his knowledge
or consent, there must have been some method of entry, and thus, of
exit. And it stood to reason that, if doors all acted like the white
one, it would at the very least lead to somewhere else. Outside of this
moldering room. However the concept, the mere thought of an external
world, seemed to fill him with unbidden feelings of fear and
apprehension. Steeling himself, he walked across the dirty brown rug
and, placing his gloved hand firmly on the doorknob, gave it a decisive
turn. It rotated slowly and rustily, but rotated nonetheless, and Iota
pushed the door aside and stepped through into a corridor of a state
much in keeping with that of the room he woke up in. A flickering light
adorned the ceiling, casting its intermittent light along the length of
the passage. Other doors also lined the hallway, each much like Iota’s
own. They had numbers beside them; a three, a four, a five, then his
own at the very end of the hall, which he surmised must be a six, and
so on. He cautiously closed the door behind him, wincing as it clicked
shut. He did not even know if he would be able to get back in, but
turned away and walked to the far end of the corridor he had entered.
At this end he encountered another door, but this one was metal
and had a window set in the middle. Below that, it read ‘Fire Door.
Keep Closed.’ Wondering what a fire door was, Iota pushed down on the
handle and shoved the door open, to find that it led onto a series of
flights of stairs. He descended them with a worried deliberation, the
feelings of fear and uncertainty that had plagued the though of leaving
his room intensifying with each downwards step he took. At last,
though, after passing by three more such ‘fire doors’ on three separate
landings, he reached the bottom of the stairway. In front of him now
appeared a doorway with rusty hinges sticking out but no door attached.
Through this was a dirty, vacant room with boards over all the windows.
Aligned with the doorway Iota now stood in was a solid looking wooden
door, in much better repair than any of the others he had observed. He
strode across the room, trying in vain to quell the mounting paranoia
he felt. Facing the door, he pulled the deep hood of his cloak over his
long black head, tugging forward until he felt that his face would be
sufficiently obscured. More secure in anonymity, he now pushed boldly
against the door and exited onto the street.
This new world for Iota was vast. Even staring up and down the
street past bulky, steel-sided buildings and decrepit brick warehouses,
he had an enormous sense of openness. The rooms and corridors of the
building behind him now appeared so much more confined and restricted
than they had just moments before. He inhaled deeply; a bad mistake.
Gagging and coughing, he thrust a sleeve over his nose and mouth and
searched for the source of the noxious odour. He found it right beside
him, not a metre away. It was a pile of refuse sitting in the alleyway
between the building he had just left and a huge, square structure with
cracked bricks and boarded windows. The heap of garbage was leaning up
against the old brick wall, overflowing plastic bags releasing little
trickles of decomposed filth run down into the street. It was covered
in flies, so many that the surface of some bags seemed to be crawling
along itself. He shuddered and turned in the opposite direction, which
appeared to lead to another area of the city he must be in. Hurrying
away from the stinking pile of trash, Iota pondered just what he might
see if he left this little street with no small amount of apprehension.
The other street was deceptively far away. Iota had to pass
dozens more of the same metal clad storage buildings, each one covered
with patchy white paint. His path took him past several more garbage
heaps, but with his newly discovered knowledge, the black garbed man
knew to hold his breath and cover his mouth as an extra precaution,
since many of the piles had odours so fierce as to be debilitating.
After about a half hour of walking along the deserted – and it was
deserted; aside from flies and rats Iota saw no other living begin – he
finally came upon the street he had seen at first from a distance. It
was different than the one he had just left, but only minorly so. The
buildings were higher and closer together, conveying a confined feeling
that was, though much less than in the shabby apartment complex,
restricting. Closer inspection of the buildings revealed them to be
houses, each narrow and two or three stories high. Each one was
rectangular and plastered with fading, peeling paint. Small windows
peeped out at random intervals along the length of the straight row of
houses. Iota wandered out onto the narrow street to obtain a better
look at these curious buildings, but dashed off to the safety of the
sidewalk as a vehicle approaching at a rapid rate sounded a startlingly
loud horn. It whizzed past the terrified man, who stared in shock after
the car. It was small and blue, with a strange looking rear end. A
curving sheet of glass ran straight down for half the height of the
rear, the abruptly jutted out and curved downwards before terminating.
Iota was not focusing on such details, however; he was much more
concerned about avoiding such contraptions. He waited, crouched on the
raised sidewalk, but no more vehicles followed after the first, so Iota
began to relax. If he was alert, he wouldn’t have to worry about them
anyways. Rather, he thought, simply keeping off the roads would serve
him just as well. Making up his mind to do so in the future, he marched
along the long, straight avenue, eyes fixed ahead of him, where, in the
distance he could now see even bigger buildings, some towering well
above the rest.
Several minutes of expedient walking found Iota standing on the
edge of a much larger and much busier street, surrounded by throngs of
people moving around him on their way to their own destinations. A
solid row of grey-coloured buildings lined the curve of the roadway,
but they were much more ornate than the ones he had passed. He turned
around and looked back in the direction he came, wondering why two
connected streets should be so different from each other. A glance
revealed that he had passed through several more distinct areas before
arriving at his current location, but Iota had been so fixed on getting
here that he had not noticed. Any chance to glimpse the details of
these preceding places was certainly in vain, however, because his
vision was obscured constantly by passers-by, and he did not feel like
try to shove his way through them just to see another street. He turned
once again, with the intent to start walking, but found himself
suddenly face to face with short, shaven-headed man.
“Hey, watch it, mate!” he said crossly, then stepped briskly
around Iota and continued his march down the sidewalk. Iota stared
after the man for a brief moment, then shrugged his shoulders and began
walking along the concrete sidewalk, pushing past slower moving people.
The road beside which he walked was teeming with vehicles; small
compact cars, sedans, trucks, vans, and the occasional motorcycle. He
could smell the fumes from them all; the biting, suffocating odours of
burnt petrol and diesel fuel. This was not nearly so unbearable as the
heaps of sinking garbage that lay upon the sides of the industrial
access street he had began his journey on, however, and Iota just
shrugged it off and began taking shallower breaths.
He walked up and down along this massive, curving path for
several hours, stopping when it became something else and retracing his
steps. After his second semi-circumlocution, it began to rain. The
streets, covered with people dressed in such a huge variety of styles
and colours all of a sudden began to blossom black, like hundreds of
little black mushrooms along a decaying log. He stared at these domed
coverings that had become so abruptly ubiquitous. The rain cascaded
down them, away from the human underneath. Iota could see their
utility, but now could recall having ever seen one before. But how
could that be possible, if they are clearly brought out every time it
rained?
Puzzling over this though while staring vaguely across the street
at all of the other little black mushrooms marching along, he did not
see the trio of people approach. Nor, over the sound of the street and
the sidewalk and the rain, did he hear their enigmatic whispered
conversation.
“There he is. I told you he’d be here.” A woman, her face
obscured by her own hood, whispered to her companions.
One of them, a male, replied calmly, “Of course he’s here. Give him the
letter.” The first woman nodded, and, under the observation of the
silent third member of the group, walked over to Iota.
She dropped a folded letter into one of the open pockets on his
trench coat, and whispered into his ear as she passed by, “Read it
tomorrow. They’re called umbrellas.” Iota spun, startled, trying to see
who it was that had spoken to him, but the trio, their heads bent
against the rain, had already vanished into the crowd.
Not knowing even which way the mysterious speaker had gone, and
thus having no way of trying to follow, Iota considered what she had
said. What was he to read? Dropping a gloved hand to his pocket, he
felt a thin folded sheet of paper, a letter like the one he had found
in the box on the counter in his bathroom. Fighting the urge to open
right now and discover the contents contained within, he pulled his
hand from the pocket, and, orienting himself, began to head back to his
very starting point, which would at the very least be out of this
choking downpour.
As he did, the rest of what had been whispered to him surfaced in
his consciousness. Umbrellas. Had she been referring to the black
fabric domes that the people on the street were using to protect
themselves from the rain? Iota decided to find out, and, after a moment
of hesitation caught the attention of one of the passers-by.
“Can you tell me what that,” he mumbled, pointing at the dome,
“is called?”
The woman he had spoken to gave him an odd look and said, as if
Iota should already know this, “It’s an umbrella.”
Blinking, he thanked the woman and continued walking, puzzled.
How had the other woman known what he was thinking? What did she know
about him?
At this point, he looked up and found himself staring at the
dripping brick face of the apartment building he had woken up in. Not
bothering to wonder how he had arrived so fast, without noticing, he
pushed open the entrance and strode across the darkened room to the
open doorway and mounted the four flights of stairs to the corridor
that led to his room. The light continued to flicker, throwing its
fitful light over Iota. He walked up to his door, glanced at the six
beside it, and tried to turn the knob. It rotated freely, and,
relieved, he walked through into the gloomy room beyond. It was
identical to when he had left it, but was darker now. Between the rain
and the aging of the day, his entire world had become dim. He knew
this, and why it happened, but though he racked his brain for an
explanation, could not discern how any of it happened. The sun had set.
It was obscured by clouds. He did not know where the sun had set to, or
how. Nor did he care; it was something that would happen inevitably
whether he understood or not. Feeling more secure with this reasoning,
he shrugged off his long, soaking cloak and removed his damp black
shoes, then lay down on the bed that was situated at an angle beside
the window. Within minutes he was asleep
Day = 2
The next day he awoke with less confusion than he had before.
This time he knew where he was, at least relatively, though he still
did not know why. The letter! Iota jumped off the bed and dashed the
three steps over to where he had abandoned his cloak the day before. It
still lay on the floor like he had left it, a sad damp pile of cloth.
Fumbling through the pockets attached to the outside of it, Iota at
last shoved his hand into one and felt the folded piece of paper.
Hoping that it would not have gotten wet – a bad oversight on his part
– he opened it eagerly. The ink was perfectly dry and legible and it
read thus:
Hello. We do not know who you are but we do know that you
do not either. We know your situation, however, and we know
that you want to find out why you are like this. So do we.
You will be contacted again once you have read this note.
More will be explained then.
We will not lie.
X----Ring, ring.
Iota jumped as a shrill ringing tone sounded behind him. He
searched the room frantically as it sounded again, then spotted its
source. A small device – a telephone – lay on the floor underneath the
window, a flattish silver cord connecting it to a socket in the wall.
He grabbed it and picked it up, tentatively raising the handset to his
ear. A voice on the other line spoke.
“Hello.”
Iota replied uncertainly. “Hello.”
“Who are you?” The other voice asked.
Still unsure, Iota answered, “The note… said my name is Iota.”
There was a pause on the other line, then a different speaker, a
female, spoke to him. “Hello Iota. Remember me? No, of course not.
Would you like to know why you are the way you are?”
“Yes.”
“Good, good. So would we. Can you tell us where you are?”
Iota glanced towards the window, but knew he would not be able to
ascertain his location from that view. He replied no.
“Oh, well. We’ll find you. Sit tight.” With that, the line went
dead, leaving Iota puzzled and apprehensive.
He took the anonymous speaker’s advice. Sitting back on the bed,
he waited for something to happen, for this mysterious group of people
to show up and explain everything to him. He hoped they could. He felt
a desire to know, even if this desire was still one of the multitude of
things that he did not entirely understand. But that’s what this group
was going to do – they were going to explain it to him.
Half an hour later, Iota heard a knocking at the door. He leapt
to his feet and crossed the room to the door, stooping to pick up his
trench coat on the way. Hopefully he wouldn’t be returning to this
dingy place.
Upon opening the door, he was met not with people dressed like
himself, which is what he had expected, but with two men wearing black
suits over white shirts. The one on the left spoke. “We are known of
conversations of yours. Continue them do not.”
Iota was taken aback. The grammar the man had used was mangled,
and he spoke as if saying this was painful. And the lips did not seem
to move in synchronization with the voice; they opened when the should
have closed and continued on moving for a second after he had finished
speaking. These men in front of him, who were now regarding him
implacably, could not be human. Iota backed cautiously away, feeling
that he had to escape from them. Then, suddenly he saw between them
three figures wearing black cloaks and he realized that they were the
group that had contacted him, the ones that he had been waiting for.
Without thinking, he ran for the gap between the two figures blocking
the door and shoved his way through. Their reactions were a second
delayed, and they made no effort to stop him until he had already run
past them two the three waiting humans. As soon as he reached them, one
of them yelled out a single word. “RUN!”
They did just that. Without hesitation all four dashed down the
stairs, leaping the steps two or three at a time. The two suited men
followed, the grace and fluidity of their movements at odds with their
awkward speech. As they reached the ground floor and were dashing out
into the street, Iota realised why. He had looked back just as he was
exiting the building and saw one of them, pausing for a moment. It no
longer had any pretense of being human. The being had a slightly
elongated head with what appeared to be four eyes situated two on each
side of the face. A lipless mouth stretched beneath them, and just
above that, between the sets of blue eyes, was a small bump and two
slits – probably a nose of sorts. The colour of its skin was pale and
tan like a human’s, but had a purple hue. Below the head was a slim
torso attached to which were two long, skinny arms that terminated in
hands with seven fingers, two of which looked like opposable thumbs.
The legs were thicker, though in proportion to the torso, and easily
accounted for the quickness of their unencumbered movements. They must
have been wearing suits that gave them the appearance of being human,
Iota guessed, though he did not have much time to think as he redoubled
his efforts to escape, spurred on by such a strange sight.
Outside, he saw that his rescuers were possessed of a car; it was
in poor shape, with faded black paint and dents in the doors and
fenders, but to Iota it was a welcome sight. He knew how fast vehicles
like this could go, and it could surely better the creatures following.
He dashed through one of the open doors and slid onto the cloth-covered
seat inside. One of the other black-cloaked strangers got inside and
shut the door, and the tires squealed to life. A nervous glance out the
back window revealed that it could indeed go much faster than the
pursuers, as they were left behind with angry scowls on their alien
features. He turned to the person beside him – he though it was woman,
although it was hard to tell with the deep hood. “Thank you.”
She faced him and replied, “No problem.” Then, turning to the
driver and passenger up front, she said jauntily, “Do you see? They
always use the same bloody building. They’ve used the same one for each
of us. Why would they change it now?” She received no reply from either
one, but she did catch Iota’s attention.
“Each of you? You mean you all went through this too?”
“Yep, although none of us encountered those-” she shuddered
dramatically “-things. We all started out in there, just as confused as
you are.”
“Some of us more confused than others.” The man in the passenger
seat shot back, chuckling.
The woman glared at him. “Shut up.” She turned back to Iota and
continued. “And don’t worry, Xavier will fill you in when we arrive at
our little camp. Oh, and my name is Saraha, by the way.”
Iota sat back in his seat, contemplating this. If this had
happened to more people, what would that mean?
Before he could get any farther than that, however, the car
stopped and Saraha informed him that they had arrived. He climbed out
and followed them into a tall off-white high-rise apartment complex. A
short walk down a carpeted corridor took them to an elevator. It was
already on their floor, and it opened as soon as Saraha pushed the
button. It was large enough inside to easily accommodate the four of
them, so they all stepped inside. One of the men punched the floor
level into the keypad – level six – and they waited as the doors closed
and the elevator began lifting them upwards. Iota waited uncomfortably,
wanting to ask them questions, but he had a feeling they would not
answer. He would have to wait and see this Xavier before he can find
out what he wants to know.
Since it was only a quick, six floor climb, the elevator arrived
at their intended destination quite rapidly. They got off, Iota
narrowly making it out before the doors snapped shut behind him. He
followed them a few doors down the hall and into one of the rooms. It
was spacious, even not in comparison to his previous lodgings. It was
all stark white and quite clean. The floor was covered in soft brown
carpet. Several doorways ran along two sides of the walls, and on the
final wall was a large glass doorway that led out to a short balcony.
Much nicer than a single room with stained walls and dirty carpeting.
Several chairs and a couch were arranged in the room, as well as two
short tables. Reclining on the couch beside one of these was another
man dressed entirely in black, just like Iota. He sat up as they
entered the room.
“You’re back. And you have him. Very good.” Iota recognized the
man as the first speaker on the phone earlier in the day. “Well, hello
Iota. Welcome. I expect I have some explaining to do. I always do.
Iota nodded. “Yeah.”
“Indeed. Well,” the man said gesturing to a chair more or less
across the table, “sit down. I am Xavier, by the way.”
Iota walked over to the chair and dragged it closer to Xavier,
then sat down. He had been feeling more confident in just the past few
minutes, and asked boldly, “So just what the hell is going on?”
Xavier smiled and replied, “I’m just about to get to that. You’ll
have to bear with me, as I don’t know all of the details myself. Not
yet.
“I woke up, just like you did, in room one of the fourth floor of
that apartment building six months ago. However, the note I was given
was different from what I believe you received. It explained a little
of what had happened, although I didn’t believe it at first.
“Aliens. Even for us, brainwashed as we were and thus loosed of
the set of beliefs most humans hold, it’s hard to accept, isn’t it?
Even now you’re struggling with the idea… or are you?”
Iota laughed bitterly. “I saw one. I can believe it. Go on.”
With a shrug, Xavier continued. “Then perhaps you will have less
trouble with what I tell you next. From what I gathered – from what the
note explained – we all either did something or had something done to
us. That means, of course, that we either know – knew – too much, or we
were experimented upon. However, I see that as being the less likely of
the two possibilities, which leaves us to assume that we were put here
because we had knowledge about these aliens that they did not wish for
us to spread.”
Iota nodded pensively, then looked straight at Xavier’s clear
blue eyes and asked, “So, the not told you all this?”
“Some of it. It was very cryptic, and I feel as if I was not
meant to have received it. It would not make sense for them to reveal
any information to us, but I did. Not only me, but the next one to wake
up in that building also had a different note revealing more even than
mine, and much of it confirms what I have already told you. I will let
him explain it to you, and then I will tell you why I have brought you
here. Hans?” Xavier turned and yelled towards one of the doors. “Get
out here.”
The door opened and a man stepped out. He, too, was wearing
black, but unlike Xavier was not wearing a trench coat. He did,
however, have the same tough black pants, black shoes, and black longsleeved shirt as Iota did. Hans was Asian in appearance, though Iota
did not know this, and he had smooth, dark skin and very short black
hair. Green eyes peered from beneath heavy lids, and he turned them on
Iota.
“So you’re the new one, eh?” He nodded, as if to himself. “Okay.”
Motioning for Xavier to move over, he sat and faced Iota. “You want to
know more.” It was a statement, not a question, but Iota still felt
obligated to respond.
“Yes. Whatever you can tell me.”
Hans sighed and began. “What I know is what I read in the letter
that was left for me. It wasn’t the standard letter, not like what you
and the others got. And it was less cryptic than Xavier’s. Both were
left by the same… person, the same alien. I can only guess that he was
on our side, or at least disagreed enough with what the rest of his
kind was doing with us. He made it clear in my letter that he was close
to being discovered, so he made no attempt to conceal any details, as
he had before, when he was trying to be discreet.
“What he told me was surprising. Though it contained little
enough as to why we had ended up like we did, it sufficed to confirm
Xavier’s suspicions. Most important was the information it gave me on
who these aliens are and why they are here.
“First, who. I did not recognise the planet the claimed to be
from - for obvious reasons; much of my memory seemed to have been
erased and replaced rather poorly. Just like yours; that is why you did
not know what the umbrellas were. None of us did, either. But, going
back to the aliens: I did understand what they were. Their race has
obviously had several thousand years of development more than ours;
they have vessels capable of spanning interstellar distances in a
matter of years-”
“Years?” Iota broke in.
“Yes, years. The letter claimed they spent a full twelve years
before arriving in our solar system. You will understand how rapid this
is once you gain a better grasp of the shear vastness of space. But
again I digress. They sent a massive ship, by our standards, capable of
carrying about 100 of them as well as laboratory facilities. Where it
is and how they’re keeping it concealed was not mentioned. But their
activities here were explained.
“They are simply studying this planet, only because it was
thought to be inhabitable when their sensors recorded it over fifteen
years ago. After a cursory examination, they decided against making
contact and began examining it – and us. For curiosity’s sake, I
suppose, and possibly because they don’t want to waste twelve years of
traveling. But they’ve also been going to great lengths to not be
discovered. Which is why we ended up like we did.”
Iota sat back in his chair, absorbing the information he’d just
been given. Then a question occurred to him. “Wouldn’t people notice
that we were gone?”
Hans shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe it was easier for the aliens to
erase their knowledge of us than it was to erase our knowledge of them.
Maybe they got brainwashed too, and simply got sent somewhere else.
Maybe we were the people who knew the ones who learned too much. Maybe
maybe maybe. Who knows?”
Iota nodded, then turned over to Xavier, who had been listening
silently to Hans’ explanation. “So, what is that you were going to tell
me?”
“Why you are here with us. You wish to know why we took you from
that apartment and brought you here, do you not? Because we need all
the help we can get to find out more. What we know may seem like a lot
for a group of people who didn’t even know what umbrellas were, but I –
we – want to know more. I, for one, do not want to continue my life in
ignorance! I want my old memories back, I want to know who I was – who
I am. Don’t you?”
Iota nodded, a little taken aback by Xavier’s ferocity. “But why
don’t we just tell someone about these aliens? Why would they let us
continue like this; we already know too much again!”
Xavier sighed and shook his head. “That is one of the things I
wish to know, but as you saw, they are after us. But this time, thanks
to the notes left to Hans and myself, we know they are after us, so we
can keep away and not have to go through what we did a second time. And
as to why we do not tell anyone… who would believe us? We need to find
others who have made the same discovery as us, others that the aliens
have not yet found. And others that they have found. Are there any more
questions that you would like to ask?”
Iota nodded his head up and down a second time. There were indeed
many things he wanted to ask, but, feeling that many of his queries
would most probably go unanswered, he selected the ones that seemed
most important. “Okay, yeah. So all of you woke up in the same
building? The same room, too?”
Xavier shook his head ‘no.’ “We all woke up in the same building,
yes, but not in the same room. You awoke in the sixth room, as I
recall, because you are, so far, the sixth to have been found and
placed there.”
“So there’s six of us. Including me, that is.”
“Yes; there is myself, Hans, Guillaume, Tango and Saraha. You’ve
already met Guillaume and Saraha and Tango; they’re the ones who
rescued you.”
“How did you all meet?”
“Since I was the first, and still unaware and unsure of what to
do, I stayed in my room for the first month. Then Hans arrived, with
his letter, and between us we worked out a bit of what was going on.
Halfway through my second month there, we left and found a room here.
But we continued to check back at the original building, and two weeks
later we discovered Saraha-”
Hans broke in, saying ruefully, “We should never have gone back.”
Xavier glared at him, then continued. “A pattern seemed to be
developing – one new person in the adjacent room every month, all in
the same building. A month after finding Saraha, we discovered
Guillaume there.”
Hans interjected once again. “That was a messy affair. It went
worse than today, even, from what I heard of your experience. There
were three aliens waiting in his room when we got there. It was a
narrow escape. That’s why we took a different approach for getting
Tango, and you, out of there. It was my idea.”
“He stole it from a movie called The Matrix. The secret notes and
phone calls.”
Now it was Hans’ turn to glare, which he did frostily, and
continued on where he had left off. “We decided to wait for any new
arrivals to come out of the building, followed them, and dropped them a
not of our own. Then we’d just wait and call them – the telephone
numbers for the rooms were easy to get – once we could be sure the note
had been read. Then we’d go and pick ‘em up. It worked much better that
way for Tango, but I think it will require some revising now that they
– the aliens – have worked out how we’re going about doing it.”
“But if you had my number, and you knew where I was, why did you
ask if I knew where I was?”
“Because Saraha is a-” Hans stopped short under Xavier’s
withering glance. “Sorry. But it’s true and you know it.”
“Saraha likes to play around, that’s all. She’s not as dim witted
as you seem to perceive, Hans. And you know that’s true.” Directing his
gaze towards Iota, he answered the black-haired man’s question.
“Largely to try and confuse any aliens that might have tapped the line.
They seem to have a lack of perception that allows them to be easily
confused by deceptions that would otherwise be seen right through, by
humans. And Hans thought it seemed rather Matrix-like.” Xavier shook
his head with the last sentence. Iota was puzzled, because he had never
heard of the Matrix and thus did not understand any of the parallels
that could be made. This was not something he felt like questioning,
however, so he didn’t bother trying to pursue it. Instead he asked one
last question.
“So, where do I stay?”
There were three bed rooms attached to the apartment. This did
not seem out of place until it was explained to Iota that space in this
city – it was called London – was at a premium. The concept of money,
too, had only been loosely input in to his brain, and thus one of the
other members of the group had to inform Iota of the workings of money.
“Money is completely, thoroughly, and utterly fucked up. There’s
nothing more to it than that.” It was from Tango that these words of
wisdom originated. He was a short, exceptionally belligerent man, with
no hair and murky greenish-brown eyes. The features on his long angular
face most often showed anger or irritation; this was indicative of his
general temperament. Despite this character flaw that would seem to
make Tango a difficult man to live with, he was not; expressing his
annoyance and nihilism – he hated being told what to do – in ways
deliberately comical and inoffensive. Unfortunately for Iota, the
shorter man’s views on money helped him not at all, but Guillaume
stepped up to attempt a correction of Tango’s opinion.
Guillaume was almost a complete polar opposite to Tango. He was
tall, had wavy, fair hair, blue eyes and a more rounded face that
sported a small goatee, pointed and always groomed immaculately,
regardless of what the situation seemed to be. His personality, too,
was at odds with that of the shorter man; suave, full of charm and ever
accommodating. He was much less of a an extrovert than Tango; freely
talkative, although at times he could take this to the point of
flamboyance, at which time his character began to seem less palatable.
The Frenchman’s opinion – for he was French, he explained to Iota,
knowing full well but not caring that the black haired man had almost
no information of the world outside of the city, even of the world
outside his own little reality – of money was also considerably
different.
“You, see, mon ami, money is solvency, it is lubrication, it is
power.” This last word with a strong emphasis almost that of adoration,
“Money is what makes – and I say this but figuratively, of course – the
world go ‘round. My friend Tango, he does not share this opinion, but
though sadly he will not admit it, he is wrong.” Guillaume shook his
head with dramatic regret, and then continued. “It is what we – well,
not we as in us, but we as in us, humans – work for and live for and
die for. Money is a goal; what we strive for in life. After all, every
one of us needs something to live for, oui? We have our goal, to be
sure, but other lack such a purpose and thus they turn to money. It is
essential, do you see?”
Although this amorous monologue was considerably more than the
opinion of Tango, Iota still found that it lacked the clear explanation
of ‘money’ that he desired, and turned to the woman who had dropped the
note in his pocket in the beginning, Saraha. In a tolerably flippant
manner, she gave Iota the information he needed. Money was a
numerological way of judging the value – monetary value only; this she
made quite clear – of a person or group. It could be earned by working
or acquired through luck and contained its real worth in the types of
good it could be exchanged for, like food, clothing, or the apartment
they stood in. When queried as to how the money for the apartment,
which was indeed quite expensive, she explained that the credit cards
they’d been given were a form of transferring money without actual
exchange of tangible cash, and were linked to accounts that allowed the
owner, possessed of a card, to deposit, store and withdraw money. The
account linked to each of their own cards contained massive amounts of
money, much more so than average, and thus they were able to pay for
such lavish amenities like the apartment. Iota found this to be
satisfactory, and thanked Saraha before finding Xavier.
“So, where am I supposed to stay?”
“We only have three bedrooms, so you are going to have to double
up with Saraha. She has the only room not currently occupied. It’s on
the middle, along the south wall.” Xavier pointed. “There’s a second
bed ready in there.”
Feeling rather tired, as the day had grown long and slid into the
dark of the night whilst he was learning of the true depths of his
predicament, Iota headed across to the room soon after being informed
of its whereabouts. Inside, rather than finding Saraha, he saw Hans.
The taciturn man was sitting on one of the two beds that lined either
both walls adjacent to the door with a pensive look upon his face. He
raised his head as Iota entered and waved an almost imperceptible
greeting. The other man was puzzled; from the truncated comments he had
heard from Hans earlier, it was no great leap of logic to assume that
he disliked the woman with the ash blonde hair. When questioned, Hans
explained simply, “She’s not in here right now.” Iota nodded and sat
down on the bed opposite, taking off his slightly scuffed black shoes
and then lifting his feet onto the mattress and reclined.
After a few minutes, during which the silence in the room
developed to an awkward point, Iota turned his head to Hans and began
to ask what exactly they were going to do. The Asian cut him off before
he could get a second word fully out, and stated the question for him.
“What are we doing here? Yes, I will tell you; it’s not fair to
leave you in the dark.”
The group’s activities consisted mainly of reconnaissance. They
went to meetings with paranormalists, in the hopes than one of them
would have more knowledge on these aliens. They studied the news,
websites, journals of paranormal activities. Anything that would allow
them to gain more information than they already knew. They had found
some promising leads to date, but no real facts or hard evidence.
The five – six, now that Iota was part of their group – abductees
was the word Hans used, twisting his mouth with obvious tangible
distaste, also explored around the less inhabited regions of the city.
More than once they had observed strange activities among the warehouse
of the industrial sections where nothing lived but rats and flies and
maggots. On one of these occasions, they had seen a collection of
aliens, not wearing this time their pretenses of humanity, the
ineffectual suits they had first presented themselves to Iota in, but
their own type of clothing, of strange pale blue fabric that fit the
skinny forms of the creatures with relative closeness and alternatively
seemed to shine and turn completely matte and unreflective. The hidden
observers assumed these must be uniforms, as the three aliens were all
wearing the same colour and cut of garment. They had been embarking in
to a small craft that must have been a shuttle to their larger ship
beyond the atmosphere. It was aerodynamically fashioned, with curved,
stubby wing like protrusions on the sides, but had no discernable means
of propulsion until it took off, when it could be seen that it
contained an incredibly high speed but remarkably silent turbine that
forced a stream of air taken in from induction manifolds mounted
forwards out of several multidirectional vents pock marking the sides
and rear. It must, Hans explained, also have a form of rocket
propulsion, or it would cease being able to move once it left the
Earth’s atmosphere.
This, however, was one isolated incident and did not tell them
much about the aliens or who they – the group – were. Hans began to
explain the plan he had for finally discovering that, but without
warning the door opened and Saraha entered. Ceasing to speak in the
middle of his sentence, Hans stood up and stalked out the door, with
Saraha glaring after him.
“Don’t know what the hell he has against me.” She didn’t address
this to Iota; rather, she spoke to the air instead. Sitting silently on
the bed, the black haired man decided against responding to her query,
judging it to be rhetorical and thus did not need a reply. He watched
her sighing heavily as she sat down facing Iota. “Hey, kid. Guess
you’re my roomie now, huh?” Iota nodded silently. “Oh, god, I hate
people who never talk. Hans never fucking talks. Say something,
anything!”
He didn’t reply for a moment, brushing a hand across his face
whilst pondering what to say in return. Surprised, drawing his hand
over his chin he found there to be stubble about a millimetre long.
This would surely have been noticeable in the morning even, but he had
not felt it until now. He broke off this train off though, minor though
it was, at the increasingly frosty look from the woman sitting across
from him. “Like what? Why did you call me ‘kid?’”
She laughed and pulled back her straight, nearly white hair.
“It’s an expression. Hell, you might even be older than I am. But I use
it anyway, because I like to. Doesn’t mean anything.” Giving Iota a
level look, she said then, “Well, I’m going to go to bed. Looks like
you want to as well, right?” Iota nodded. “Good. Go to it!” With that,
she kicked off her shoes, one of them flying and hitting the ground
adjacent to his bed, then spun herself around so that she was lying
parallel to the wall, her back to the other side of the room, and
pulled the covers over herself, trench coat and all. Iota regarded her
for a moment, the shrugged out of his own trench coat, and after
depositing it in a safe pile on the floor, did the same as Saraha.
Day = 3
Awakening groggy yet refreshed the next day, Iota saw that Saraha
had already left the room for another destination unbeknownst to him.
He pulled himself up and out of the soft, warm bed and without putting
on his shoes – he noticed that Saraha’s were also still lying on the
floor where they had been tossed the night previous – he wandered out
into the main room of the moderately expansive apartment. Behind the
small counter that separated the modest kitchen area from the rest of
the room was Guillaume, his goatee looking as if it was part of a
painting. Presumably, he was preparing breakfast – or lunch, Iota
realized as he glanced at the clock on the wall that read 12:34. His
wandering took him slowly around the room, circling around Tango who
was sitting on one of the couches watching the TV, a Formula One race,
according to the announcer who was narrating the every action of the
race. Iota ceased in his curving path to the kitchen to watch some of
the event.
“And Kimi gets past Bourdais for the lead with only two laps
remaining – this is getting tense.”
“Indeed it is. And – ooh, locked up the brakes on turn four.
That’s going to cost him time.”
“Yeah, might have flat spotted the tires too. Might just do
Bourdais in.” The first announcer said this quietly, as if more in
response to his co announcer’s comment than to the television audience
watching the racers. The two sleek cars on the track were battling each
other closely, the white and red car with ‘Toyota’ written across the
sides was pushing to inches within the rear of the black and white car
ahead that bore a logo on the side of ‘West.’ As the rounded another
curve, behind them pulled up a new car, this one white with blue
markings. It swung around, then, as the driver was about to accelerate
down the straight stretch of asphalt, the back end whipped around,
flinging the vehicle’s nose about in a semi-circle before it halted.
After a moment’s pause, the large front wheels turned sideways and the
rear tires spun wildly, white rubber smoke billowing out behind them.
The racer whipped around once more, this time facing the same direction
as the rest of the cars just as a red one with white markings along the
bottom of the nose roared past in hot pursuit of the two drivers
battling for the lead up ahead.
Tango yelled out angrily, “You stupid bastard! Dumbass! Good god,
why would you pull a stupid trick like that?” Not wanting to disturb
him, but now quite interested in watching, he remained silent and
continued staring over Tango’s shoulder at the constantly changing
screen as the announcers kept up their commentary and banter.
“Oh, look at that. Montoya’s spun out on turn five.”
“Doesn’t look too bad, though. Nothing seems to have been
damaged.”
“But now Christiano da Matta’s got past him into third.”
“Yes he has. Looks like a podium finish for Ferrari now.” The
other announcer agreed.
“Been a while since they’ve had one, hasn’t it?”
“No, no, they had one back in Monte-Carlo, a two-three,
remember?”
Corrected, his partner replied, “Oh, that’s right. And Bourdais
took first place at that race. Looks like he won’t be doing that today,
though, as they come around for the very last lap of Nurburgring.”
“Hmm, yeah, Kimi Raikonnen’s gotten a big lead in that last lap,
almost three seconds over Sebastien Bourdais. That’s impressive… how’d
he do that so fast?” The commentator seemed puzzled over this new
display of speed.
“Think it was when Bourdais locked up his brakes.”
The pair of announcers continued their speculation as the two
leading cars pulled around the same corner that Iota has first seen
them on, this time with both vehicles flawlessly swinging around the
bend. However, now the black and white shark nose pulled around first,
with the red marked one of Sebastien Bourdais’ following several
seconds later instead of the neck and neck struggle of the lap before.
They raced down the following straight patch, overpowered engines
screeching as they ran through their maximum revolutions per minute
until both drivers hit the brakes hard to weave through the next two
sections of the course. The previously high pitched tones dropped and
sputtered as they did so, but within split seconds they had reached
their loud screams again as Kimi Raikonnen rocketed down the final
straightaway to rip past the finished line, checkered flags waving
above him, the other driver following less than two seconds later. The
crowd cheered.
The announcers began narrating the victory celebrations as the
winner completed one more lap, beneath his upraised visor smiling and
pumping his fist.
“Well, he looks happy, doesn’t he?”
“Indeed he does. He should be, too that’s another step on towards
the championship.”
“How many points does that make now?”
“Well, I don’t know, let’s see, there was Malaysia…”
Iota stopped listening to them and began to move away from both
the television set and Tango, who was muttering angry phrases to
himself under his breath, scowling. Reaching his destination finally,
Iota peered over the counter at the stove on which Guillaume was
preparing a meal, most likely to be his lunch, unless the Frenchman had
awoken just a few minutes earlier than had Iota himself. Guillaume
looked up at Iota, and sniffed. “My apologies, mon ami, but you smell,
and I am afraid there is no way to put it more delicately than that.”
He pointed. “Closest to the outside door, you see? Le salle de bain.
The bathroom. I believe that there should be no soul in there – open
for your use. The shower is easy to use, and you know how to do so
already. Go to it!” He grinned. “Most especially before my friend Tango
catches a breath of your… aroma. He is much less kind than I, oui?”
Smiling as Iota nodded an affirmative in reply, Guillaume continued,
“And you must surely be hungry by now. Perhaps if you come out smelling
like a bunch of roses, I will show you how to make something. The
French are excellent chefs, did you know?”
Responding that he did not, and wondering in his head why
Guillaume still felt such an affinity for a country he could not
possibly remember being from, Iota walked slowly over to the door that
had been pointed out to him, and, facing it, raised a hand – still
gloved, he realized with a surprise – and turned the knob. Assured by
the other man that it would be empty, he pushed the door open almost
all the way – and was met suddenly by a quick shriek, followed by
Saraha saying, “Close the damn door!” Iota did so instantly, stepping
back in mild shock at her yell. Several metres away, Guillaume was
laughing.
“Mon dieu, my apologies a second time! I did not know she was in
there. Usually she makes much more noise.” He finished now in a stage
whisper so that Iota could still hear him. “She sings, oh, how she
sings. Like a bird. A bird with no throat!”
Tango laughed maliciously at this joke. “Ain’t that the truth.
Just like a bird indeed, mate, a bird with a fucking frog caught in its
throat! Ha!”
Iota grinned half heartedly at these jests and retired back to
his room, where he pulled off his gloves and waited for the bathroom to
become available for him to use. He gazed around the room, trying to
spot any personal touches left by Saraha. There were few to be found,
which should have surprised Iota, taking into consideration the quality
of her character, but he discovered that, to his own very slight
surprise that it did not. And indeed, the personal artifacts were rare;
in fact, all that was immediately visible was nothing more than a few
books without titles on their bindings, a small handheld computing
device with a tiny foldable ‘QWERTY’ type keyboard attached to it, and
a pad of paper covered in tiny script from the mechanical pencil lying
above it. Curiously, he moved towards this to try and determine what it
was. At first appearances it appeared to be a story; at least something
fictional, for sure. However, before Iota could read any of it, Saraha
walked into the room and he jumped to face her, startled by the sudden
entrance she had just made.
“Bathroom’s free now, if that’s what you want.” She paused as he
thanked her, then queried curtly, “Did you see anything?” She seemed
satisfied with Iota’s quick nod as he stepped out through the door, and
turned away to the pad of paper lying on a small desk between the beds.
It was indeed a story, but she picked it up and threw it with more than
a hint of anger underneath her bed, kicking it farther beneath.
In the bathroom Iota found that the controls for the shower were
indeed familiar to him although he had no recollection of ever before
seeing a shower like this besides the rotting stall in the apartment
room in which he had awakened. And that had not had controls with any
great similarity to these, and yet he still knew how to use them. After
stripping off his clothes and laying them in a pile on the glossy white
tiled floor and dropping the gloves that had been held in his hand on
top of the heap of material, he stepped over to the still damp shower
stall and turned the water on. Listening to it run for a few brief
seconds, then sticking his hand into the stream to check the
temperature – much too hot, it was realised, as he pulled his hand back
swiftly. Adjusting the hot water to a tolerable level, he stepped in
and let the warm water spray over his head and bare chest. After a few
minutes of standing there and rinsing suds from the soap and shampoo
into the water swirling down the open drain, he shut the flow of water
off and stepped carefully out onto a wet mat beside the shower.
Grabbing a towel that was hanging upon a translucent plastic rack
attached to the small, pearly white tiles that covered the whole of the
four walls of the bathroom, Iota dried himself off and then regarded
with suspicion his clothes lying in a heap on the floor. They would
surely be as dirty and malodorous as he himself had been before
stepping in the shower and sluicing all the grime off. It was
surprising how dirty he had managed to get in only two days. And his
clothes had certainly accumulated an equivalent amount. Shrugging, he
began to pick them up when there was a knocking at the door and a voice
– Xavier’s slightly Germanic tone, of that there was no doubt – called
out, slightly muffled through the door.
“Do you need something clean?”
Relieved, Iota replied, “Yes, thank you.” The door opened and a
grey shirt and a pair of blue jeans was thrown through the small
opening. A pair of boxers was tossed through as an afterthought just as
Xavier closed the door. Iota quickly dressed and went out, his still
wet long hair leaving dark streaks along the back of the plain grey
shirt.
Walking out of the steamed room, he headed back towards the
kitchen where Guillaume was still cooking something – pale yellow and
rubbery looking. As he approached, the other man turned and grinned.
“You took so long, I had begun to give up hope that you would ever come
out. So,” He flopped the flattened blob out of the frying pan onto a
plate, “I started ahead. You don’t know what it is, of course, because
they did not tell you – unless they revised the reprogramming, no? –
but it as an omelette. Made of eggs. Bon appetit!” With that, he handed
the plate to Iota, along with a knife and fork and directed him to a
chair nearby one of the low tables. He sat down and stared blankly at
the – the omelette – in front of him before tentatively prodding it
with the tines of his fork, causing punctures in the rubbery ‘skin’ of
the dish. Shrugging, he sliced a piece off with his knife, and,
impaling it with his fork, placed it carefully between his teeth in the
middle of his tongue. It had a rather bland taste to it, not altogether
unpleasant yet not a culinary delight of the sort promised by the
Frenchman, either. He swallowed it down ravenously in spite of this, as
he had not eaten in the past two days – he had not eaten, in his
memory, at all.
When he looked up, Tango was staring, mouth agape, at the empty
plate. “Good god, mate, you ate that? It’s like fucking rubber!
Gillie’s the worst bloody cook in the world. And… less than a minute,
mate, less than a goddamned minute you ate the whole damn thing.
Disgusting.” He made a face and glanced at Guillaume, who gave the
short, irate man a haughty look and muttered angrily to himself.
“Mon dieu, but some of us wouldn’t know a decent meal if it came
up and bit them on their very own arse. Sacre bleu, him and his meals,
they are enough to make an eater of carrion retch out it’s own
stomach!”
Tango grinned sadistically and looked back to Iota. “And ‘is
attitude is as bad as his food!” Iota laughed but still felt guilty;
this meal was the first he would remember ever having.
Just then, Xavier and Hans came through the main entrance to the
apartment. Xavier fixed his eyes on Iota. “Good, you’re awake. And I
see you have eaten already. Better still.” He beckoned. “Come with me.
I have some things to discuss with you; there is more information that
you must be made aware of.” Iota got up from where he still sat in
front of the bare plate and trailed after Xavier warily, being led into
the room that he shared with Hans. It was appointed much as his room
with Saraha was; small, two beds on either side of the door with a desk
in between. A collection of lustrous dark grey metallic figures –
dragons and serpents – sat upon the desk, and a large poster depicting
a man wearing a dark brown trench coat and slanting sunglasses,
carrying two pistols was hung on the wall above one of the beds. A
large notebook rested heavily on the rumpled sheets of the bed
opposite. Iota shifted this over as he sat down, facing Xavier. Neither
spoke for an awkward moment, then Xavier opened his mouth and began to
speak.
“You have no memory of the past – your past – at all am I
correct?” When Iota nodded slowly, unsure of where this was going,
Xavier shook his head sharply. “No. You may think that you do not, but
you do. Whatever it is the aliens did to us, it was far from perfect.
Not everything is gone, though it may seem so; they could not erase
every memory, every scrap of knowledge you contain. And it is possible
to regain some of it – it is merely hidden away in the recesses of our
minds, your mind. And I know how to restore it, small parts of it at
least.” He waited, trying to gauge Iota’s reaction, but the blackhaired man just continued staring with his deep purple eyes. “You
should not know of hypnotism. I doubt that would have been included in
your new memory set, as it was known to none of us, and it would seem
that it has not been changed throughout our experiences.” He went on as
Iota confirmed that indeed, he had no knowledge of hypnotism. “It is a
process during which you will be rendered susceptible to suggestion,
enough so that you should be able to recall some of the most deeply
engrained vestiges of your previous self. It has worked to some extent
for all of us. Mostly what has been returned are memories and knowledge
from our previous careers, all of which seem to be interestingly
connected, even if vaguely, to the paranormal.
“Saraha was a writer; she has distant memories of meeting with
those who search for aliens, and those who claim to have been abducted
and recording their stories for a book that was never finished. She
continues writing, constantly, trying to recall what it was she wrote
about. Hans was associated with the military – involved in cover ups is
our surmise. Guillaume was – we think – an astrologer. He remembered
shocking amounts of information abut the stars… and his nationality as
well, as you can easily see. Tango used to take pictures – he was a
photographer, and most likely captured some images of the aliens. And
myself… I was also in the military, like Hans, but we believe I had a
more front line position than simply a high level affiliation. It would
still lead me easily into a position that would have compromised the
aliens and given them cause to leave me like this.
“And now, I would like to hypnotize you and find out what you
remember. Are you willing?” When Iota hesitated, Xavier assured him,
“All I can do is make you more open to suggestions with less
restrictions. I cannot make you do anything you do not want to do.”
Iota paused for a moment longer and then replied, “Okay. Go
ahead… what do I need to do?”
“Just sit there, listen to me, and concentrate.” When Iota
nodded, Xavier began.
First he picked up a serpentine figure made of pewter off the
desk beside the bed. It had an angry, scowling face that was attached
to a long, scaled body with six legs trailing flames. Forced into jaws
wide and open was a ball with a black half and a white half swirling
across the center: a yin-yang. Two dots specked either side of the
ceramic sphere, a black one on the white side and a white one on the
black side. As Xavier moved the small dragon, the ball made a soft
chiming sound from a bell hidden within. The blonde-haired man held it
up to Iota’s face, just a few centimeters away from his lustrous purple
irises.
“Focus on the ball with your eyes and your mind – let nothing
else distract you, but hear what I am saying.
“Focus… focus… focus. I will count back from one hundred. Focus
on every word, every number that I speak, but do not lose your
concentration on the ball. All right?” Iota nodded almost
imperceptibly, then Xavier started. “By the end of this, you will be
under my influence. One hundred. Ninety nine. Ninety eight…” He
continued on, counting slowly and rhythmically until one was reached,
then zero. By this time Iota was sitting and staring raptly at the
black-and-white ball. His purple eyes were wide and dull, gazing
without seeing. Xavier removed the serpent and the ball, and stared
into Iota’s eyes. “Can you hear what I am saying?”
Slowly, Iota replied in a mono tone voice, “Yes.”
“Good. Now, I want you to think back. Go back three days. Can you
remember anything? Try to remember.”
Iota strained. “No… nothing…”
“Try harder.”
“No. All I see is blackness. Nothingness. Wait. No!” Iota almost
screamed the last word, but Xavier remained unalarmed.
“What is it? What do you remember?”
“A room. Aliens. A chair. They’re looking into my eyes. Shining
lights – no, not lights, something else into my eyes. Telling me
things. In English. But they’re speaking in their own language too. But
not to me. Now I’m being stabbed. A needle. But I twist away… it breaks
off…” Iota raised a hand to the back of his neck, under his hair. He
could feel a bump, still slightly swollen and painful, just below the
skull.
“It breaks off? Then what?”
“They don’t know that. They think everything went in. But it
didn’t. It spilled out. Onto my hair. They don’t know that. It didn’t
work as well.”
Xavier was shocked and delighted. They must have used drugs as
part of the brainwashing process, but in Iota the full amount had not
been discharged. Thus, perhaps, less of his memory was gone, just
hidden instead of removed, and open to his hypnotism. He continued,
pressing Iota for answers.
“Did they do anything else?”
“Yes. A dome on my head. It was the reprogrammer – how they
replaced my memories.”
“Did they replace them all? How many were replaced?”
“Yes. All of them.” Iota replied uncertainly.
“But how do you remember this, then?” Xavier queried.
“I just do. They didn’t remove all my memories. That was what the
– the drugs, and the lights, and the talking was for. The dome replaced
them.”
“What else do you remember of the aliens?” He was excited now;
nobody had ever remembered this much before. Iota was a gold mine, a
veritable fountain of knowledge in comparison to the rest of them.
“Nothing. No. Their ship. It’s big. In space. I can see the
stars.”
“The stars? What do the stars look like? Could you draw them?”
“yes, stars. They’re small and hard. Just points of light. But in
patterns. I can show you.”
Xavier was now elated. Guillaume had been able to remember vast
amounts of star positions, so perhaps he would be able to recognize
these formations and constellations and most important, identify the
location that they would have been viewed from. Through this method,
the location of the main alien ship could be located. At the very
least, he hoped it would be a feasible plan. Knowing not nearly as much
information of astrology as the Frenchman, he could only guess at how
distances would affect the relative positions of constellations.
Deciding to return to the stars later, Xavier continued questioning
Iota.
“That’s enough about them, for now. Think farther back, to before
you were in their ship. What do you remember of that?”
“I… umm… government.”
“You were in the government?”
“Yes. I think so.” Iota was struggling, racking the very depths
of the hind lobes of his brain to try and recover any traces of his
past life. Xavier pressed on, breathing quickly with anticipation.
“In what capacity? What did you do?”
“I worked for… for… for… C.”
“C?” Now puzzled, he queried further, “What does C stand for? Is
it an acronym?”
“Yes. Part of one. I think it is.”
“Can you remember the entire acronym?”
“Maybe. C… F… no, no, no, not F. Not F, but S. And then an I. And
after that… I think… another S. Yes. C – S – I – S.” He was almost
sweating now from the mental effort of recalling these four letters.
Xavier was now confused. CSIS, which is what Iota had claimed to
have belonged to, could only mean one thing that he was aware of.
Canadian Security Intelligence Service. But what would a Canadian be
doing out here in London, England? Only Guillaume of all the others had
been able to recall the country from whence he had come. But France was
close enough to make sense to place him in England, but Canada was
quite far away. Making the assumption that what Iota had said really
did mean the Canadian Security Intelligence Service, then that would
most likely have to mean that the aliens were depositing everyone who
knew about them in to the one location. It was either that, or they
were simply relocating those who knew too much to various areas, maybe
at random. Having reached this reasoning, Xavier came to the
realization that it was almost negligible in its irrelevance, he
decided to press on to more minute details.
“Do you remember what you did as part of CSIS?”
“No. Yes. No. I don’t. Field work. Following people. Yes.
Spying.”
“And you saw the aliens during this – learned something about
them?”
“Saw them, yes. Learned much, no. That they were experimenting –
or, no, you told me that. Nothing.”
Xavier sighed, but it was no less than had been expected. It was
indeed much more than anticipated, as none of the others had been able
to recall as much, not even himself. Knowing that Iota was unlikely to
be able to remember any more than what he had already told, Xavier
decided that now was the time to return to the view of the stars and
the constellations from the alien vessel. He fled the room to obtain a
sheet of paper and a writing utensil – a pencil, he found at last with
great difficulty – and dashed back to the room where Iota was waiting
still memorized, all after first telling him to try to remember the
stars.
“Draw them.”
“I think I can do that. Give me the paper. And the pencil.” Iota
began slamming the tip of the pencil down on the blank sheet, little
shards of graphite splintering off at each impact. Amid the crashes of
the tip, a field of dots began to appear on the white background, at
first sparsely spread and then growing denser and denser. After a time
– about five minutes – Iota dropped the pencil and told Xavier that he
was finished. Xavier again picked up the serpent with the double
coloured ball and held it front of Iota’s eyes. “Focus on the ball. I
will count upwards from one to one hundred. When I reach one hundred,
you will awake – no longer be hypnotized. Focus… focus… focus. One.
Two. Three.” Again, he counted slowly and methodically, until he
reached one hundred. Iota slid out of his trance dazed, holding a hand
to his head.
“Are you done? Did you learn anything?”
Xavier smiled and held up the sheet of paper. “I learned much
more than I expected. I will tell you momentarily, but first, you have
given me some very valuable information that I wish to pursue
immediately.” He walked quickly out of the room, Iota following behind
curiously, wondering what could possibly be on the sheet to make it be
so useful and important.
“Guillaume!” Xavier called out urgently, a note of excitement
tingeing his normally expressionless voice. “Come over here, and look
at this.” The Frenchman hurried over to where Xavier and Iota stood.
“Look at this – under hypnosis, Iota drew this. He remembered some of
what the aliens did to him on their ship, some of what he saw there.
Out the window – he saw this. Can you tell us from what perspective,
from what location the stars would appear in this way?”
Guillaume regarded Xavier incredulously. “You think somehow that
I can say exactly where this ship is that sees this? Oh la la, non! How
can I do this? It is impossible; I am not a walking planetarium! Oh,
mes amis, I must apologize, but there is nothing I can do,” He shook
the paper, “with this.”
Both Iota and Xavier slowly nodded their heads desolately. It had
been a chance to come that much closer to their adversaries – for the
group, even newcomer Iota, considered them so. Any possibility of
gaining an advantage was to be leapt at without hesitation. And now
what had seemed like a prime opportunity to at least ascertain the
whereabouts of the aliens, even if this knowledge had no foreseeable
possible application, was shot down. “Are you sure you cannot?”
“Oui, monsieur, I cannot. It is not possible, no, not in the
least.”
Xavier nodded again, slowly, and turned to Iota. “Well, I can at
least tell you some more about your own self. Come with me back into my
room.” Once inside, he repeated what Iota had revealed to him while
hypnotized. “When the aliens brainwashed and reprogrammed you, they did
less of a complete job with you than the rest of us. Some of the drugs
involved were not fully administered, so the erasal of your memories
was not entire. Thus you remembered more, at least of the mind wiping
process. You saw the stars outside their ship, and I had you draw them,
which is why I was asking Guillaume if he could ascertain the viewpoint
from which those constellations would appear as you saw them.
Unfortunately, it seems that was unworkable.
“You also told me something of your previous occupation, the life
you led before they got you. You used to be a member of CSIS – the
Canadian Security Intelligence Service. I must admit I found that
surprising, as that would most likely mean that you were a Canadian.
That is rather far from where we are now. Unless-” A thought had just
occurred to Xavier. Iota could also have been working for CSIS in
London, maybe in the Canadian embassy or even in an undercover or
espionage capacity. He informed Iota of his new theory. “You being from
Canada could mean one of several things; either you were abducted while
in the country, and then deposited here in London due to a random
relocation program, or that this area is the one they use for those
captured from all regions of the globe; or, you were working for CSIS
here in this city, and thus they placed you in the apartment building
they used for all of us. You told me that you operated as a field agent
of sorts for the service, following and spying on people. With some
luck you’ve retained some of those skills; such abilities could prove
useful to our own activities.”
Iota absorbed all this with mild interest. He knew nothing,
despite his mesmerized recollections of just a few minutes ago, of any
of what Xavier said. Canada? CSIS? These words meant nothing to him at
all, and most likely would continue their meaninglessness for some
time. But spying… that was a familiar term to him, and he understood
some of the ramifications it carried with it. He supposed such skills,
assuming they were still available to him, would indeed be useful for
the purpose of stalking their enemies and discovering more about them.
All of a sudden, unrelated and unbidden, a question burst like a small
firecracker into his mind. “Why do you have such a nice apartment but
such a run-down looking vehicle?”
Xavier gave Iota an odd look. “I fail to see how that has any
relation, but it’s because we don’t want to draw any attention to
ourselves.”
Iota pointed at Xavier’s black trench coat and clothing. “And you
think that doesn’t? It may not, I suppose, but from what I saw on the
streets, few people were wearing a similar style. It certainly doesn’t
blend in. Why do you keep wearing that, anyways? And why do you think
they gave us those in the first place?”
The other man sighed. “You make a good point. I have been
considering looking into some newer and faster cars… or rather, Tango
has. He’s quite obsessed with them, you know. We plan to take a look
sometime soon. In fact, if you want, you could go with him today.
“Oh, and as to why they gave us this clothing, does it not make
sense? These cloaks are very robust and quite warm, and the colouring –
the black – is at least a safe colour; nondescript. Logical choices,
though they do not take into account societal notions about dress.
You’ve caught on to those quite quickly, it would seem, faster than any
of us.”
“Maybe it has something to do with how they botched my
reprogramming?”
Xavier replied, “It could very well have something to do with
that, yes. But, back to the issue you brought up, I think it would be a
good idea for you to go with Tango and look into a new car. You’re the
only one not yet sick of him going on about cars!”
Xavier left the room with Iota following, and stood nearby as the
fair-skinned man told Tango that he could indeed at long last, purchase
a car. The short man was elated and made this quite clear. “Oh, fucking
wonderful, Xavey, mate! I finally get to buy us a fancy, spankin’ new
car. Goddamn awesome. And you’re coming with me, hey, Iota?” He
shrugged. “Works for me. Let’s get us a nice fast one, eh, mate?”
Iota and Tango soon left the apartment and headed for the
underground garage where their current mode of transportation was
stored, an older, run down Citroen AX. The small, one litre engine
sputtered to life as Tango turned the key and they backed out, then
circled upwards to the street several stories above.
The streets of the city were packed, with hundreds of small cars
weaving in and out, as well as many larger, more powerful vehicles
roaring up and down the roads. Tango navigated the car expediently
through the traffic, talking to Iota about the type of car he wanted to
get. “A Lotus Elise, man, that’s the thing. Old Xavier will probably
have a fit – it’s only got two seats, you see – but damn, they are
beautiful, let me tell you. Fast as a rocket, too. ‘Course, we’ll have
to look around for something useful-” He made a face of disgust “-as
well.”
They soon pulled along parallel to the sidewalk, right across
from a large, glassed in Lotus showroom. Visible within were several
curvaceous cars with smoothly flaring front fenders and almost
insectoid headlights. They were indeed impressive looking cars, though
quite small. Tango did not seem to notice this, however; he dashed out
of the driver’s side of the car and into the store, not waiting for
Iota to follow. Once he had gotten inside, he found Tango engaged in
conversation with the dealer.
“No, no, no mate, I don’t care what your fucking price is. I’m
buying one regardless of the bloody cost.”
“All right then, sir, what model may I interest you in?” The
salesman said.
“Ahh… an Exige. That’s what I want.”
“Very good, sir. We happen to have two in right now, both fully
loaded. One in black, and the other is British Racing Green.” He turned
as he caught sight of Iota out of the corner of his eye. “Ah, hello, I
will be with you in a moment, sir.”
Iota shook his head and pointed at Tango. “I’m with him.”
The dealer nodded, his painted smile not slipping a fraction.
“Okay.” Turning back to Tango, he asked, “Can I show you the cars,
sir?”
“Nah, just give me the black one, mate. Here’s my card.”
The salesman disappeared into the rear of the store for a moment,
and then returned with a pair of keys and directed Iota and Tango to
their new car. It was subtly different from the vehicles that had been
at the front of the store; it was a hardtop, and it had a more
aggressive stance and front end, with wider air dams and more rakish
headlights. Tango pulled open a door and grinned. “Fucking beautiful,
isn’t it?” Iota nodded and, opening the door on the left hand side,
slid carefully in to the dark, carbon fibre interior. Tango jumped in
beside him and, waiting for the large garage style door in front of him
to open, slammed the accelerator and drove out.
“What about the other car?”
“Screw that rusty bucket. It can rot there for all I care!” With
that, he slipped into the traffic on the road, weaving in and out among
Citroens, Peugots, Renaults, Vauxhalls, and dozens of cars of other
makes and models. Tango drove with a laid back, relaxed mood completely
at odds with the sheer rapacity with which he sped past the traffic on
the road, swerving in split seconds to avoid an obstruction vehicle
before darting out again to pass yet another. Within minutes – far
faster that could possibly have been legal – the car was in an area
that Iota recgonised; the long, curving boulevard in which the group
had found him. He looked around with interest at the slightly familiar
surrounding.
“Recognise this place, mate? Eh?” Tango lowered his voice, to a
stage whisper, “What do you say we check out what those aliens are
doing? I know where they usually hang out, and I’ve got my camera.
Could get some piccies, eh?”
Iota shook his head uncertainly. “I don’t think Xavier would be
too happy with that. Probably a bad idea, Tango.”
“Fuck you. Fuck Xavier too. I’m going over there, so if you don’t
like it you can bloody well get out.”
Iota shrugged at this. “Whatever. I’ll go with you – but if
Xavier gets mad, I’m blaming you.”
“Fair enough. Let’s go!” Tango hauled the steering wheel to the
right, swerving abruptly into the alleyway that Iota had first walked
out of onto the vast street. After a brief and harrowing ride down
through the narrow, blocked in alley, the driver slammed on the brakes,
bringing the Exige to a screeching halt. “Well I’ll be damned…”
“What is it?”
Tango pointed across one of the deserted industrial access roads,
a different one than the one on which the apartment building was
situated. Following his arm, Iota saw several flashes of a bluish light
coming from the vicinity of one of the large warehouses.
“What’s that?”
“Could be the aliens… or something else. Either way, worth a
look.” Tango pressed on the accelerator lightly, causing the small car
to roll slowly forwards, towards the flashing lights. The quick moving
four cylinder engine behind them revved quietly.
Soon they were pulled along side of the building from behind
which was emanating the bright halogen flashes. Without speaking, both
men quietly opened their doors and crept out, not shutting them behind
themselves. Skirting wide around a pile of reeking trash, they pressed
themselves up against the weathered brick wall of the warehouse, safely
away from the garbage. The rough texture of the bricks grated against
Iota’s back and tugged at his long hair briefly as he slid along the
wall after Tango, who had a small but expensive looking digital camera,
towards the bright flashes they had seen before. When the shorter man
reached the edge of the building and peered carefully around, Iota
followed, his head above Tango’s.
What they saw was not aliens – indeed, the figures before them
were clearly human. A group of about four men were standing around in
the space behind two warehouses, waiting beside a pair of large, chunly
looking vehicles. Two more men were at work on one, carrying MIG
welding torches, securing a light turret to the top of one. It’s
counterpart was already similarly equipped. Two of the men were talking
with each other, loudly over the sounds of the sparking welding
torches.
“God, it’s going to be nice to have these done with.” One of
them, dressed in dark blue, was saying.
“Yeah? Why’s that?” The other said.
“It’ll be a lot safer once we have some weaponry mounted on these
things.”
“Not as if we can use them or anything.” The man gestured towards
the pair of Lamborghinis with a pistol. “That gun turret is a little
noticeable, don’t you think?”
“They’re concealable, actually. Right, Mikhail?” He called out
the last short sentence, and one of the welders turned away and quickly
nodded his head in an affirmative. “See? Useful.”
“Hmm, indeed. Probably won’t have to use them until WarTek gives
the word for us to start moving in and taking control, though.”
A third man answered the other. “Da. These will be much help when
the commander tells us to begin the strike. They are like little tanks
– good for killing civilians.”
The other two laughed sadistically at this comment. “Ohh, that it
will, that it will,” Chuckled the first.
The fourth man, wielding a compact, squared off gun with a short
bridge between the handle and clip holder and a large silencer on the
front, turned to the three and said sharply, “Shut up! Someone might
hear us. For all you know he might be here.”
“He? Oh, right, Ra-” He was cut off by a threatening gesture from
the fourth man. “Okay, okay, I’m shutting up. Asshole.”
The first man, in dark blue, whispered, “I thought they had got
him already?”
“Da, they did, but he got away – not unharmed, though.” The
Russian grinned maliciously. “Not just physical damage, either. They
say it was so bad there is no way he will be able to remember anything
previous to it. Impressive, da?”
“Shut the fuck up or I’ll put a bullet through your head!” The
deadly looking gun was pointed straight at the other man’s forehead. He
nodded, mutely.
Around the corner, Tango muttered, “So that’s what those damn
flashes were. Ah, fuck it. Still worth getting a couple snaps of.”
Tango raised the camera to his eyes and began setting up a shot. The
two welders had just stepped away from the vehicle, raising their face
shields, when he pushed the shutter button. A bright flash filled the
area, and all six men turned to stare at Tango.
“They saw us! Kill them!”
Eyes wide, Tango dashed away from the corner, sprinting towards
the car as three of the men raised weapons. Iota followed close on his
heels. Not bother to run wide around the heap of refuse, they both
leapt into their car, slamming the doors shut. Tango panted. “Fuck,
fuck, fuck. I turned the bloody flash off, I know I did!” A glance back
out towards the alley revealed that the men were moving towards them;
bright headlights from the two large cars, as well as throaty engine
roars gave definite proof. Swearing again, Tango slammed his foot down
upon the gas pedal, wrenching the wheel sideways as the tires spun
noisily. The back end whipped around, whirling the Exige to point in
the opposite direction, in which it promptly started moving. Tango
shifted up into second as soon as the engine revolutions reached a high
enough point, and the light vehicle surged forwards, out of the alley,
just as the two trucks behind them pulled out, themselves leaping
forwards, propelled by enormously wide tires.
“God damn it, those are Lambos. LM002s. Fast as fuck – for sport
utes, at least. And they have fucking guns!” A sharp, rapid report
echoed over their heads, as if to emphasize the driver’s last
statement. “I’m getting out of here!”
The sleek black car screamed along the narrow road, tall
buildings flying by in a blur. Bullets occasionally impacted behind
them, often hitting curves as the Lotus slid around them. They soon
began to pull away from the hulking black LM002s behind them, but the
ferocious roar of their big, ten cylinder engines was still audible
behind the much smaller car, reminding Tang and Iota of their
potentially deadly presence. They arrived quickly at the long, curving
street and swung out on to it, causing a white Mercedes to stop sharply
and slide in front of the entrance. Tango grinned to himself, thinking
this would slow their pursuers down, but seconds later the car was
hurled violently out of the way by the push bar on the front of the
first Lamborghini, and the two mammoth Italian vehicles pulled out onto
the street no more than a hundred metres behind the Elise. The wide
tires gripped the pavement immediately, and the trucks surged forwards,
actually beginning to gain on the two men.
Tango had a look of desperation on his face. “What the hell did
they do to those – an LM002 can’t move that fast! I’ve got to lose
them… need some smaller streets. They can’t do sharp turns, no, no.” He
floored the accelerator and leapt ahead once more, dodging speedily
around a small MCC Smart City Coupe. A bullet from the leading
Lamborghini struck low down on the plastic bodywork of the tiny economy
car, causing it to swerve wildly, almost contacting with the smooth
black paint of the Elise. Tango shifted up into sixth gear and shot
ahead again, the speedometer needle climbing upwards. A side road ahead
shot by, causing Tango to curse, but another soon followed and he spun
the steering wheel sideways, stomping on the brakes as he did so. The
rear slid around sideways, bringing the nose to bear facing down the
narrow road. Shifting back down into first, he floored the car once
again and shot off, running quickly through the Toyota engine’s low-end
power before shifting up and speeding down the empty street. He
laughed. “Let’s see ‘em do that little trick!”
The Lamborghinis could. The men at the wheels saw their target
turn into the small side road and were able to set up their own entry,
swinging wide and turning in, not losing nearly as much of their speed
as Tango had by sliding his lighter vehicle in. Thus they were able to
gain dangerous metres on their quarry, spurring the driver to even
greater efforts, wringing every last bit of speed out of the Exige’s
Toyota engine. It hurtled down the empty street, once again pulling
ahead of the heavy LM002s. However, yet another busy street loomed up
ahead, forcing Tango to slow in order to enter the traffic. More
bullets ricocheted around their black vehicle, all striking just a few
centimetres from where they had been a moment ago. Beads of
perspiration formed on Tango’s forehead as he slipped onto the wide,
crowded road, dodging in front of an erratic white van to put another
lane between him and his pursuers. Horns honked behind him as he
attempted to swerve around a yellow Seat Leon that was traveling at a
sedate pace. Blaring his own horn, Tango managed to get around it when
a gap opened beside him between a blue BMW M3 and the large Land Rover
Defender behind it. Swerving through this just as one of the
Lamborghinis rammed a tiny Mini One out of its way to occupy the lane
that the Exige had just exited.
Tango was panting from exertion and adrenaline now. His grip on
the steering wheel was white knuckled. Eyes wide with fear and
excitement scanned the road ahead of him, looking for any gaps in the
mass of traffic, as well as keeping tabs on the rear view mirrors to
see if the big, black Lamborghinis were coming closer. Fortunately,
they too were caught in the irresistible tide of machinery, and were
only capable of firing sporadic bullets at the Lotus, none of which
missed. Then the gunner of the LM002 out front turned the turret on the
cars surrounding it, causing them to swerve wildly out of the way, some
on to the crowded sidewalk. Seeing the Lamborghinis progressing across
the lanes towards them, Tango shifted up a gear and dodged onto the gap
between the two separate traffic lanes, cars rushing past just
centimeters away from the door. Slipping between another pair of cars,
a Ferrari 360 Modena and an ungainly looking Renault Espace, he glanced
back through the vision restricting vents over the rear window and
engine cover. Just a few cars behind was one of the Lamborghinis,
turret coming to bear on a Citroen directly in front of it. The other
was farther behind and one lane to the left.
“Iota, mate, there’s a Glock – a pistol – in the left pocket of
my trench. Get it out and start shooting at them, or we’re fucking
sunk.” Iota did so, reaching into one of the voluminous pockets and
removing a sleek black Glock 33. Removing his seat belt, he rolled down
the left side window and twisted, trying to get a view out towards the
back of the car. Finally reaching a comfortable and safe – cars were
falling behind them quickly – position, he maneuvered his arm, holding
the pistol, outside the window, running along the side of the car. He
tried to aim carefully at the LM002 that was less than 50 metres away.
However, with the rapid swerves of the Exige, it was difficult to set
up a decent line of fire. Finally eschewing accuracy, Iota fired a shot
just as Tango moved to the left. The shining bullet flew out of the
barrel of the pistol, spiraling through the dirty air filled with
exhaust smoke towards the radiator of the leading Lamborghini.
It missed the radiator, instead ramming itself in to the large
push bar mounted on the front of the vehicle and ricocheting off. Iota
fired again, this time missing the Lamborghini entirely. A third
squeeze of the trigger, executed just as Tango swerved back right,
slammed into the large upright windshield, causing a small pattern of
cracks on the bullet proof glass. He swore as the Lotus passed by a
slow moving Toyota Corolla, nearly removing his arm with its metallic
silver ‘C’ pillar. Once this had passed, he leaned out more and, aiming
in the general direction of the LM002, the gunner of which was
directing his weapon towards Iota and Tango. A thick bullet whizzed by
the black haired man’s head, striking the road beside the left front
tire in a puff of metal and asphalt. Iota pulled the trigger of the
Glock once more, watching as the bullet erupted from the muzzle
seemingly in sow motion, twirling on its deadly path to the target,
golden tip gleaming as a burst of sound rumbled from the gun. He
stared, not noticing anything else, as it spiraled and impacted with
the Lamborghini, somehow penetrating through the light mesh of the
grille that covered the radiator. A second more and a small puff of
steam could be seen blown backwards out of the now punctured radiator,
signaling the inevitable end of the LM002’s large, hot running twelve
cylinder engine. A spray of bullets shot back from Iota’s opponent,
several striking the car ahead – a tiny blue Ford SportKa with racing
decals adoring the rear window, claiming affiliations with the Ford
Special Vehicles Team – just as Tango pulled the car as far to the
right as there was room to spare, narrowly avoiding the burst of hot
metal. The unluckier car ahead, however, slammed the brakes as the
driver felt the bullets penetrating the sheet metal of his rear end.
Tango screamed and hit his own brakes, wrenching the wheel
sharply out of the way to avoid ramming into the back of the SportKa.
The car spun and came to rest perpendicular to the rest of the flow of
traffic, unscathed as the car behind had been over a dozen metres back
and moving quite slowly; thus it had time to stop before impacting with
the vehicle in front. However, this was of no consolation to either of
the occupants of the Lotus Exige, who were now in an even more
desperate situation than before. With the LM002 approaching quite
rapidly even with its damaged radiator, and the gunner, standing
precariously in the outer cargo bed of the truck, lining up the sights
of his .50 calibre machine gun turret, it seemed that they had no way
out but to be killed by their assailants. However, Tango did not find
this to be acceptable. He stomped on the gas pedal, making the rear
tires spin in place and emit plumes of foul smelling rubber smoke, then
shot forwards across the lanes of traffic, fishtailing his way through
the narrow gaps left between vehicles as he tried to reach the
sidewalk, which would allow for a fairly unobstructed passage – the
pedestrians walking along it would more than likely get out of his with
a greater expediency than the vehicles on the road. Hopefully, it would
also be more difficult for the Lamborghinis, with their extra wide
stance, to follow along on the skinnier sidewalk.
After close escape from collision with both a Peugot 206 and a
Honda Jazz, Tango navigated the car successfully to the sidewalk,
turning sharply to align himself with it as people passing by on foot,
those who had not already gotten well out of the way at the first sight
of the gunfight, all jumped out of the way, on to the edge of the road
or pressed up against the walls of stores. Accelerating without
hesitation while pounding the horn to signal for passers by to get out
of the way, he began moving along the sidewalk, in the opposite
direction as the traffic beside it, as quickly as he could. Giving a
quick glance to the pair of huge, black vehicles that had been pursuing
them he laughed nervously as they tried to execute large, lumbering
turns through the now dispersing traffic to reverse and catch up to the
brand new Lotus. “Fucking bastards. That’ll show them to mess with me.
Ain’t a driver on the roads can compete with me, fuck no.” Still, he
continued driving quickly down the sidewalk, occasionally weaving out
of the way of a particularly slow walker. When the Lamborghinis could
no longer be seen, he ducked onto another street, this time traveling
along with the proper, relatively sedate flow of cars. “Hah, I think
we’ve lost ‘em, mate, those stupid fucktards. That was some nice
shooting, by the way.”
“Thanks, but it was more of a lucky shot.”
“A lucky fucking shot, you moron? From a moving car, into another
moving car, that’s reasonable for someone who has now memory of ever
shooting a gun before. What did Xavier tell you that you used to do?”
“I was… a spy.”
Tango nodded. “Makes sense, then.” Iota shrugged and looked back
out of the window, scanning the traffic for any sign of the hulking
black LM002s – just one, probably, he supposed, since the one he had
shot probably would only be able to go so far before its engine
overheated and seized up. Nowhere could he see the blocky profile or
slender turret of their pursuer’s vehicle, and the roads seemed safe
and placid in comparison to the harrowing action of a just a few
minutes earlier. He relaxed in his seat, fairly confident that they
would be safe until they returned to the apartment.
Just then, a sharp, metallic twang echoed from the left side of
the vehicle. Iota’s head whipped around to stare at the left front
fender, where the sound had emanated from, and then, in a moment of
panic, looked back trying to spot the profile of a pursuing
Lamborghini. It was there, less than 50 metres behind them. “Tango..
one of them is shooting at us. Better go!” Cursing, Tango did so,
accelerating around a slow moving Ford Transit van, which temporarily
hid the tiny Exige from the towering view of the truck following them.
“Fuck them, how’d they find us?”
“I don’t know, but maybe we can lose them again – down another
side street?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Tango swerved between the two lanes of traffic,
thankful for the small size of the Lotus, allowing it to fit in gaps
much smaller than the Lamborghini would – or indeed, almost any other
vehicle. He continued weaving hazardously in and out among the much
slower moving cars, frequently glancing in the rear view mirror for a
sign of the LM002 behind them. Every once and a while it would be
visible among the field of cars, often shooting at them or pushing them
out of the way to gain ground upon the two men dodging vehicles
frantically in an effort to escape. Several bullets crashed into a car
nearby, causing it to swerve violently off the road. Tango dodged into
the gap, pulling a few metres out ahead before they arrived at a
traffic circle. Whipping around it illegally, he sped down a less
crowded street, wildly driving past vehicles parked along the roads.
the
The
was
the
Despite his most rapid efforts, however, the big, black figure of
Lamborghini LM002 loomed suddenly in the small rear view mirror.
gunner, shielding his eyes against the unusually bright sun light,
carefully lining up the sights of his weapon with the right side of
car – where Tango was driving.
He shot. The large bullet rifled out of the barrel, spiraling to
maintain its almost horizontal orientation against the effects of the
air rushing past it at a great velocity. The slug of metal smashed
through the engine vents and rear wind shield of the Lotus, continuing
straight on over Tango’s head and out of the front windshield, smacking
into the ground a few thousandths of a second later. The second shot,
fired as part of a quick, three round burst, punched a hole slightly
lower down, traveling straight through Tango’s skull.
His head exploded like a ripe melon. As the huge bullet tore
through it, ripping its way through skin, skull, and brain, the
shockwave caused by the terrible impact forced the remaining brain
matter outwards, and shattered the skull, fracture lines appearing
within an instant of the bullet hitting Tango’s head. Then they split
open, tearing his bare scalp to pieces as curved chunks of bone flew
from the sorry remains of his head, some of them still attached to
strips of skin that hung from the neck. As the round made its way
outward, the suction it created drew a significant portion of barin and
blood along with it, spattering noisily on the inside of the wind
shield as the bullet shattered through the glass and continued for a
short ways down the street.
The third and final bullet also punched a whole just below the
second, traveling into Tango’s neck. The tattered remains of his skull
still hanging on by meager scraps of bloody skin were blown away
entirely as the third bullet ripped away most of his short neck and
vertebrae, sending more of the crimson remains spattering on the
windshield or on Iota, who had witnessed the whole brief event with
shock. He screamed as bloody strips of flesh and bone, and pulpy brain
matter, splashed on his face, and prepared himself to meet a similar
fate.
However, he did not die, much to his surprise. The Lotus Exige
began to turn sideways just as the gunner depressed the trigger of the
machine gun aimed at him, and the bullets simply ripped up chunks of
concrete and puffs of dust beside the car. The Lotus slammed sideways
into a building half a second later, grinding loudly against the bricks
as the car decelerated. Still hesitant from the shock of seeing Tango
so bloodily killed right in front of his eyes, he threw open the door
and dashed out, running erratically, partly from distress and partly as
a deliberate evasion method. The big Lamborghini was now trying to come
to a stop, but with several vehicles in its path, as well as its
enormous size and thus impressive momentum, which the large brakes were
hard pressed to counteract, it skidded along the road for several dozen
metres before being able to come to a stop and allow the gunner to
bring his machine gun to bear on the fleeing figure. But he was nowhere
to be seen.
Iota tore down a small alley between a pair of tall buildings.
His face and shirt were covered with the remains of Tango; bits of
flesh, soaked in blood, clung to his clothing, which was beginning to
turn red in several places. His hands, too, were coated in sticky, red
blood, and more chunks of flesh – and fragments of wet, white bone –
hung on his face, some sliding off as he ran. He stopped after
sprinting several hundred metres, crossing through another street
before finding a continuation of this little passage. He leaned against
the wall, breathing quickly and heavily, like a runner after a
marathon, but not entirely from his terror filled sprint. Tango was
dead; he’d seen his head explode from the force of the huge bullet that
pierced its way through at an incredible speed, causing these small
bits of flesh and bone to spatter all over Iota. Shaking at the sight
of what was left of the other man, Iota shook his hands clean, and
tried to rub the small, horrifying pieces of human flesh off his shirt,
face, and out of his hair. Hysterical laughter began to escape him;
sobs of shock and sorrow, and despair. He had nowhere to go anymore;
not knowing the streets of London at all, he could not possibly make
his way back to the apartment building where his companions were surely
awaiting him – him and Tango.
“But Tango’s not coming back – no. Oh fuck, what do I do? I need
to find them… go somewhere… fuck, where am I?”
He decided to start walking. Darkness was coming, ready to fall
over the city like a smothering blanket of black. Nobody would be able
to see him then; they wouldn’t notice the blood stains that were
clotting and turning the sickening brown tinge unique to dried blood.
Brushing his hands uncomfortably against the stiffening parts of his
shirt, Iota headed off in a direction perpendicular to the one he had
been running in, just as it began to rain. Rushing past him, over him,
and down his long black hair, it started lightly but soon became a
downpour, drenching him and washing away some of the traces of human
remains – but the blood stains remained, brown and malignant.
Walking through the sheets of rain along sidewalks turned into
small rivers, Iota’s panic began to subside, though the reason why
escaped him. There could be nothing even potentially beneficial to come
out of this, but now he did not worry. With a pensive look on his face,
he pondered his situation.
He was lost, alone, and soaked to the bone. His only possessions
were the stained shirt on his back and his jeans – and his wallet,
which contained the identification card and the credit card, which he
thought could be useful. Looking up into the rain falling from the
pitch black sky, however, he realized that it would most certainly be
useless if he was run over by a vehicle in the darkness. A quick search
of the street he was on revealed an opening marked ‘Underground.’
Although he had never heard of it before, he knew what it was, and also
how it would offer an escape from the rain of the outdoors. Iota walked
quickly over to it, pushing past the glass door to the interior, where
a row of automatic ticket vendors were embedded into the wall. Ignoring
a suspicious look from one of the gate attendants, he walked over to
one of these machines. After a careful and thorough inspection the
instructions written beside the keypad, he pushed a button and inserted
his credit card, removed from his increasingly damp wallet, into the
slot provided by the machine. Quickly punching through his choices, he
purchased a ticket for one adult for both tonight and tomorrow, then,
turning, he walked up to one of the ticket gates. Pushing his ticket in
and hurriedly moving through the now open gates, he eyed the staring
attendant before carefully descending the stairs down to the trains.
Deciding against sleeping right here, in the subway station, he
waited along with a handful of other late night travelers – two of them
accoutered in much the same state as himself; wet and stained. They all
stood patiently and quietly, awaiting the arrival of the train, which
was faintly audible from a ways down the tunnel. Within another minute,
it arrived, heralded first by a powerful blast of air that had not been
already dispersed by the powerful fans developed with that intent in
mind. Brakes screeching as the train rolled to a halt along the tracks,
the pair of doors to each car opened simultaneously, allowing the small
group of waiting people on to the train. Iota made sure to select a car
that was almost entirely empty of any people – only two others were on
it, one a man sitting rigidly, wearing a business suit, and the other
another, much older man with strands of a white beard showing above his
thick and stained grey over coat. Giving the suited man a wary look, he
walked into the car just as the sliding door behind him closed, and
stepped over to a seat nearest the door. He sat down and leaned against
the side of the car, shaking from the cold of the rain that was still
clinging to his skin and soaking his shirt. He was almost surprised to
find that he felt little of the shock and horror that he had first
experienced seeing Tango die – and just afterwards, running for his
life. Nor did he feel much sorrow or loss; Iota supposed that it was
because he had simply not known Tango very well, though he had found
himself liking the short, angry man. Shrugging and closing his eyes,
Iota relaxed against the back of the seat, trying to calm himself
enough to fall asleep, or at least get some sort of rest.
He fell asleep soon enough, slipping into vague dreams of the
events of the past hours, witnessing again and again, in slow motion,
the long, sleek bullet flying through the rear window, tiny shards of
glass following it on its route to the back of Tango’s head. He saw it
slide into the other man’s shaven skull, first pushing inwards against
the skin and bone before, just microseconds later, shoving through,
forcing itself through a hole ever enlarging from the force of the
impact. Iota saw the bullet traveling through Tango’s skull as it
exploded and collapsed, his cranium fracturing and splintering, the
fragments of skull flying onto Iota or hanging from the remains of his
head from strips of skin still attached to the jawbone. But then the
black haired man saw something in his dream that was beyond what he
remembered from the gory scene in the car. As pieces of spongy brain
matter, slick with blood that was being pumped in spurts from the
ruined stump of the neck, flew from Tango’s skull, he saw the dead man
turn and look at him. The pieces of bone and flesh began moving
backwards, reversing through time to reform Tango’s face – only it was
not a human face at all. Now what looked at him was one of the aliens,
one of the hideous apparitions that had pursued him initially from the
apartment building he had woken up in. It regarded him with what
appeared to be a vicious smile, until it opened its mouth and the
bullet that had killed Tango appeared in the wide, toothy mouth
enclosed by almost invisible lips. It shot out, the muzzle flash that
belonged on the turret attached to the black Lamborghini LM002 bursting
in the alien’s mouth as the bullet speed for Iota’s head. He screamed,
jerked his head aside, and awoke.
A narrow alien figure stood above Iota, brandishing an unfamiliar
hand held weapon. A hole from a projectile fired by the alien stood out
clearly on the back of the seat just centimeters away from Iota’s head.
He gasped in surprise, staring incredulously at the extra terrestrial
form in front of him before rolling away from it. Quickly jumping to
his feet, Iota searched frantically around for a weapon or a means of
escape. All he could see was a small handle on the side of the car,
near the first set of scuffed sliding doors, with a sign above it that
said, “Pull Handle To Stop Train.” Disregarding the warnings below it,
Iota jumped for the lever, hauling down on it. He fell forwards as the
train jerked to a halt, landing flat against the dirty floor. He could
see that the alien was also on the ground, flat on its back, unmoving.
Without wasting time trying to see whether it was unconscious or not,
Iota leapt to his feet and turned to the doors.
They were closed. A brief surge of panic flooded through Iota as
he realized that they were unlikely to be opened at all – at least, for
a little while. And that could be easily enough time for the alien in
the car with him to get to its feet and finish him off. But then,
lowering a hand to his pocket, he found that his fingers contacted with
something hard, metallic, and quite large that was pressing against his
thigh. Tango’s gun. Iota drew it out quickly and dashed to the other
end of the enclosed car, pointing the dull metal barrel straight at the
alien’s strangely shaped skull. The owner of the skull was just now
beginning to move, opening translucent lidded eyes to stare fixatedly
at the business end of the Glock 33. “Don’t move.” Iota spoke softly.
“Tell me what I want to know, and I might not kill you. The alien
nodded slightly.
“Who am I?”
Stretching its lipless mouth back in a gross parody of a human
smile, the figure on the ground, dressed in loose dark grey clothing,
said nothing in reply, but reached a half clenched fist up to the human
hand that was in possession of the fearsome looking weapon. Before Iota
could react, it had opened its seven fingered hand, and, holding a
small device that had a pair of short prongs sticking out between its
two thumbs, jabbed it into Iota’s wrist, making him cry out in surprise
and pain before he collapsed bonelessly on the floor. With a small
chortle of delight, the alien rose and then bent down, grabbing Iota
around the waist and hauling him upright with surprising strength. It
lifted him over to one of the seats, where Iota was set down in order
to free the alien’s hands to force open the sliding doors of the car,
which it accomplished with ease. Again picking up Iota’s limp form, it
dashed out of the car onto the subway tracks and fled in the direction
the train had come from, flying down the darkened tunnel.
Day = 4
Iota awoke slowly, first opening his eyes by a tiny amount then
closing them again, drifting shallowly in and out of half dreams and
murky thoughts. Each glance through slitted eyelids revealed a shiny,
sterile room, walled in what might have been stainless steel, with
white work benches and tables scattered around. Not recognizing any of
this new, unfamiliar scenery, his mind, thinking as if wading through
molasses, assumed that this must all be a dream. Feeling more
comfortable in this knowledge, the barely functioning conscious side of
Iota slipped away and drifted back into strange dreams of car chases,
bullets, subway trains, and aliens. It was several minutes before he
drifted back in to awareness once again.
This time he grew concerned; as more of his sluggishly moving
mind had awakened, it became clear that this room was too real to be a
part of his dream, despite its strange, unworldly appearance. As his
thought processes began to accelerate, memories of the day – it may
have been a day, or more – before came rushing back to him, shocking
him fully awake. The alien had done something to him, it must have. A
single touch with the device held in its oddly formed hand had rendered
him unconscious after a brief spate of agony. It must then have carried
him here, to this place. But, he questioned himself, where was this
place?
A glance around the room revealed it to be in all likelihood,
contained within whatever manner of space traveling vessel the aliens
had journeyed to the Earth on. The equipment arrayed around him
appeared ill suited to human hands, thus he could be sure he hadn’t
hallucinated the events previous, and he thought it unlikely that they
would build any facilities on Earth, as that would hardly facilitate
their goal – at least, he assumed it was their goal – to remain
unnoticed by the populace of the planet. It occurred to him, albeit
vaguely, that if they were in space he would not feel the pull of
gravity, but before that thought had even finished occurring, more
information that he had not remembered learning leapt in and he
realized that the vessel was probably rotating to simulate an
artificial pull of gravity.
Having secured a satisfactory examination of his surroundings, he
turned his vision upon himself. The blood stained shirt and jeans were
now gone, replaced with the same black clothing he had been wearing
when he first awoke, less the hefty black trench coat. He was reclining
in a large yet confining chair, and his hands were bound to the sides
with tough, flexible straps, although his feet were not similarly
fettered. A brief struggle against his restraints showed that they were
unlikely to allow him to break his arms free and he relaxed as much as
he could, back against the pliable, smooth surface of the chair. He
searched for a door, some method of entrance into this room, and found
a set of seams that ran along in the rounded corner to his right,
barely visible but most likely to be what he had been searching for.
Fixing his gaze upon it, Iota began a patient wait for it to open.
In time, it did, although it must have taken, by Iota’s
reckoning, a good two hours before any living being crossed the
threshold of the room. He had begun to drift away in his own thoughts,
and the abrupt opening of the door – the wide section, bisected by the
smooth curve, extended out by several centimeters before sliding aside
on unseen tracks – and the sudden appearance of a skinny, pale figure
without, its drab clothing hanging off of the narrow, unfamiliar form.
Iota now affixed his eyes upon this alien, staring at it with his deep,
purple eyes as it strode evenly across to where he lay. Opening its
wide, lipless mouth, it spoke in a flat tone, devoid of any emphasis or
rhythm.
“We have you again.” Iota remained silent, his face growing hard
as the being in front of him spoke, its words increasing the anger he
felt at being recaptured. “Not talking? Very well. What shall we do
with you?” Again, Iota said nothing. The alien twisted its face. “I was
thinking that we should restore your memory and release you. But my
colleagues disagree, and since you seem to be uncooperative, I think I
will now choose their option.”
“Which is?”
“Ah, speaking now? Too late. But since you asked so nicely, I
think I will tell you. They want,” It paused now, “to keep you here.
Study you. Evaluate you. I will call them. Wait here.” Iota strained
fruitlessly at his bonds, trying in a futile attempt to break free. The
alien called back, “Do not try to escape, trust me, you can not.”
Minutes later, desperate minutes of fear and apprehension for
Iota, chained to the large reclining chair, the alien that had first
spoken to him returned with two others, both dressed in what Iota’s
companions had first seen them in; the pale blue uniform that they had
been wearing while climbing into the small shuttle craft to take them
back to their main ship – the one that Iota thought he must be on. The
two new comers moved expediently over to the side of Iota’s chair,
giving at him with appraising expressions. One ran a long and thin
black tongue over its short, blunt teeth with an eerie slithering
sound. Iota shivered as the other new arrival began talking in English,
likely for the dark haired human’s benefit. “The human from the upper
portion of the north western continent. An excellent specimen. Shall we
release him and prepare him for transportation?”
“Yes, I believe so.” The first alien that Iota had seen walked
over to one of his fettered wrists, somehow undoing the clasp. He tried
to relax himself, so as to make it seem like he would not try to break
free of them and escape. An alien on the other side freed his right
wrist. Just as it did so, Iota tensed and flung himself out of the
chair, swinging both arms wide to try and hit his captors. He felt his
left hand collide with something hard and warm, and then swung his arms
back to his sides and began running, sprinting towards the wide open
door in the corner. Behind him, the aliens made cries of anger and
distress, and he could hear at least one of them chasing after him,
small feet pounding against the hard, glossy floor.
Iota flew down the sterile windowless corridors, spurred on by
the sound of gaining feet behind him. A white wall flashed before him
as he threw himself, skidding, into a sharp ninety degree turn, his
feet slipping against the hard floor as he struggle for traction from
the sturdy black boots he had been given. He did not know what he
intended to accomplish in his desperate bid for freedom; the vessel he
was on would most certainly not have an escape route that he was
capable of using, and he would doubtlessly be recaptured. Sliding
through another bend, however, he saw a glint of light coming through a
door at the very end of the corridor – and it looked like sunlight. His
shoes vying for a decent grip on the slick floor, he made a final dash
for what he though was the exit, his thought of just a moment previous
not occurring to him. Other doors leading off from the sides of the
corridors brushed by him in a barely seen blur, ignored as he ran for
his freedom. In the split seconds it took him to cover mist of the
distance of the long hallway, he thought back to what one of the
uniformed aliens had said back in the other room – it had said that
they should prepare him for transport. That would imply that he was
somewhere other than their main headquarters, and the sunlight – he was
sure that it must be sunlight, for no artificial luminary device could
possibly reproduce that golden glow – that was shining through the
small window in the door up ahead could only confirm this theory.
Iota’s thoughts came to an abrupt and crashing halt as an alien
appeared directly in front of him, less than two metres away. Not
thinking as he did so, Iota hopped swiftly to the side of the alien,
raising his arm as he did so and bringing his elbow crashing down upon
the alien’s neck when he sped past. It whirled halfway and toppled to
the ground, leaving Iota unimpeded as he sprinted the last few steps to
the door and brought his full weight crashing into it, stopping him
dead. He felt a brief spike of absolute terror rush through him – if it
was locked then he was doomed, they would capture him for sure.
Frantically searching for a handle or a knob, he found a button – more
of a panel, about fifteen centimeters square, set in to the corner of
the door, through which he could see the streets of another industrial
section – and pushed it hard. The door swung wide open, and he bolted
through, trying to swing it shut on his pursuers, who were now just
seconds behind him.
Dashing out into the sunlit street, he continued his frenzied
run, thinking quickly and heading for the corner of the building he had
just left, hoping that his followers would lose precious seconds
deciding where he had gone. After a few more minutes of hard running he
collapsed against a brick wall – part of a warehouse – a few metres
away from a pile of several trash bags. His breath rasped in his
throat, and he feared it might give him away, but he was not found.
Realising that perhaps the aliens had thought it ill advised to expose
themselves in broad daylight, even for chasing after him.
“And now I know where they are hiding!” He muttered under his
breath. The group waiting back in the apartment would doubtless be
pleased to be informed of this – only, he had to return to there, and
between the horrific car chase and then his imprisonment by these
aliens, he knew not at all where he was now located. Nor did he know
the location of his companions, thus rendering him completely and
hopelessly lost on the streets of London. And he did not even possess
his credit card any longer, thereby removing from him the only method
he had of sustaining himself. He sighed miserably, pitying himself.
However, he stood up, thrust his hands into the pockets of his black
jeans, and began walking, desolate and directionless.
Many hours later, after a great deal of aimless wandering through
a slightly less crowded section of the city, he found himself at the
edge of a park, separated from the sidewalk by a long, iron wrought
fence perched upon a short brick wall. Peering through the slick, black
bars, he could see rows and rows of huge trees, running along long
asphalt paths. From his vantage point he could see numerous benches
scattered throughout the park. Looking up, he could see that the day
had grown long and was preparing itself to slide into the shade of
twilight; he shrugged and walked alongside the fence, trying to find an
entrance. He soon managed to spot one, and hurried in on the paved path
to the center of the park. Few others were in there; he passed several
couples strolling along at a much slower rate than he, as well as a few
joggers on a late run. Most readily visible, however, were others, like
himself, who were without a roofed place to sleep for the night. Iota
stepped off the edge of the path and began walking among the widely
spaced trees, hoping to spot some tall and thick bushes to shield him
from both the weather and any prying eyes. He found some anon, and
pushed some of the branches aside, crawling beneath the leaves and
twigs and curling up before letting the whippy limbs fall back into
place, effectively shielding him from view.
Iota lay awake for quite some time, waiting as the last traces of
sunlight faded away into the utter black of night before shifting
uncomfortably on the lumpy ground and slipping off in to sleep.
Day = 5
Awakening at the first drops of rain that filtered through the
leaves of the bush he was concealed underneath, Iota shook his head to
clear it, and rolled out from under the branches, staring up at the sky
in a daze. Clouds hung heavy and grey over him, and the city, their
dark, looming stature lending a foreboding atmosphere to the skies. He
shivered as more drops of rain fell upon his face, and stood up,
oblivious to the scornful look of a passing runner. Arching his back
and extending his arms, he stretched to remove some of the remnants of
his stiff and uncomfortable night. Finishing stretching by rolling his
head and listening to the vertebrae of his neck cracking and snapping,
he resolved to try and find the apartment of his companion’s; without
them, his own situation was hopeless. This singular thought in mind, he
started walking, out onto the paved path ways of the park and then onto
the sidewalks of the city.
Less than an hour of purposeful wandering brought him to a street
that looked very familiar. It was indeed; this street was the one that
had seen Tango’s violent end. Turning on to it, he could see quite
clearly the streaks of black the big Lamborghini had left as it
attempted to stop and follow him, and the line of scratches and paint
flakes that ran along one wall of a building from the Lotus Exige… and
the Exige! It was a slightly mangled wreck, the driver’s side nearly
entirely caved in from the impact with the hard cement wall. It was
surrounded by a row of yellow tape bearing the warning, ‘Police Line –
Do Not Cross. Police Line – Do Not Cross. Police Line - Do Not Cross.
Police Line - Do Not Cross. Police Line - Do Not Cross.’ It continued
on repeating the message for its full length. A single police officer
was guarding it, standing near the wreck looking sleepy and tired.
What caught Iota’s eye the most, however, was not the yellow
police tape or the lime outfitted officer; rather, he could just see
the corpse of Tango. Although a little hesitant to return to such a
gruesome site, he knew that he had little choice. Tango had a credit
card – one that Iota himself would surely be able to make use of.
Calling upon his reserve and steeling himself, he approached the ruined
black vehicle, keeping close along the scratched side of the building,
proceeding with as much stealth as he could muster – a surprising
amount he found; clearly, some of his training from his past life in
the Canadian Security Intelligence Service still remained with him –
and he crept slowly over the tape, ducking abruptly behind the
flattened flank of the Lotus, hiding himself from view with the remains
of the car’s smooth lines and curvaceous sides. Much of the door on
Tango’s side – Iota shuddered as he saw the body, which now buzzed with
flies – was pushed inside of the cabin, cutting off any easy access to
the right side of the dead man’s coat. However, Iota was sure that the
card was in a pocket on the other side of Tango, and he slowly eased
his head and chest through the window, trying not to gag at the smell
of flesh beginning to decay. Reaching carefully over the ripped up stub
of a neck still attached to the cadaver, he slid his hand into the same
pocket that Tango had kept his gun in – it would stand to reason that,
if he was secure enough with keeping his weapon in that pocket, he
would also keep his wallet in there – and pulled out something square
and leather: Tango’s wallet. Elated, he drew himself out of the car as
quickly as possible without causing any noise that could alert the
drowsing guard, and slid along the wall again, ducking this time under
the police tape and padding silently away from the scene, hoping
fervently that he would never have to return.
Now that he possessed a credit card, he could at least purchase
some food; however, Iota had bigger plans in mind than sustenance,
though his growling stomach made it clear that nourishment should be
made a high priority. Ignoring the rumbling protests of his organ, Iota
began walking at a brisk pace over to where he hoped the Lotus
dealership had been situated. While there with Tango, waiting for him
to finalize the purchase, Iota had seen another type of vehicle, which,
according to the specifications sign, was called an Esprit. The
performance figures had been much higher than the ones he had read on
the Elise and Exige signs, which made it more appealing to Iota than
the smaller, less powerful vehicle they had chosen. Although he was not
aware of the power to weight ratios of either vehicles, and thus did
not know how to properly evaluate them against each other, he decided
that he would like to have the Esprit he had seen. Iota reasoned that,
since it was larger, it would also be more practical and less
vulnerable to hostile pursuers than the tiny and seemingly flimsy Exige
had been. Mulling this idea over in his mind, he picked up his already
stiff pace and hoped that he was heading somewhere near the right
direction.
It became evident to Iota that, after several hours of walking in
his arbitrarily chosen direction, that he had chosen his random
destination poorly. He was nowhere near the Lotus dealership or the
street it had been located upon; in fact, he was lost among a maze of
colourful stores and brilliant advertisements. He was now in the middle
of a large public square, paved over with interlocking bricks, bordered
on all sides by busy streets. A sign several metres away told him that
he was in Trafalgar Square. Perplexed by this, he turned away, and
spotted a sign proclaiming that the Underground was accessible from
near where he was right now. A small smile of relief played across his
lips, and he jogged quickly to the crosswalk, where he attempted to
cross, but was blocked each time by the cars rushing past, over the
painted lines lying parallel upon the road surface. He stared over at
the other side in distress, not knowing how to transport himself safely
across, to where he urgently needed to go. Within a few seconds,
however, his agitation subsided as another pedestrian stepped over to a
pole about a metre away from where he was standing and pressed a large
button that was mounted on the side. The traffic soon stopped at the
edges of the lines of the cross walk, and Iota stepped uncertainly out
onto the road, eyeing the halted vehicles warily as he hurried across.
Once securely on the other side of the busy street, Iota scanned
around him to try and catch sight of the round sign bearing the word
‘Underground,’ which he soon spotted hanging, morosely lit, over a
small entrance way much like the first one he had been in. He completed
the same procedure as before, swiping his card through one of the
automated vendors and receiving his ticket before getting in the small
queue that had formed outside of the one operating ticket gate. The
other four gates seemed to no longer be in wording order; they remained
stiffly closed, preventing all access through them and forcing anyone
who wished to pass crowd through the lone functioning opening. After a
short and impatient wait, Iota squeezed through, shoving his ticket
into the reader before the doors had even closed behind the traveler
who stood in front on him, and slipping hastily through just as
quickly.
It was then that he realized that he did not have any concept of
where he wanted to be. No, he contradicted, he knew where he wished to
arrive at, but did not know the location of his intended destination,
nor what route would most expediently get him there. It did not once
occur to him to ask one of the multitude of passers-by where he would
find the Lotus dealership he had departed from the day before, as he
had no wish to speak to anyone he did not know. His mistrust of
strangers did not stem so much from any past experiences as it did from
a simple uncertainty of their driver and motives. Thus, he was far too
suspicious to interact with any of them, even on the most minute of
levels.
Doing his best to ignore both the masses of humanity that
surrounded him as he descended the long escalators, as well as his own
lack of knowledge of they city, and more importantly, where he wanted
to be, he strode slowly along underneath the low ceiling of the
corridors that led to the platform where he could board one of the
blunt faced trains. This station was of a considerably complex layout,
however, much more so than the one previous, and Iota soon became lost
among the veritable warren of ever darkening corridors, growing more
odious with each step. He noticed now people, lying down on pieces of
cardboard or cloth, stale smells of sweat and sometimes alcohol wafting
their malignant way upwards to Iota’s aquiline nose. Most of them were
either silently solitary, while a few others conversed with each other,
pausing as the black haired man made his way past them in perplexion.
However, some were not so silent or so introverted. One man was talking
loudly to himself, muttering unintelligibles to the air. When he saw
Iota trying to pass by him in the narrow corridor, wondering if he was
even in the station anymore, he raised his scraggly bearded head and
stared straight at the taller man, a wild look in his clouded blue
eyes. He opened his mouth and spoke, a rank smell exuding from his
breath. “Dorf!”
Iota stared, scared and puzzled. “What?”
“Dorf!” The old man coughed. “Dorf!”
“Dorf? What is ‘dorf’?” The black haired man was growing uneasy,
and started slowly backing away.
“Not this way. No, no, no, no, no, no. Back. To your friends,
yes? In the apartment, yes? Not here, no.” He pressed a dirty, worn map
into Iota’s hands. “Follow the arrows!”
“What – what is this? What do you know about me? Tell me!”
“Dorf!” The bum cackled, then spun and leapt away, yelling out
“Dorf!” one more time before stumbling over a man sleeping at the end
of the otherwise empty passage and returning to his loud,
incomprehensible mumbles. Iota stared after him, utterly confused. The
man had seemed to know who he was, and where his friends were. But how?
He unfolded the map, and then had all of his questions answered. The
map was not even one of the city he was in – according to the title at
the top, it depicted the city of Edmonton, which apparently resided in
Alberta, Canada. Iota shook his head ruefully, not recognizing any of
the names, but knowing that it was absolutely useless and irrelevant
information, he wadded up the worthless piece of torn paper and threw
it on the ground before turning back the way he had come. The crazy old
man had said one thing of value at the very least. He wouldn’t find his
companions, nor the car dealership, by continuing down this maze of
dingy halls, where ever they actually were. Hurrying back out into
whiter, cleaner corridors with fully functioning lights. A few minutes
of walking found him on the train platform, crowded almost to the edge,
where a broad white line warned him against standing any nearer to the
dark metal tracks a metre below the brick platform he now stood on. The
waiting mass of humanity, their combined odour of sweat mingling with
the stale air of the Underground, were soon offered a relief of sorts
when another flat nosed train barreled its way along the steel tracks,
pulling up along the platform amid a cacophony of braking. The sliding
doors popped open to allow passengers to disembark and to admit the
waiting travelers into the crowded cars. Recorded voices warned all
riders to “Mind the gap.”
Iota squeezed into one of the more crowded cars, hoping that he
would have less to worry about if more people were around him. No
aliens would dare risk exposing themselves to so many just to recapture
him. At least, he hoped this was so. But if they were willing to take a
chance like that, they would have doubtless followed him out into the
broad daylight after he burst from their building in the industrial
section, and Iota felt quite confident that this would hold true in the
subway as well. It seemed that it did; as the doors slid closed with
another recorded warning, he saw no suspicious looking personages and
relaxed, grabbing one of the overhead handles before the train began
its abrupt acceleration.
He waited as the train pulled up in several different stations,
the operator announcing each location as they arrived. Iota simply
waited, taking a seat as soon as one became available. He had no
concept at all of where he was going, and so just planned to remain on
the train for as long as possible, perhaps getting off at a destination
with a name that he liked. One soon came along. Southwark. He did not
know why, but the name appealed to him, so, at this arbitrary end, he
stood up and pressed out of the car, pushing his way through crowds of
people trying to shove their own way inside to the space he had just
vacated.
Just then, across the platform, he saw a familiar figure.
Guillaume. It had to be; Iota did not think that, even in the short
time he had known the man, he would be able to mistake that pristine
goatee and immaculately groomed hair. He waved his arms and shouted,
trying to get the Frenchman’s attention. “Guillaume! Guillaume!” A few
cries was all that was required to break through his concentration, and
he looked up at Iota with a mix of delight and shock upon his features.
Unfortunately, the two men were separated by several wide tracks,
preventing them from reaching each other. For an instant, Iota
despaired, but Guillaume, knowing this station much better than the
black haired man, quickly located a bridge running high over the tracks
to afford access from one side to the other. Within a minute he was by
Iota’s side, talking excitedly.
“Iota, mon ami, you are alive! How is this so? We all of us
thought for sure that you must have perished with my dear departed
friend Tango…” He paused for a moment, his eyes downcast. “We thought
you had died in the car wreck as well.”
“No, that was just Tango. He was shot through the head, and the
car ran into a wall, but only on his side. I was able to escape those
ones…”
“Those ones? You say that as if there were more than one. And for
that matter, who are ‘those ones’ you speak of?”
Iota explained in detail, going back to when he and Tango found
saw the blue flashes behind one of the warehouses and had gone to
investigate, only to find the men from WarTek – he believed that was
the word they had used – hiding there, affixing a turret upon one of
their two Lamborghini sport utility vehicles. He went over the perilous
chase between the modified WarTek LM002s and the Lotus Exige that he
had been riding in with Tango, including all of the hair raising tricks
Tango had pulled in a frenzied attempt to escape, as well as his own
part, in shooting out the radiator of one of the pursuing LM002s. He
carefully gave the details of Tango’s tragic – and bloody – demise, and
how he himself had managed to escape from the car before the WarTek men
had been able to kill him as well. Jumping over some of the details
intervening between his escape from the Exige and his arrival at the
Underground station. “I went into one of the emptier cars – there were
only two people in it. At least, I thought they were both people.”
“You thought? Just thought? And how could it be that one was not
a… oh. Oh. You don’t mean to say…?”
“Yes, most likely. One of them was an alien dressed in a human
suit. I fell asleep on the seat, and it dropped the outfit and tried to
kill me with a weapon of some sort.”
“How did you live if you were asleep?”
“I… I don’t know.” He thought back to the unnerving dream he had
been having on the subway car. Tango’s exploding head had reformed into
a grotesque, elongated alien skull, then spat the huge round back out
at him. But he had dodged in the dream, turning his head aside from the
projectile – just as he had done in real life when avoiding the alien’s
slug. To perplexed to try and make an attempt at explaining what had
seemingly occurred, he simply shrugged slightly and repeated, “I don’t
know. I pulled my head aside… as a reflex when I woke up, I guess.”
When Guillaume nodded his head in comprehension, Iota continued his
tale of what had happened in the Tube. “I rolled aside and got to my
feet at the other end of the car, and pulled the emergency brake lever.
It knocked the alien unconscious for a small while, but I couldn’t
escape; the doors were locked. But I still had Tango’s gun, so I pulled
it out of my pocket and threatened the alien with it. Then… I told him
to tell me what I wanted to know – I asked who I was, but it hit me
with something hidden in his hand – I don’t know what it was, but I got
knocked entirely unconscious.”
Iota proceeded to tell Guillaume of waking up in the strange
alien laboratory, and speaking to the first one, dressed in the drab,
loose clothing. The Frenchman seemed surprised at what the alien had
said to Iota, but made no comment, simply widening his eyes and raising
his eyebrows. Iota continued on, telling of the other two aliens, and
his narrow escape from the building. He also gave Guillaume a detailed
description of the surrounding area; the narrow roads on each side
bordering the large, decrepit and windowless building, made of bricks
painted over with a dark green, the paint flaking and boiling in some
places on the building.
“You say they really built set up a head quarters right here, in
this city?”
“Yes.”
“Sacre bleu! This is fantastic news… come, come, we must get to
Xavier at once, he will be delighted.”
“Will he? I mean…” Iota paused uncomfortably, not finishing his
sentence, but Guillaume completed it for him.
“You come back but Tango does not? No. He will not hold that
against you, how can he? He will be elated to see that your are still
alive when we thought you were dead. You can believe me, oui?” With
that, he moved to the edge of the Southwark platform, beckoning Iota to
follow. “I can get us home from here,” He snapped his fingers, “like
that!” It will not be ten minutes. Then we can tell Xavier of your
discovery – oh, mon ami, you have no idea how happy he will be.”
The train arrived just moments later, rolling noisily in to the
station. The doors swung open, accompanied with “Mind the gap,” and
Iota and Guillaume stepped to the side to allow the departing
passengers to disembark. They pressed on as soon as people ceased
flowing out of the cars and found seats across from each other inside.
Neither spoke, however, until it was time to leave the car, as the
noise from the other passengers and the train itself, its open windows
whistling loudly with the speed of its passage as well as allowing the
rumble of the wheels on the tracks penetrate their way inside, was
simply too great. When the time did arrive for them to disembark,
Guillaume leaned over and shouted at Iota, “We get off here.” The black
haired man rose and swayed slightly as the train finished rolling to a
stop in the underground station, in front of the crowded platform. They
stepped out when the doors opened, once again attended with an
automated recording of, “Mind the gap.” The two men pressed out on to
the packed and odourous platform and shoved through the crowd that was
attempting to squeeze in to the train they had just left.
When they had reached a small and largely empty corridor that
connected two separate platforms, Iota stopped Guillaume and asked him,
“How far is it from here?”
“Oh, not far, not far at all. Just a few minutes away from where
we are. You are eager to get back?” Iota nodded quickly. “Well then, we
shall hurry!”
A brief passage along the rainy sidewalks of the city delivered
the two men, now slightly dripping from the drizzling streets outside,
back to the main room of the apartment, where the three other members
of the group confronted Iota with surprise and joy.
“You’re alive! How? How?” Saraha asked of the black haired man
excitedly.
“So, you survived the crash – and the attackers?” This was from
Xavier.
“It is good to see that you still live, Iota!” Exclaimed Hans.
Iota tried to respond to them all at once, made quite easy for
him as all the questions they asked were essentially the same. He gave
them a similar explanation to what he had told Guillaume, but going
into greater detail because of his larger audience. Afterwards, Xavier
pulled him aside to ask some more questions, often making him repeat
parts of the story that he had already told.
“So these men – these WarTek men – simply started chasing you?”
“Not quite… we saw the flashing blue lights from their welding
torches, so we went to investigate. Tango had thought it might be the
aliens, you see. We went to investigate and found them, so we watched
them for a little while. Then Tango decided to take a picture, and… the
flash was on, even though he said he had turned it off. They saw the
flash and realized we’d seen – and overheard – them, so they wanted to
kill us, I guess. I think they were involved in something rather
secret. One of the men mentioned things about killing civilians with
their cars.”
Xavier nodded. “Their cars? Do you know what type they were? You
didn’t tell us the make before.”
Iota thought quickly, trying to remember what Tango had called
them. “They were… Tango said they were Lamborghinis. LM002s. Big,
black, chunky. He said that they must have been modified.”
“Why did he say that?”
“The trucks went much faster than they should have.”
Xavier nodded again. “Okay. So, the chase – you said you managed
to shoot one of them?”
“Yes; Tango gave me his gun and I took a few shots when we were
on one of the bigger roads. It took a few tries, but I managed to hit
the radiator on one of them, and it must have overheated shortly
afterwards.”
“I’m quite impressed. Do you think that might have been a
residual skill from your past life, before you were reprogrammed?”
“I guess so… I hadn’t thought about that, but maybe that was why
I was able to hit it at all.”
Xavier continued his questioning about the chase. “So, after
that, what happened?”
Again, the black haired man struggled to recall the events; it
had been so brief and tumultuous that much of the action had blurred
into one hazy memory. After a short period of searching, however, he
remembered what he believed were the subsequent actions. “We managed to
escape them briefly by ducking into a side alley – or maybe we were
going out of one. I don’t know exactly, all I know is that they
couldn’t follow us because they were so large. We got away from that
short bit, until the other one – the one I hadn’t hit, because it was
farther back – the other one found us, somehow, on one of the larger
roads again, so Tango drove down a small, less crowded alley, but the
gunner managed to shoot him. He hit the car three times – you might
have seen it on TV? – and one bullet went right over his head. The next
one… the next…” Iota stalled for a moment, but began talking again
easily, “the next one went right through his head. It exploded. Got all
over me.”
The other man seemed shaken, his blue eyes wider than usual.
However, he continued his interrogation of the survivor. “So after
that, what did you do? You ran?”
“Yes, I ran. What else could I do, stay and die?”
“Easy, I wasn’t criticising you, Iota. Anybody would have run –
anybody should have run. Only a fool wouldn’t have fled. But, please,
continue.”
“Right. I ran. There was a little alley just a few metres away
that I managed to run to before the gunner in the truck could shoot me
as well.”
“Then what?” Xavier pressed.
“After a while it started raining, so I found a subway station
and bought a ticket for a couple of days, and went in. I got on one of
the trains coming by – into a car with only two people. One of them was
in a business suit. An alien.”
Xavier nodded; he had heard this just minutes before. “So, what
exactly happened? Be as detailed as possible, please.”
“Well, I sat down on one of the seats near the second door, and
feel asleep quite quickly. Then I had this dream – this really strange
dream…”
“About what?”
“Well, I was back in the Exige with Tango, just as he was getting
shot, except everything was happening in slow motion. He head exploded,
just like what really happened, but this time… this time, all the shads
came back together, but in the shape of an alien’s head. And it turned
and looked at me, then spat the bullet – the same one that had killed
Tango – right out at me, but I moved my head aside.”
“Then you woke up and saw the alien standing over you?” He
queried.
“Yes; and I had pulled my head aside in real life, too. The alien
had just shot something at me, and there was a hole in the seat. So I
rolled onto my feet and jumped back, away from it, but there was
nothing I could think of to stop it. It didn’t occur to me that I had a
gun. I guess I forgot about it. So, instead, I grabbed an emergency
stop lever beside me. The whole train stopped quite abruptly, and both
myself and the alien fell flat on the floor. I wasn’t hurt though, but
it seemed to have been knocked unconscious.”
“And then what?”
“That’s when I remembered I still had Tango’s gun. I pulled it
out and walked over to the alien, and threatened it. I told it to tell
me who I was, but it had something in its hand. All it did was touch me
with whatever it was holding and I blacked out. Then, when I woke up, I
was in their laboratory or whatever it was.”
Now Xavier nodded and spoke to Iota in hushed and enthusiastic
tones. “Now, think back. I need you to remember every single thing you
can – every last detail. You have no idea how vital this information
could be for us!” Iota nodded and replied that he would try his
absolute best, then began.
“When I woke up, I was in a fairly large room. The walls were all
a kind of grey, but it was a little glossy. Rather strange looking. The
floor was a shiny white, but the ceiling was the same colour as the
walls. And all the corners were curved; rounded off so that I couldn’t
see any right angles anywhere, at least not along the walls, floor, or
ceiling.
“From what I could see – and I didn’t get a very good look, I’m
afraid – there was a fair amount of equipment in there, but I don’t
know what any of it was for, nor how to describe it. Several
interesting things that could be…” He paused, not knowing the word he
wanted to use, thought it was on the tip of his tongue. Then the
information that had been programmed into his brain by the aliens leapt
to the forefront, providing him with the words he needed. “There were
several interesting things that could have been microscopes of some
sort.
“I myself was trapped in a large, white padded chair. There were
straps made of something – it looked like a metal, but it was very
strong and quite flexible – were around my wrists, but my feet were
still free. I couldn’t move much, though. Oh, and I was back in these
clothes instead of the ones I had been wearing before.
“Right. So, after a few hours there – they really took their time
– one of the aliens walked in and started talking to me. He – it – what
do we call them, anyways?”
Xavier replied slowly, “We don’t know. None of us have gotten a
sufficient look at them to determine any gender differences, so we
stick with ‘it’ as a pronoun for them.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t realy
matter. Perhaps we’ll work it out sometime, but for now, just continue
using ‘it’ as you have been already.”
Nodding, Iota continued recounting his tale. “The alien started
talking, and it said some things about what it should so with me. I
didn’t reply, which must have irritated it somewhat, because it
answered itself, in a way, and said that it thought I should have my
memory restored and then be released, but since its colleagues
disagreed, and I was being uncooperative, it said that it was going to
go with what its colleagues thought.
“It left for a while and then came back with two more aliens.
They were both dressed in the uniform that… Hans, I believe, described
to me – the pale blue clothing – and they said I was an ‘excellent
specimen’ – their own words. They were speaking in English, for my
benefit, I suppose. And they decided that I should be prepared for
transportation, so they released me.
“They didn’t seem to be expecting me to try to escape. Was it you
who told me that they seem to lack the kind of perception required to
see past little tricks and deceptions? Well, that certainly seemed to
be the case, although I tried to relax so they wouldn’t see me tense
and prepare to run. But I did; as soon as both my hands were free I
jumped out and swung my arms back – and hit one of them – then bolted
out the door in the corner and just started running down the halls.
“They were all stark white, and almost totally featureless
besides the doors to other rooms. I just dashed down them all, not
really hoping that I would escape – I thought that I was on their ship,
in space, so there wouldn’t have been any chance for me, although
fortunately, I was wrong. After enough running, they were almost
catching up to me, but I could see the door with sunlight shining
through, and I just made it in time.
“After that, when I got outside, I just ran. I went around the
corner of the building so they would have a harder time tracking me,
but I don’t think they followed. Didn’t want to get seen by anybody
else, I guess.”
Xavier nodded again, fascinated. “Could you find that building
again, if you had to?”
Iota answered cautiously. “I think that I might be able to,
provided that I get taken to the general area. I could recognize the
building again, I’m sure of it.”
“That is very good news. It is indeed a boon. We might be able to
get what we want, at long last! But tell me again, what happened next?”
“Well, I just started wandering. After a while – I did a lot of
walking, I guess, but I think I also got out of the alien’s building
quite late in the day. Anyways, after a while, when it was getting dark
and beginning to rain, and since I didn’t have my credit card anymore,
I found a park and went inside. I found a bush to sleep under, so I
stayed there for the whole night.
“Next morning, when I woke up, I left the park and started
wandering again, not knowing at all where I was going. It wasn’t very
long before I wound up where Tango had been killed, and I found that
the car – and the body – were still there. Since I didn’t have my
credit card, as the aliens took it and didn’t give me a new one, and I
thought that one might be useful, I decided to try and get Tango’s.
“It was pretty easy to get; there was only one rather unobservant
guard, so I managed to slip along behind the right side of the car and
reach in to grab his wallet. I have it right here, actually.” Digging
Tango’s wallet out of his pocket, Iota flipped it open to show the
deceased’s identification card, then handed it to Xavier, who folded it
carefully and placed it upon a table before turning back to Iota, who
resumed talking without prompting.
“Once I had gotten the wallet, I had the idea of going back to
the Lotus dealership and getting a car – there was one I saw there, a
Lotus Esprit, that I really liked. I tried wandering over there, but I
ended up just getting lost worse. But I found an Underground station,
so I bought a ticket with Tango’s card and went down – although I
managed to get lost on my way to the platform. I met a crazy guy who
said ‘Dorf!’ and seemed to know that I had friends in an apartment who
I was trying to find. He was just rambling, though; he gave me a map
that he said would lead me to you, but it wasn’t even a map of London.”
He laughed at this, and Xavier joined in with a chuckle as well. “I got
back to the station and decided to ride the train until I found a
station with a name that I liked, so I got off at Southwark. And that’s
where I found Guillaume, and made it back to here.”
Xavier rose. “An impressive tale, Iota. You have been very
fortunate, though I wish I could be saying the same to Tango right now
as well… alas, I cannot. I will miss him.” Sighing and meeting Iota’s
purple eyed gaze, he told the other man, “You’ve had a long couple of
days. Go lie down, get some real sleep. I’ll wake you in the morning.”
Iota replied that he would, and headed off to the room he shared
with Saraha. She wasn’t in, so he decided to strip off all of his
clothes, which had become quite dirty and somewhat uncomfortable from
sleeping under the bush the night previous, before climbing into bed.
He left them in a pile beside the single bed, next to where his old
trench coat also lay. Sliding under the soft covers, he fell asleep
within minutes.
Day = 6
Iota’s sleep went entirely with out dreams, which he was quite
thankful for, as, doubtlessly, they would have been terrified flash
backs to the few previous days; Tango dying, the aliens, his several
narrow escapes. Such dreams would not be conducive to the quality of
sleep he had hoped for, and received.
He was awakened by a rapping at the door; once, twice, three
times. This was followed by the sound of Xavier’s barely accented voice
calling out, “Wake up, Iota. The shower is free, if you wish, and there
are some clean clothes already in the bathroom.”
Iota rolled out of bed and slid on his dirty clothes from the day
before, then, standing up, headed to the doors and walked out, quickly
crossing the room, which was occupied by Xavier, Saraha, and Guillaume.
He ducked into the bathroom, twisting to shut the door behind him. His
shower took about ten minutes; for most of which he just stood there,
letting water cascade over his body. After stepping out cautiously, to
avoid slipping on the tiled floor, of which he was still mistrustful,
he toweled himself dry, rubbing at his hair in a futile attempt to get
it entirely dry. Dressing quickly in the black shirt and jeans that had
been provided – his own, from several days before, but now clean – he
opened the door in a small cloud of steam and stepped out into the main
room of the apartment, where his three companions were now eating
breakfast, which had been prepared by Guillaume. All of them seemed
rather downcast, and Guillaume was talking softly, apparently to
himself. “Ah, he is not even here to insult my food anymore… mon dieu,
that is something I never thought I could possibly miss!”
Despite their seeming despondency, they managed to cheer up
somewhat when Iota joined them, smiling and asking him how he slept.
“Very well, thank you. No dreams.
Xavier nodded. “Doubtless a good thing. Are you hungry?” Iota
nodded. “I’m not surprised; the last time you ate was probably
Guillaume’s omelette, am I right? Iota nodded his head again. “Well,
I’m afraid there’s no omelette this time, as you’re rather late for
that, but we have plenty of cereal in the cupboards that should do for
you.” He pointed out the one in which the cereal was kept, and informed
Iota that there was milk in the refrigerator. He found a box of grape
nuts on the grey laminate upper shelf of the cupboard and pulled it
out, searching around for a bowl in which to put it.
“Oh, there are bowls in the cupboard just to the left of it.
Bottom shelf, beside the plates.”
Thanking Saraha, Iota pulled out a large white ceramic bowl and
emptied half of the contents of the box into the big bowl, then
replaced the cereal box to where he had taken it from, after first
rolling the inner bag shut and closing the thin cardboard flap on the
top. Setting the bowl down near to the refrigerator, he pulled open the
heavy door and brought out a glass jar full of milk. He filled the bowl
up until the cereal within was floating, and nearly overflowing, then
replaced the jar back inside and, after pulling out a few drawers in an
attempt to find a spoon – finally grabbing one from the third drawer –
he ate through the entire bowl in a matter of minutes. When he was
finished, Xavier began outlining his plans for the next few days.
“Now that we have some concept of where they have their
headquarters – at least, where they have their headquarters here, in
London – I think we should begin to formulate some tactics for getting
in there and making them talk to us and tell us what we want to know.
“First, we need a vehicle. Since the old Citroen has probably
been stolen by now, and the Exige that Tango and Iota had purchased is
obviously gone to us, we will have to decide on one that we can make
use of. Any suggestions?”
Guillaume nodded. “It should be French. A… umm… non, perhaps not.
There is nothing both fast enough and large enough to suit our
purposes, I am afraid.”
“Anybody else? We need something that can fit at least three of
us – I don’t want to risk the entire group – and it needs to be
reasonably fast, as well as have enough cargo room for several
weapons.”
“Weapons?” Saraha asked.
“Yes; we need to have some method of forcing their hand, and guns
are the best way to do that. Big ones. But I will come to that later,
after we have made a decision about the vehicle we want.
The four of them pondered in silence for some time, each trying
to come to a conclusion on what type of automobile would serve their
purposes the best. After a while, Guillaume spoke up again, voicing his
opinion. “A Mercedes! There is one – not just a Mercedes, but an AMG –
that is much faster than we could need, and can still fit three. But,
oh, what is it called? A CL65. Ah, no, no, we will not be able to find
one; they are quite rare. But perhaps a CL600?”
Xavier nodded and said to Guillaume, “That sounds like a good
plan, but are there any others?”
“Well… we could get a BMW. No, wait – an Audi A8. That would be
an excellent car.” Saraha nodded to empashize her point.
Guillaume turned to Saraha, then looked back at Xavier. “I have
it! Better than a Mercedes or BMW or Audi. A Maserati Quattroporte. 400
horse power, plenty of torque – and, just as importantly, four doors.”
“I like this idea. Is it okay with everybody else?” When the
other three nodded their assent, he continued. “I cannot consult with
Hans, but doubtless he would share our opinion. It is settled, then;
let us go.”
The four left their apartment, all wearing black. Iota was the
only one not wearing a trench coat, as he had left his in the room that
he shared with Saraha, who was speaking to him. “You know, those
dealers are gonna think we’re all part of the mafia! They’ll either
give us the car on the spot or call the police.” Then she looked back
at Guillaume. “Oh, but who could ever think Guillaume a gangster,
right? No tough could be so smooth.”
Guillaume grinned and pretended to preen himself. “Ah, mercie,
mademoiselle, I must thank you for your gracious – and startlingly
correct – compliment. Allow me to kiss you hand.” He broke out
laughing, as did Saraha. Then, composing himself, he spoke to them in a
more serious tone. “But laugh as you will, these outfits – if they do
indeed make us look like members of the mafia – they will most
certainly be useful when we are purchasing weapons for our… what shall
I call it? Assault, I believe, is most accurate.”
Iota nodded. “That building wasn’t heavily defended, or even
defended at all, from what I could see, but we’ll still need some fire
power if we want to get in and make those aliens talk.” The other two
nodded, then hurried to catch up to Xavier, who was waiting at a closed
elevator door. It soon opened to allow access to the small elevator
within, and they crowded aboard. Xavier pressed the button for the
ground floor, and the elevator dropped, reaching the bottom quickly.
They stepped out and began waking, following Xavier who was consulting
a map of London that he had brought with him from the apartment.
“Okay, I know where we’re going, so follow me.”
They did, and within an hour they had arrived at the large glass
window of the Maserati dealership. Pausing outside the door for a
moment, Xavier then entered, striding through the entrance
nonchalantly, followed by Saraha, Guillaume, and Iota. A suited
salesman stepped up to greet them. “Hello, sirs – and madame – how may
I help you?”
Xavier spoke. “We wish to buy a Quattroporte. What do you have in
black?”
An hour later, after going through paperwork that Iota had not
seen Tango do when they had bought the Exige, the four were on the
road, sitting on the soft leather seats behind the growling engine of
the Maserati. Iota rested in the back seat beside Saraha, and Guillaume
was up front, next to Xavier on the right hand side, who was driving
the car. “Well, now we must acquire some weapons. Unfortunately, black
market arms dealers don’t take cheques, so we’ll have to stop at a bank
first.”
After a quick stop at a bank, they were back on the road, driving
to where Xavier said he knew there was an illegal arms ring operating.
“They can get us anything and everything we need. For a price, of
course, but we don’t have to worry about that.” He grinned, though Iota
and Saraha could not see. “Hell, with what we can get there, there can
be little doubt that the aliens will with hold an information.”
When they arrived at the operating center of the arms ring,
pulling up beside a stained grey concrete building in their black
Quattroporte, Saraha appeared uneasy. “Are you sure this is safe?”
“Not at all. But I imagine this is still a lot safer than where
we’ll be going next.” With that, Xavier pushed open the door and
stepped into the building. After a moment of hesitation, the other
three followed him in, scanning their surroundings nervously.
The room that they had entered was full of smoke, and was painted
entirely black. A large and scarred round wooden table lay in the
middle of the room, surrounded by chairs, three of which were occupied
by men dressed in leather jackets. All of their skulls were shaven
clean of hair, and they had surly, aggressive looks upon their narrow
features. The one in the middle spoke in a barely understandable
accent, “Yeah, what you want?”
Xavier walked to the table and leaned over it, facing the man who
had just spoken. “Guns.”
“Who says we got guns? We ain’t got no guns here, right lads?”
The other two laughed harshly and nodded. “We got no guns, so you’ll
fuck off if you know what’s good for you.”
Xavier shook his head implacably. “No. I know you have weapons,
and I want them. I’m not part of the police and I can pay in cash,
right now.”
“Eh? No… I need more than that, mate. Telling me you isn’t a cop
won’t do. Gimme proof.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I dunno… ah, fuck it, he look like a cop to you mates?” The
other two men shook their heads. “Good ‘nough for me, I guess. But you
try anything funny and I kill you, got it?”
Xavier nodded. “Fine. Show me the guns.”
They followed the three shaven headed men through several more
black painted rooms until they reached a heavy steel vault door with a
keypad on the front. The first man turned to the four following him and
pointed behind them. “Look that way until I say, or you die.” They all
turned around immediately to stare at the featureless black walls as
the arms dealer punched in a code onto the keypad. They heard the pad
beep an affirmation, and then the sound of the heavy door being swung
open. “Okay, come on in.”
The room inside was lined with heavy metal cabinets on all the
walls, as well as two rows running down the middle, back to back,
creating two separate aisles. “So, mates, what’re you after?”
“We need assault weapons.”
“Ah, big job, eh? Well,” He eyed the group, “I think I got what
you need.” He walked over to one of the upper cabinets and stuck a key,
taken from the pocket of his jeans, into the lock on the door. The
tumblers each clicked into place, and allowed the man to swing open the
door. “What kind of experience you got with guns, eh?”
Xavier replied slowly. “For me… a heavy assault rifle. Something
accurate.”
“Hey, we got that. Heavy, accurate, big as all fucking hell…” he
reached into the cupboard and carefully lifted out a long rifle that
was fully over a metre in length. It was sleek, and had a long barrel
covered in pieces of flat plastic siding, and a large, rifle style
stock. “This look like what you want? It’s plenty large and heavy,
deadly accurate, good firing rate – about six hundred rounds per minute
– and the bullets are standard North Atlantic Treaty Organization size.
7.62 millimetres, they are. Enough to drop most anyone in a shot or
two. Made by Heckler and Koch of Germany, of course. This’ll cost you…
oh, shall we say a thousand quid?”
Xavier nodded. “That’s a fair price. No questions asked, of
course?”
“No, no, ‘course not. I’ll just give this to Russ here, he’ll
take care of it until you’ve safely paid and left me premises. So
mate,” He turned to Iota, “what are you after?”
“Umm… maybe something smaller than that.” Iota felt out of his
element now, with these huge, bulky weapons, so unlike the sleek Glock
33 pistol that had seemed fit him so well.
“Smaller, eh? Got that too. Yeah, here we go.” Opening another
cupboard, he pulled out a shorter weapon. It was of a more chunky
design, and had a bipod folded along its sides, as well as a small
scope above the barrel. “FAMAS. G2 Picatinny rail, to be precise. It’s
lighter than the G3, shorter, fires faster, but is still accurate.
Within reason, of course. So what do you think, eh?”
Iota looked at the weapon uncertainly, but replied, “Looks good.”
“Alright then.” The man handed the gun to Russ, then turned to
Saraha. “And how about for the lady? Oh, no, I’ve got a great one for
you. Just hang on a minute… now, which cabinet is it in… this one!” He
unlocked the door and pulled out a strange looking gun. It had few of
the features normally found on sub machine guns; there was no
discernable handle or clip, only a molded plastic stock running from
the tip of the barrel to the flat butt, with two egg shaped holes in it
serving as handles. The barrel assembly ran for half of its 50
centimetre length, and had a large handle and sight assembly jutting
out off of the tip. “There here’s a P90. Good rate of fire, armour
piercing rounds, and it’s got fifty rounds to a clip. Look like what
you wan, eh?”
Saraha nodded. “Looks nice. I’ll take it.”
The man in the black leather jacket handed the gun to Russ, who
was now struggling to carry the three large guns. “Good good. And you,
mate?” He spoke to Guillaume.
Guillaume arched an eyebrow at Xavier, who shook his head.
“That’s all we need, thanks. How much for the lot?”
The other man nodded. “Well… that’ll cost you ‘bout three large.
Yeah. Three thousand quid, that’s about right. Good?”
“Good.” Xavier reached into one of the deep pockets of his trench
coat, and removed a wad of large bills. He counted several of them out
and handed them to the shaven headed man, who rifled through them
carefully, pausing twice to hold some up to the bright fluorescent
lights.
“No, no, mate. What do you think I am, stupid? This ‘ere ain’t
real. And trust me, I know my counterfeits. I want all real money or
you’re getting nothing more than some bullets – in the head.” He threw
the fake bill – a one hundred pound denomination – on the floor in
front of Xavier feet and stared menacingly. However, Xavier calmly
pulled another hundred pound bill from his pocket and gave it to the
other man, who carefully inspected it. “Right, then, this stuff’s good.
But I expect you’ll be needing some ammo for these as well, eh, mate?”
Iota nodded. “Yes, indeed we will.”
“Right. Another thousand quid and I can give you about a thousand
rounds for the P90, seven hundred fifty for the FAMAS, and another
seven fifty for the G3. It’s a good deal.”
Digging out another thousand pounds from his pocket, Xavier
handed the money to the man in front of him and said, “Fine. We’ll take
the guns and ammunition and go.”
“Okay. Fulk, get the ammo, and Russ, take the guns to the door.”
He turned and looked Xavier in the eyes. “Pleasure doing business with
you. Hope you enjoy your new weapons.”
With that, the small group turned and walked out of the vault,
hearing their unnamed host shut it securely behind him. A quick walk
through the black covered rooms of the building brought them to the
entrance, where, on the table, were three duffle bags loaded with
ammunition for each of the three guns. By the door, Russ was standing
with the three weapons, each concealed in several garbage bags. After
they picked up the bags full of magazines, Russ handed them the guns
and told them to be sure not to be seen with them anywhere near the
building. “Get ‘em in your car and get out of here, got it?” The
replied that they did, and stepped out of the smoke filled room onto
the damp street outside, under a drizzling grey sky.
“Let’s get these into the trunk.” Xavier pressed a button on the
key fob for the Maserati, and the smooth trunk opened silently,
revealed in a carpet interior. The three quickly deposited their
garbage bag wrapped burdens within the trunk as Guillaume stepped
around the car and, using they key had had borrowed from Xavier, opened
the driver’s side door and got in, sitting down upon the soft leather
seat in front of the three spoked black steering wheel. Once everybody
was safely inside the plushly upholstered vehicle, he put the key into
the ignition and turned it, bring the throaty eight cylinder engine to
life.
“Where are we going next?” He called back, his hands resting upon
the steering wheel.
Xavier replied from beside him, “Head to the industrial park –
the one near Hyde. That should be the one in which Iota says the aliens
are head quartered.”
“Oui! And off we go!” Guillaume floored the accelerator, the
large engine roaring as the tires behind it squealed as they quested
for traction on the rough pavement. “So, which direction would that be
in?”
“Back that way.” Xavier pointed in the direction they had arrived
at the arms dealer from. Guillaume stepped on the brakes and then
brought the car around, doing a ‘U’ turn in the street. He floored the
accelerator again, amid similar roars and squeals from opposing ends of
the vehicle.
“Very well, we shall be there in minutes!”
“Not if we get stopped by the cops, you moron, so slow down!”
Saraha yelled at Guillaume from behind him. The Frenchman lowered his
speed accordingly, but made no reply.
However, true to Guillaume’s word, they soon arrived in the
vicinity of the industrial section that was several kilometers away
from Hyde Park. He slowed his pace well down, bringing the big engine
down to revolutions that barely registered on the tachometer, and
cruised leisurely through the big, worn buildings that lay separated
from one another by dusty and deserted access roads. Xavier spoke to
Iota, who was sitting behind him. “Do you recognize any of these
buildings?”
“No… it wasn’t in this part, I don’t think. Look for a very large
one painted dark green.”
They drove around the empty roads for nearly half an hour before
Saraha, staring fixedly out the side passenger window, gave a cry.
“There!”
Guillaume turned the vehicle abruptly, pointing the curving nose
towards a big green building on the right hand side of the road. “Is
that the one? Have we found the aliens?”
Iota squinted at the building, and hesitated before replying to
the Frenchman’s query. “I can’t tell from here, sorry. If you can get
closer, I might be able to recognize it, but I’m too far away right
now.”
Guillaume nodded and edged the car forwards, traveling slowly
towards the building. Iota peered through the window on Saraha’s side
as they passed, trying to get a clear view of the warehouse. He
recognized it; it was indeed the building in which the aliens had
attempted to hold him captive. The door bearing the tiny glass window,
the corner he had dashed around, the trash bags along the side – this
was the alien’s headquarters. “Yes! This is it!”
Saraha let out a small cry of delight, then asked Xavier, “What
do we do now? Let’s go in!”
“No. We cannot do that; we have no strategies formulated, and I
must discuss this plan of action with Hans. It may not be safe to
assault the building, even if Iota did not see any heavy defenses. Who
knows what they may have concealed?” Iota agreed, although he had his
doubts. If there were other defenses hidden along the corridors, would
not the aliens have used them against him in his frantic escape from
their compound? They must have known that, if he broke free, he would
report his knowledge of their whereabouts to his companions, as he had
done, and possibly return, as they planned to do. If they had possessed
any other means of stopping him from leaving, doubtless it would have
been used, and Iota would be either dead or being transported to their
vessel in space. He saw it as very unlikely that there would be
anything but the aliens themselves to worry about, although he decided
not to say so. Xavier was right regardless; they had to be careful with
this undertaking. Even the most remote unlikelihoods could be deadly if
not properly prepared for, and Iota did not want to take any such
risks; thus he remained silent.
Guillaume had seemed about to protest when Xavier advised against
any action, but he stopped himself, no doubt coming to the same
realizations that Iota had. Saraha, however, did object, and
vociferously. “Why the hell not? If we get in there right now, we can
probably get all the information we need now, not later, not tomorrow
or the day after or next week. They’re probably getting ready to leave
as we’re sitting here wasting time!”
“No, Saraha. I’m not taking any unnecessary risks. We’re going to
go back to the apartment and set up some plans, and then we will come
back.”
“But-”
“No.” Xavier ignored the angry, almost petulant look on her face
and turned to Guillaume. “Let’s go home. Hans should be back by now.”
Guillaume nodded and swung the car around in a tight ‘U’ turn, then
accelerated slowly out of the area, trying to avoid any undue noise
that could attract the attention of the aliens within the large dark
green building and possibly alert them to their assault plans. He sped
up to a swifter pace once he had arrived on the more crowded roads,
although he was forced to slacken his pace considerably along several
parts of the journey back to the apartment when he was caught behind
slower moving vehicles, or paused at occasional traffic lights. The one
time he tried to keep more than a brisk pace through the masses of cars
almost resulted in the sleek nose of the Maserati Quattroporte becoming
buried into the tall, glass sheeted and multi coloured rear end of a
Fiat Simba. Not wanting to risk any accidents in the expensive car he
was navigating, Guillaume slowed the vehicle back down to the speed of
the rest of the traffic around him.
It took almost an hour to arrive at their apartment again, where
the Frenchman took the car rapidly down the spiraling underground
parking garage to their own parking space. Pulling carefully into their
spot, he shut off the growling engine and handed Xavier the keys.
“There you are. It is a magnificent car, is it not?”
“Indeed it is. Much better than the previous.”
“Oui, there can be no mistaking that… but the Citroen was
French…”
Xavier shook his head, a fait smile playing across his lips at
the Frenchman’s ethnocentricity. “But the French don’t make cars like
this, do they?”
“Non…” replied Guillaume dispiritedly, as he opened the driver’s
side door stepped out of the tan upholstered interior into the dimly
illuminated parking garage, glancing quickly upwards at the low
concrete ceiling with its network of pipes that ran across the top over
some areas, creating painful hazards for taller pedestrians. The other
three followed, Iota ducking under a long main of dirty pipes that hung
perilously near to his head. He moved safely out of the way of the
conduits and breathed deeply, inhaling the musty, damp air of the car
park, mingled with the oily stench of trapped exhaust fumes from the
parked vehicles. Another large car – an older Mercedes – crept by them,
steering slowly around the corner with its headlights on to avoid
running headlong into any oncoming vehicles. It soon was out of sight
around the corner, the noisy diesel engine still audible from behind
the concrete walls of the garage, fading as the vehicle spiraled
upwards towards the surface. Iota turned towards his companions, who
were walking away from the locked Maserati towards an elevator that
would take them up past the levels of sub surface parking to the sixth
floor height of their apartment, where Hans was most likely waiting for
them. He followed quickly, anxious to avoid being left behind.
He caught up to them just as the doors of the garage elevator
were sliding open, accompanied with the electric noise of the servo
motors drawing the heavy metal doors apart. There was just enough room
for them to all fit inside, and Iota squeezed in last. Being closest to
the array of buttons, he reached out and pressed the circular knob for
the sixth floor. It lit up dully to indicate that the floor had indeed
been selected, moments before the elevator car was pulled smoothly
upwards to their chosen destination, the acceleration pressing the four
occupants lightly against the floor.
The sensation soon passed as the car slowed to a halt just before
the sixth floor, allowing itself to be drawn upwards slightly more than
required before settling back down to align itself with the floor. The
shiny metal doors slid open again, revealing the long carpeted hallway,
white walls occasionally marked with cheap framed pictures or
photographs. They stepped quickly over to their apartment – room number
606 – due to the proximity of their door to the elevator’s, and waited
as Xavier swiped a magnetically coded car through the lock assembly and
opened the door. Beyond the short hallway inside could be seen Hans,
sitting in front of the small television that faced the large window
and stubby balcony of the apartment. He looked behind him as the door
creaked quietly on its hinges, and rose to greet the four arrivals as
they filed inside the room. “You’re back.”
Xavier nodded. “We are. And I – we – have some things that we
must discuss.”
“Oh? And what are those?”
“Assault plans.”
Upon hearing this, Hans sat down abruptly onto one of the couches
in the room and motioned for the others to be seated as well. He
listened intently as Xavier began outlining his plan, ignoring the
sullen stare of Saraha.
“Since Iota’s encounter with the aliens a day ago, we have had
enough information to lead us to their London headquarters. This is a
most excellent opportunity to finally make contact with the aliens and
force them, if need be, to tell us what all of us here want to know.
“We have purchased a new car - a Maserati Quattroporte – that is
both fast – more than fast – enough to suit our purposes and large
enough to carry at least three of us. I have also acquired weapons for
myself, Saraha, and Iota, with which to effect an assault upon the
alien compound.
“You’ve probably guessed what I’m getting at by now. I want the
three of us to break in the alien’s building and force their hand.
We’ve done some preliminary reconnaissance around the area, to ensure
that we have the right building, although we don’t know if there are
any defenses concealed either on the perimeter of the building, or,
more importantly, on the inside.”
Now Iota felt that he had to speak up and share his own thoughts
on the likelihood of there being other defenses inside the alien’s
compound.
“I think that’s pretty unlikely. I saw nothing that could be
taken as defenses or weapons while I was in there, even as I was
escaping. It would stand to reason that, if they had anything else at
their disposal besides themselves and whatever weapons they were
carrying – although they didn’t seem to have anything of the sort –
they would have used it to stop me from getting away. I think it’s safe
for us to go in there, personally.”
Iota received an appraising look from Hans, and he spoke up.
“You’re probably right, Iota, but we still can’t take any chances with
something like this. If you do go in, always assume that there is more
than meets the eye; otherwise you are running a very grave risk.” Iota
nodded, but held on to his opinion silently. Saraha remained stonily
silent but shot a withering glance towards Hans, who completely ignored
her gaze.
Xavier, looking between Iota and Hans, waited until he was
satisfied that they were finished their brief conversation before
continuing. “I think that we should make the assault tomorrow, after we
have had time to rest up and prepare ourselves.”
“Agreed. But tell me, what weapons do you have?”
“A Heckler and Koch G3 assault rifle for myself, a FAMAS G2
Picatinny Rail assault rifle for Iota, and a P90 sub machine gun for
Saraha, as well as seven hundred and fifty rounds of ammunition each
for both the G3 and the FAMAS, and one thousand rounds for the P90. I
think it should be more than enough unless the aliens have a very
comprehensive defense force, which, as Iota noted, is quite unlikely.”
“You should never under estimate them; you should know that. But
you’re right, that does sound like enough to handle most degrees of
defenses.”
The other man nodded and then stood up, arching his back and
stretching. “Well, now that we have that settled – more or less, we can
discuss it some more later – I’m hungry, and doubtless everyone else is
too, so let’s eat!”
The other three agreed eagerly, Saraha breaking her frosty look,
and quickly decided where they wanted to eat. Guillaume suggested a
French restaurant that was only a few blocks away, but this was
unanimously and immediately turned down by everyone else, Iota
excepted, as he had never been there. However, they soon managed to
decided on a nearby pub, and pushed through the apartment door
impatiently, Hans locking it behind them.
Crowding into the even more tightly packed elevator – thankfully
empty of other passengers – the group of five descended to the ground
floor rather than the elevator, choosing to walk the short distance
instead of driving. They strode through the mostly empty lobby on to
the busy street, pressing through clumps of people on their path to the
pub. They reached their destination shortly, even with the impediment
of the crowds surrounding them on the wide sidewalk. The tavern bore a
curved sign upon the corner, denoting it to be ‘The Whatamawho.’ The
building itself was tall and of a very square design, with several
large windows arrayed in two rows upon each of the two floors.
Guillaume pushed open the door and walked into the restaurant, which
was relatively empty, as it was still quite early for most bar
dwellers; the clock had barely struck 4:00. Mindless of this, the group
of five walked inside and found themselves a large circular table, made
of a dark, reddish wood that had been well varnished. A number of
scratches and a single deep scar that had been varnished over made ruts
in the otherwise smooth surface.
Since the restaurant was by and large bereft of patrons for the
moment, a waitress came over soon and gave them all laminated paper
menus, on which an assortment of meals and their prices were listed.
She also took their drink orders; a Guinness for both Xavier and
Guillaume, an orange Fanta for Guillaume, and Coca Colas for Iota and
Saraha. Their server left to bring them their drinks as the group
mulled over the menus they had been given, evaluating the choices.
However, this did not take long for Xavier, Hans, Saraha, or even
Guillaume, as they had already been to this pub several times before.
Iota, on the other hand, had not and knew nothing of what any of the
various multitudes of meal choices tasted like. Knowing this, Saraha,
sitting to his left, leaned over a pointed out some of her personal
favourites to him. “The shepherd’s pie is really good – or, no, better
still, go for the ploughman’s lunch. It’s not lunch anymore, but
they’re probably still serving it. Probably your best option.”
Iota never had a chance to give the waitress his order, nor did
any of the others, for just moments after Saraha had made her
recommendation, a group of men – about five or six, Iota estimated,
although it was difficult to tell, as they were bunched together and a
few other people were obstructing his line of sight. He could see,
however, as they all pulled out weapons – vicious looking pistols – and
one in the lead, with a tall green tinged Mohawk and piercings through
his eyebrows, nose, and lips, shouted, “Alright, nobody fucking move!”
The handful of customers within the bar froze, silent and
motionless. Everybody stared warily at the six men bearing pistols. The
four men who had entered through the door last fanned out in pairs to
either end of the dining room, standing back to back in the middle in
an effort to keep observant and often pierced eyes on the customers.
Their green haired leader, wearing a beaten black leather jacket, spoke
again, shouting out his words to the stunned room. “I’m looking for a
fucking Bogdan Ohydzak. Anyone seem ‘im?” The speaker finished his
sentence with a sardonic twist to his mouth, and spat on the floor
contemptuously when nobody answered. “I know he’s fucking in here, you
cunts, now tell me where the fuck he is or I start shooting!” Still
nobody replied, and the man, his features now beginning to distort from
rage, raised his fearsome looking weapon and pulled the trigger. A huge
chunk of plaster burst from the ceiling and crumbled onto the floor a
few feet in front of the man who had shot the gun. A long gleaming
brass shell lay at his feet, having been ejected from the large
magazine of the gun. A crazed look crept into his eyes, and he leveled
the gun at one of the frightened waitresses. “Tell me,” he growled,
“where the fuck Bogdan Ohydzak is.” She shook her head mutely, eyes
wide with terror.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the man pulled the trigger. A loud
bang erupted from the wicked looking barrel of the gun, and the
waitress dropped to the floor limply as an explosion of blood burst
from the center of her chest, a small hole running straight through her
torso. The narrow bullet continued on behind the woman, striking a
large mirror mounted on the wall she had stood in front of, immediately
causing it to shatter into a thousand sharp, glinting shards that fell
upon the floor and the dead girl’s body. Several other waitresses
around her screamed as she fell, and backed away from the gun man. He
laughed at their fear and yelled, “Get me Bogdan Ohydzak, or more of
you start dying!” He shot the gun again, narrowly missing the
proprietor, who was reaching for a telephone beside the bar counter.
“Oh no you fucking well don’t, you cunt. You wanna die too?” The owner
shook his head and replied softly, “He’s upstairs.”
“I am right here. Who are you?” A burly looking man dressed in a
long leather trench coat over a fancy dress shirt and pants walked down
to the bottom of the staircase, flanked by three other men dressed in
rougher vestments. “And what the hell do you want?”
The other man grinned and took a few steps towards Ohydzak. “Oh,
wouldn’t you just want to know?” He raised his large pistol, the chrome
grip on the barrel gleaming in the low light of the pub. “But you ain’t
gonna get to find out.” He tightened his finger on the trigger, aiming
the gun squarely at the other man’s head as he did so.
But Bogdan Ohydzak was fast, much more so than his seemingly
portly appearance would suggest. He dodged swiftly to the side as the
pistol roared and struck the stairs, dislodging several large splinters
of wood and punching a hole straight through the staircase. The man
with the tall green hued grunted and brought his pistol – from his
vantage, Iota could see some writing upon it that looked vaguely like
‘WarTek,’ followed by ‘Destroyer’ underneath – to bear upon the quick
moving gangster, who had reached into the depths of his trench coat and
pulled out a sub machine gun of moderate size. It was a shiny black,
and consisted of a barrel the protruded along the length of the stock,
which was tall and had a small handle mounted upon the back behind the
long and curving magazine, which was itself fronted by a large loop for
the fingers of its user. Ohdyzak was holding it with just one large,
hairy fist wrapper around the short handle, and had it aimed directly
at the other man’s chest. He was crouched and looked tensed to move at
the smallest sign. Iota could hear the first gangster mutter “Fuck,”
under his breath as the three men who had remained on the staircase
brought similar weapons out from concealment in their clothing and
directed the barrels towards the man in the beaten leather jacket.
He backed up. “Fuck.” Taking a few steps more, he glanced swiftly
from side to side and shouted, “Boys, get over here!” They came rapidly
from where they had been covering the patrons with the thick muzzles of
their Destroyers, before any of the men from the other gang could move
their weapons to threaten them. “Yeah, ‘ow do you like this, Ohdyzak?
Out numbered, out gunned – looks like you might as well let me kill you
right fucking now.”
“What the hell are you doing this for? Wait… I recognize you.
Randall Badger. And those are WarTek guns I see. You’re working for
them, aren’t you?”
“Well, fuck me, he’s a smart cunt. Yeah, you’re right, Ohdyzak.
WarTek wants you out of the way – they’re the fuckers in charge of
organized crime now, or they wanna be, at least. So they give me these
nice shiny guns and I get to kill you – damn, this is gonna feel good.”
Randall raised the pistol again, but Ohdyzak waved his own weapon – a
Croatian Agram 2000 sub machine gun – at him and gestured with his free
hand to the men on the stairs, two of whom were now trying to cover
other targets: the men that Randall had brought with him.
“You put a finger on that trigger and my men will blow you away
before you can twitch.”
“Oh, we’ll see about that, you bastard!” With that, Randall threw
himself to the side, hitting the floor and rolling on his shoulder,
firing off three explosive blasts towards Bogdan Ohdyzak, who had
executed a similar, though less acrobatic move. He had jumped rearwards
onto his back and slid along the worn wooden floor for several metres,
firing off several short bursts towards his adversary.
Upon seeing their leaders begin firing, their vanguards also
started shooting at each other, one of Randall’s gangsters being taken
down almost immediately under a spray of nine millimetre bullets that
ripped into his head, causing small pieces of his skull to shatter and
fly off. The rapid fire hail of small bullets from the Polish gangsters
contrasted with the slower, more powerful blasts from the heavy WarTek
Destroyer pistols that the mercenaries were using, both groups blasting
away. Another of Randall’ gangsters fell, but only with a minor wound
to his shin; he remained stoically firing at his enemies while trying
to drag himself to a safer location, striking one of them right between
the eyes, causing the top part of his skull to fracture and collapse as
the man dropped heavily to the stairs and rolled down. With this, both
sides retreated to restrategize and reload, the gangsters that had come
with Randall flipping over a heavy wooden table near where Iota and his
companions sat and ducking behind it as their enemies backed up along
the stairs to the upper floor.
In the opposite of the pub from where they sat, observing the
deadly action around them, Randall Badger and Bogdan Ohdyzak were still
fighting, both men crouched behind upturned tables. Bogdan was behind a
circular table, whereas Randall was hidden behind a thick,
rectangularly shaped one, which was entirely immobile, unlike the table
which Ohdyzak was now rolling around in a circle towards where Randall
was using for protection. However, the younger gangster was fast and
smart, despite his drug slowed thought processes. He leapt high into
the air as he heard the table roll near him, and managed to land behind
his target, who whipped a startled face around and narrowly slid out of
the way of the slim bullet that rocketed towards his skull. He brought
his own weapon to bear upon Randall, squeezing the trigger and spraying
bullets that missed their target entirely, flying across the room to
smash into the window beside where Iota sat. This prompted all five of
them to duck underneath the table like most of the other patrons had;
some still afraid that they would be shot down if they attempted to
leave the firefight.
The group of gangsters concealed behind the table were cautiously
poking their heads out, with the exception of the wounded one with a
pained look upon his face as he inspected his damaged shin, to see
where their foes had gone, as there had been no activity since they had
retreated behind the heavy table. Two of them left the shelter of the
table and crept towards the stairwell, while the third, mobile, one
slid stealthily around it, trying to get closer to where the two
mobsters were still fighting, both unaware of his encroaching presence.
Iota watched from his cramped vantage point beneath the table as the
man skulked nearer to the pair of combatants, who had now essentially
switched positions, with Randall Badger hiding behind a table in the
corner of the room and his adversary left vulnerable from behind, which
was where Randall’s henchman was now sneaking up. He reached Bogdan
Ohydzak easily, completely unnoticed by the Polish gangster, who was
intent upon his battle with the British punk cum gangster. Raising his
gun, the man put it against the back of Ohdyzak’s head and pulled the
trigger, ripping away part of the other man’s heavy neck as the bullet
tore through his spine and out his throat, bringing a wash of blood
spraying from severed arteries. With this task accomplished, the
gangster raised a hand as Randall nodded in acknowledgement of his
crony’s help, then sped off to the front of the stairs, which his
fellow thugs were advancing slowly and carefully up, towards where the
remained two Poles were hidden.
As the leading man reached the top, a short girl with Asian
features and black hair extending past her shoulders darting out,
holding, inexplicably, a small plastic bottle with what looked to Iota
like the letters H20 on it, the ‘2’ being in subscript form, below the
‘H’ and ‘O.’ She pointed it directly at the wide open eyes startled
gangster closest to her and squeezed it quickly, causing a thin stream
of water to spew from the bent nozzle, right into the man’s eyes. He
yelled in surprise and shut his eyes against the unexpected liquid,
trying to level his gun at the girl. However, she had dashed away,
laughing with a disturbingly evil sounding tone, and one of the hidden
gangsters abruptly appeared over the edge of an upturned table, and
with several short bursts of fire, struck down the temporarily blinded
man, putting at least six bullets into his unprotected chest and two
along his jaw, shattering it and turning his face into an unearthly
hideous visage, the bloody ruins of his mouth dangling below the rest
of his still intact face. His allies paused for a moment upon seeing
this, hesitating to travel upwards even though the shooter had ducked
back behind the heavy table. But after just a moment’s delay, they
charged up with considerable vigour, pistols held ready to fire, their
fingers just millimeters away from applying firing pressure upon the
triggers.
They never had a chance to get any farther. The instant they
cleared the top of the stairs, the second of the now deceased Bogdan
Ohdyzak’s cronies, positioned against the low wall that surrounded the
portion of the upper level that was otherwise open above the ground
floor, hidden from view from the attackers. As soon as they came within
the scope of his vision, he opened fire, catching the two gangsters in
the side with a hail of nine millimeter bullets that thumped loudly
into the kidney’s of their targets. The gun man emptied an entire clip
of thirty two bullets into the two, leaving both lying gravely wounded
on the floor, blood pouring viscously from their mortal wounds. Seeing
that his enemies were still alive, albeit just clinging to it, the
first gangster who had hidden behind the table stepped up and walked
around it, delivering a short burst of three bullets into the head of
each fallen foe, punching vicious holes and cracking the thin facial
bones.
Victorious, the pair stood up and congratulated each other
briefly and descended a few steps, peering with great caution over the
low solid barrier that served as a banister for the stairs. No sign of
the remaining wounded man was visible from their viewpoint, but from
under the table, Iota could see him lying hidden on the ground, face
slightly contorted from the pain of the bullets that had hit his shin.
However, he had his weapon loaded and cocked, and seemed fully ready to
use it when his stalkers came within his range. They soon did, but over
the table instead of around, giving the injured man no warning as one
stuck his Agram 2000 directly above his enemy’s head and shot
downwards, putting a hole right through the dome of the man’s skull,
killing him instantly.
As he did so, his partner, who was standing beside him and
watching, let out a strangled scream and dropped to the ground, alive
but paralyzed from the bullets that had slammed hard into the small of
his back. A look of agony and fear showed onto his face as he tried to
prop himself up against the table, unaided by his now useless legs. His
cohort ignored this, and spun to see who the shooter was – Randall
Badger, a look of utter hate contorting his pierced features. “Fucking
die, you cunt!” He depressed the trigger of the semi automatic WarTek
Destroyer pistol, sending out three bullets towards the Polish gangster
in rapid succession, the first two striking into him high on his chest.
He began to drop with a gurgled cry, but even that was cut off as the
final bullet slammed into his temple at a very shallow angle, driving a
deep furrow alongside his head, just beneath the skin, before breaking
out the other side. A spurt of blood from the ateries that lad to the
brain sprayed out of his skull before his heart stopped beating as he
lay, lifeless, on the floor. Randall walked stiffly over to the
remaining man, who still lay motionless but alive on the floor. Without
a split second of hesitation, he lifted his gun and fired, driving a
narrow hole through the downed man’s head. Twisting his lips, Randall
muttered, “Fucking whore. Have a nice fucking time in hell.” With that,
he walked out of the gunshot pub, leaving terrified customers and
employees shaken and quivering with fear as they all crawled out of
their respective hiding places, surveying the death and destruction.
A total of nine men had died in the shootout, each from vicious
and bloody gunshot wounds to vital areas. The walls, windows, and
furniture bore several holes from bullets that had either missed their
targets or penetrated straight through the bodies. By the phone, the
proprietor of the establishment was finally dialing the police,
explaining the horrific events in shaken tones and broken sentences.
However, Iota and his companions ignored him, crawling quickly from
beneath their table and dashing out the door, all five anxious to get
as far away from the scene as possible. As Xavier explained as they ran
down the street back to the apartment, if they were to be questioned by
the police, the results would most certainly be disastrous. “They would
ask us who we were – a question that not one of us could properly
answer, obviously – and want information, backgrounds, identification.
We have none of that, at least nothing sufficient for he police, and
we’d all end up in jail.”
By the time he had finished this hurried explanation, interrupted
frequently by puffs or pauses as he dodged around some clump of people
on the crowded sidewalks, the group had arrived at the door of their
apartment, and pushed in hastily, all vying to get through the door
first. Hans got in the building initially, followed by Guillaume,
Xavier, Saraha, and Iota. They jogged to the elevators, and waited
impatiently as Guillaume pressed the button to call one of the lifts.
It arrived within a minute and they crowded on, this time with Saraha
punching the button for the sixth floor. None spoke during the crawl
upwards, each restlessly glancing about at each other as the life
slowed to align itself with their floor. Filing off quickly the instant
that the doors opened, Hans led the way to the door of their apartment,
digging in his pocket for the card to released the lock. Upon finding
it, he quickly swiped it through and turned the knob, swinging the door
open and stepping inside the vacant room, followed by the rest. As he
walked through, Guillaume remarked, “I think we should order pizza.”
Saraha laughed and nodded her agreement.
“Good idea.”
The two managed to persuade Xavier to convince Hans – Saraha knew
that a direct appeal to Hans would be doomed from the outset,
regardless of the logic of her request – to order pizza from a nearby
Pizza Hut location, one of the few that actually delivered. Hans gave
in quickly, however, as he was quite hungry himself, and called the
store up, ordering several large pepperoni pizzas, which arrived at the
door, carried by a lethargic delivery boy, within half an hour. Iota
answered the door and paid with some of the cash that Xavier had left
over from his black market purchases of the guns earlier in the day,
and brought the four big boxes inside, his mouth salivating as the
smell of the greasy pizzas wafted upwards to his nose.
The five dug in eagerly, Iota more so than any other. Within five
minutes he had manage to eat a full four slices, and was still clearly
very hungry.
“Slow down, kid, you’ll make yourself sick!” Saraha spoke around
a mouthful of greasy cheese and pizza sauce, still a bit from her first
slice. “It’s not that good – but god, I guess you must be hungry, huh?”
Iota nodded sharply, not wanting to pause in his devouring or
talk around the large mouthful he had.
Swallowing what she had in her mouth, Saraha laughed and said,
“Can’t blame you, really, can I? You’ve eaten – what – a whole two
meals so far? I can’t believe you didn’t complain about it. You’re
pretty tough.” She nodded approvingly and went back to eating, lifting
a second slice from one of the several open boxes.
It took them less than half an hour to eat their fill of the
grease soaked pizza
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