A Dangerous Weapon: Insinuation

A DANGEROUS WEAPON

INSINUATION

Copyright © 2015 Charlton Clayes.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-8185-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-8186-9 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 12/18/2015

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter One Mission Report

Chapter Two Counter-Espionage

Chapter Three Into The Lion’s Den

Chapter Four A Serious Investigation

Chapter Five First Strike

Chapter Six The Search For The Eel

Chapter Seven Mind-Traveling

Chapter Eight An Electrifying Experience

Chapter Nine A War Council

Chapter Ten Gestalt Redux

Chapter Eleven Ufo’s

Chapter Twelve Progress Report

Chapter Thirteen A Close Encounter

Chapter Fourteen Spies

Chapter Fifteen Secrets

Chapter Sixteen Alien Technology

Chapter Seventeen A Rude Awakening

Chapter Eighteen Pdf

Chapter Nineteen The Swarm In Combat Mode

Chapter Twenty The Third Battle

Chapter Twenty-One The Swarm Out-Maneuvered

Chapter Twenty-Two Captured!

Chapter Twenty-Three Rescued!

Chapter Twenty-Four Breathing Space

Chapter Twenty-Five The Pdf Triumphant

Epilogue

One thought fills immensity.

William Blake, Proverbs of Hell,

The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (1790)

PROLOGUE

A SUDDEN GUST of wind whips across the platform, scattering debris before it. It dies away quickly, but not before it chills the lone person there.

The young woman paces nervously down to the far end of the platform, turns, and trudges back toward the other end. The heat is stifling, and the brief breeze is only a temporary respite. It is late evening, but the temperature is still in the high eighties; the day had been yet another scorcher in a seemingly unending series. She desperately fans herself with a religious flyer she had found on the seat of the train which had brought her to the City; if not for the miniscule movement of air the makeshift fan produces, she would have thrown away the flyer as soon as she had realized what it was.

She is pretty but not excessively so. She wears her jet-black hair loosely around her shoulders, and one lock threatens to hide part of her face. She has a pallid complexion, a result of spending too much time indoors. Her face is full and fleshy, and it is punctuated by a pug nose which tends to make her appear as if she is perpetually leaning backwards. She is of medium height and neither lean nor chubby.

She reaches the other end of the platform, halts, and peers off into the distance toward where the railroad tracks disappear from view. The train which had brought her here to this strange city is long gone now, and she wishes she had stayed on it and returned to St. Louis, which is home to her. She wishes she had not gotten on the train in the first place and left all the familiar sights behind.

Then she remembers just why she is here and why St. Louis had become a dangerous place for her. The organization which had given her succor and counseled her had recommended that she come to this place. They had even bought her ticket (one-way, of course) and insisted that their sister organization in the City would help her out of her dilemma, if anyone could.

Her dilemma.

She tries not to think of her dilemma. It is too painful to think about. She pushes the pain to the back of her mind and focuses on her surroundings. The train depot is unlike any she has ever seen. In the first place, it is round, not rectangular, and it has a conical roof. In the second place, it is constructed of rough-hewn yellow stone, not brick or wood or concrete or steel. And, in the third place, it looks…old as if it had always been there since this city was founded; but that is surely an illusion – whether deliberate or accidental, she cannot say.

Certainly, it is not old on the inside. When the train deposited her here, she had attempted to gain entrance, but the doors had been locked for the night. Some of the interior lights had been left on – for security purposes, she supposed – and so she had gotten a brief glimpse of a surprisingly modern interior. The contrast is remarkable, she had thought at the time, and there is probably an interesting story behind it.

Where is the man I’m supposed to meet? she wonders wearily. I don’t want to stand here all night.

She begins to pace the platform again, first to one end, then to the other. When she turns around after the first lap, she spots a flash of movement. At last, she thinks, my contact has finally shown up. Her mood lightens slightly, and she heads in the direction of the movement. Then she spies the white-garbed figure, and she freezes.

"No! Not them again!" she whispers and looks about for a place to hide.

She has seen the men in the ice-cream suits in St. Louis many times – too many times – and each time, they had been up to their usual nefarious behavior. The people who had succored her had counseled her about how to avoid the Disciples of Purity until she had found safe haven. It had been difficult at first – they were everywhere – and a couple of times she had nearly been caught but had escaped at the last minute. Now, the nightmare is beginning all over again.

All because of her dilemma.

No! Don’t think about it! You’ll bring on the…power again. Think about getting away from here.

She does not think that the ice-cream-suited fanatic has spotted her yet. He is definitely looking for someone – that much is clear –but he has not looked in her direction yet. Unfortunately, the only way off this platform is past him, and she can’t take the chance that he is alone. Her experience has been that his kind never travels alone; they work their mischief in groups, re-enforcing each other’s efforts and so creating the maximum amount of harm to innocent people.

Maybe, she thinks, he is searching for his companions instead of acting on his own. Maybe, if he keeps his back to her, she’ll have a chance to escape. Maybe…

She picks up her small suitcase and, breathlessly, inches off the platform and onto the sidewalk running adjacent to the depot. From there, it is a scant few yards to the street; if she is very lucky, she might be able to run across the street and disappear behind one of the buildings over there before she is spotted. Then she can…

Never mind that, girl, she admonishes herself. Just take it one step at a time.

Step by cautious step, she creeps along the sidewalk, all the while keeping a close eye on the other person, ready to run if need be. It is an agonizing task, this creeping along, but all will be lost otherwise. She feels her heart beating like a trip hammer, perspiration streaming down her face, and her stomach knotting up. Still, the white suit has not yet looked her way. What is he up to?

Abruptly, she detects another movement near the street. Four bulky figures are approaching the depot. She freezes and presses herself against the building in an attempt to blend in with the stone and become invisible. Are they what the Disciple is looking for? If so, her chances of escape have just been reduced to zero. She might have eluded one person, but not five. Her heart beats even faster (if that is possible), her face drowns in perspiration, and her stomach is completely knotted up.

The four newcomers march with deliberateness toward the lone figure. They spread out so as to surround him and prevent him from escaping them. The white suit is clearly in a panic now, and he searches for an avenue of escape but sees none. He too presses against the building. The burly quartet advance unerringly toward their target with quick, measured steps. As soon as they near the building, they are exposed to the dim interior lighting.

The young woman gasps in shock at their appearance. They do not look like any human beings she has ever seen. They are stocky and muscular like wrestlers, but their faces are hideous and horrifying. Cruelty masks those faces; their mouths are mere slits, and their eyes steely glints in their sockets. They have short bull necks and hairless skulls. Two of them have wicked scars on their faces which enhance their hideousness.

When these nightmares are only a few meters from their target, he raises an arm as if that will halt them in their tracks.

Halt! he cries out. Stop in the name of the Light of Purity! The Light curses thee, foul creatures. The Light seeks out all impurity and destroys it. If thou wouldst be saved from impurity, embrace the Light. Love the Light! Love Purity!

One of the newcomers chuckles evilly, and the scar on his face moves with his facial muscles, turning him into a grotesquery.

Stupid Tellurian, he speaks in a halting, gravelly voice. "You think words will stop the Swarm? Think again!"

Stay away from me, the Disciple pleads. Don’t touch me.

Tell us what you have done with our agent here, and perhaps we shall let you live.

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Tell us, Tellurian, or die!

I don’t know anything!

The scar-face steps forward and seizes the Disciple by the throat.

"Tell us!"

"I – I can’t!"

Fool! The Leader increases the pressure on the other’s throat. The white suit gurgles helplessly. In a matter of seconds, it is all over; the hapless Disciple dangles lifelessly in the grip of the Leader. Stupid Tellurian!

He lets the body drop to the ground, turns to his comrades, and speaks to them in a harsh, indecipherable language. They prepare to leave when one of the lesser members cries out and points at the young woman, still crouching against the depot, paralyzed by the tableau she has just witnessed.

She panics now. These strangers have committed cold-blooded murder, and they mean to leave no witnesses behind. Stealth is out of the question; she must now run for her life. She drops her suitcase and starts into a fast trot toward the street.

The Swarm, however, are experts in tracking and capturing their targets. At the Leader’s direction, they fan out, block all avenues of escape, and close in on the woman. She edges back the way she had come, fear gripping her increasingly with each passing second.

Then, the sensation she fears the most comes to the fore. She has experienced it too many times before when in a high emotional state. The last time that sensation overtook her, she had severely injured a would-be boyfriend who had initiated a romantic episode. That incident had been the trigger which led her to being in the City. And, now, she is again in a high emotional state.

The sensation begins as a slight humming in her brain and builds up to the point where she believes her head will explode. The humming spreads throughout her body via the nervous system, and still it increases in intensity. She must find release before she does explode.

The Swarm move ever closer to her. They wear smiles, but murderous intent fills their eyes.

Stay away from me! she rasps. "If you come any closer, I’ll – I’ll hurt you!"

Stupid Tellurian female, the Leader growls, you cannot hurt the Swarm. We are too powerful.

He directs one of his subordinates to seize her. The latter eagerly obeys, approaches to within a meter of her, and reaches out with both hands.

She can no longer hold the sensation back. She must release the force within her – now! To the Swarm’s great surprise, their prey becomes enveloped by a pale red haze. The young woman stretches forth her arms toward the would-be captor. There is a sharp crackling as she discharges twenty thousand volts of electricity at him. He screams in agony as the discharge burns the flesh from his bones and turns his bones to cinders. The smell of charred flesh and bone fills the air.

She turns toward the remainder of the Swarm with grim determination. Now, fear grips the Leader, and he barks out a command. His subordinates draw weapons from underneath their clothing and prepare to fire. They do not get the chance, as their prey is still surrounded by the red haze and has not yet fully discharged the force within her. The crackling re-occurs, and a second discharge is issued. This time, however, she is able to project only five thousand volts. But it is still enough to cause a severe electrical shock; the Swarm members reel in pain. The Leader gasps out another command, and all of them beat a hasty retreat.

The woman sobs with relief as the sensation subsides and the haze dissipates. She views what she has done and is filled with remorse. She hadn’t meant to kill that creature, but he had forced her to defend herself in the only way she knew how.

She cannot stay here any longer. Someone will report this incident to the police, and they will question her interminably and learn what she is. She cannot allow that to happen. She retrieves her suitcase and hurries toward the street. She pays no attention to whatever traffic there is, dashes across the street -- barely avoiding being struck by a rickety old station wagon – and disappears into the shadows.

CHAPTER ONE

MISSION REPORT

THE DRIVER OF the station wagon slammed on the brakes at her passenger’s command. The vehicle rattled, groaned, and wheezed at this ill treatment but miraculously held together. The passenger, a male with cherubic facial features, a receding hairline, and the palest blue eyes imaginable, rolled down his window and peered out at the figure retreating into the shadows. The driver, a tall, statuesque redhead wearing dark glasses, rolled down her window as well but did not look out; instead, she cocked her head as if listening for something.

What did I almost hit, George? she queried.

"Not what, Sheena, but who. A young woman running from the depot who darted in front of us."

"Oh, my God! She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It’s a good thing I have quick reflexes."

I’ll say. Are you picking up anything?

Sheena swiveled her head from side to side, concentrating on any sounds or smells she might detect.

A rapid heartbeat in the direction that woman went, fading as she puts distance between her and us. She wrinkled her nose. "And, George, the godawfulest odor I’ve ever smelled coming from the depot – something was burned. Do you think that’s what she was running from?"

That’s a strong possibility. We’d better check it out.

Sheena depressed the accelerator, and the station wagon rattled, groaned, and wheezed again but still held together. She turned into the depot’s driveway and entered the grounds. George scanned the area with a professional eye and instantly spotted the carnage which had recently taken place. He told his partner to stop and jumped out when she did. With an awkward gait, he approached the body cautiously. It had been burned almost beyond recognition; but his trained eye and his analytical brain were able to discern a few features, and those features he recognized immediately.

The Swarm! But, what hit this character that was strong enough to fry him crispier than the Colonel’s chicken?

Questions but no answers – this was the bane of the private detective that he was, and he would have to do some hard detecting to solve this mystery.

Sheena came up behind him and laid a hand on his arm. He gazed up at her and saw that she was still reacting from the strong odor of burnt flesh.

What did you find, George? she choked out.

A burned body. Someone or something did a real number on it.

"But I’m not smelling burned human flesh. I’m smelling – oh, God! It’s the same odor I detected from Mr. Jones. Is – is that body –"

"Uh-huh. It’s – or was – a Swarm soldier."

There are more of them here?

Without a doubt. I’d hazard to guess they’re here to find out what happened to Mr. Jones.

But why here at the depot? And how was that young woman involved?

We’ve got a big mystery, Sheena, and we’d better solve it fast. Otherwise – uh, oh! I see another body over by the depot entrance. It’s a Disciple.

A Disciple? The mystery just got bigger.

You know it. I’m going to check out that second body.

He stumped over to the ice-cream-suited figure, bent down as well as he could, and examined it. Sheena was right behind him, guided by his footsteps.

What’s the cause of death? she asked.

Strangulation, by the looks of the marks on his neck. More precisely, his throat was crushed – which doesn’t surprise me, since the Swarm are big bruisers.

So, they killed him, and then someone killed one of them. The ‘whys’ and ‘how’s’ are buzzing like bees.

Yeah, they are. Well, it’s time for an ‘anonymous’ phone call to the police. Then we head for DEDEP.

* * *

The trip to the abandoned government facility which DEDEP had appropriated for its own purposes years ago was made in silence. Both George Larkin and Sheena Whitley were lost in his/her own thoughts, and neither had anything useful to say (aside from Larkin’s driving commands).

As Director of Operations for the secretive group, the detective felt an especially heavy load on his shoulders. In part, he blamed himself for what had occurred three days ago; because of his decision to pit the aliens known as the Swarm against the religious fanatics who called themselves the Disciples of Purity in order to buy time for the good guys to gain strength in the coming show-down, he had unleashed a force, unknown and unexpected by anyone, which may or may not have been an even bigger threat to Earth and humankind. He had witnessed one member of DEDEP experience a psychotic episode, another severely injured by an alien device, and a third kidnapped and tortured. He himself had been taken captive by the Swarm and most likely would have faced some horrific fate off-world had it not been for a timely rescue by his teammates. And there had been the deaths on both sides of the divide. At this point in time, he was feeling less like the master strategist he and others thought he was and more like a master executioner.

And, on top of everything else, he had lost the eel he had been sent to retrieve for DEDEP. He had always prided himself on getting his man; that’s how his reputation as a detective par excellence had been built. He had failed this time, and now a lonely, panicky young woman was lost in the City.

In the aftermath of the recent battle between him and the Disciples and Mr. Jones – the opening salvo of this phase of an interstellar war stretching across thousands of light-years and hundreds of centuries -- he had busied himself with plans to loot the apartment of Mr. Jones and appropriate all of that fabulous alien technology for future use by DEDEP. He wanted to experiment with those machines and learn which could help the group in the coming battle. It was also a means to keep his mind occupied and avoid wallowing in guilt and self-pity.

The discovery of the bodies at the depot meant that he could not afford to indulge himself with alien technology just yet. He had to be what he had been appointed to be: a leader of a group which possessed psi-talents. The group looked to him – counted on him – to rescue them from a life of living in a hole in the ground, and he daren’t let them down. Failure to work toward that goal would be the hardest blow of all.

Larkin glanced surreptitiously at his business partner. She was gripping the steering wheel of the station wagon tightly as if she believed that, if she loosened her grip a fraction, she would lose control and send the vehicle into the ditch or an oncoming car. Her face was lost in darkness, and he could not see the expression on it (if there was one); but her silence told him that she too was undergoing some self-examination. He could only guess at what that process entailed.

Sheena represented another of his problems. She was deeply in love with him, and she made no effort to disguise the fact; quite the contrary, she attempted seduction at every opportunity. He was deeply in love with her as well – no use in denying it – and he could not disguise his feelings from her hyperesthesia which she used to read the emotional states of all with whom she came into contact, no matter how hard they tried. And lately, he had dared to think he could be a lover for her, despite his disability, and find the happiness he had always wanted but never hoped to achieve. Still, the exigencies of the day was forcing him to put his personal desires aside and concentrate on the Bigger Picture. If they both survived the coming storm, then perhaps…

If George Larkin was wrestling with his conscience, so too was Sheena Whitley, but for different reasons. As the junior partner in the newly re-named Larkin-Whitley Detective Agency, she was obliged to carry out her assignments and to assist the senior partner with his, wherever feasible. Carrying out those assignments had been difficult enough when they had only the Disciples of Purity to deal with; tracing missing persons and being dogged by religious fanatics had made life rather hectic of late, if not downright dangerous. Many had been the times when she just wanted to cuddle up with George and forget about the job and the Disciples. She loved him more than words could express, but he had always kept his distance because of his disability; her hyper-senses relayed to her the emotional turmoil raging inside him as desire battled despair. And nothing she said or did had made any inroads toward her cherished goal.

Now, with the advent of the Swarm on Planet Earth who were bent on utter destruction, her George had become obsessed with the idea of stopping their invasion personally and single-handedly. He had formulated daring – and reckless, in her humble opinion – plans for doing so; and in doing so, he had risked not only his own life but those of others in DEDEP, including (she had to say) herself. If he continued in this mode, he and she would have absolutely no chance of the sort of relationship she hoped for. She wished she could tell him to be more careful, but she was afraid of jeopardizing the relationship they did have.

Bright lights on the road ahead snapped her out of her reverie. She could not see the lights, of course, but she could feel their intensity on her skin. In a matter of seconds, she heard the thrum-thrum of heavy-duty engines, three of them in fact, judging from the sounds. Three large trucks, either semis or moving vans, were approaching; and, because the engines were at full throttle, they appeared to be fully loaded. They passed the station wagon, and their passage caused the old vehicle to shake violently. Since they were traveling on a Federal highway, their presence was not unusual; yet, Sheena felt something odd about this convoy. For one thing, why were they on the road at this hour? Federal law had banned night travel for trucks due to safety concerns. For another, they were evenly spaced and not very far apart at that. For a third, one of the trucks, the middle one, needed a tune-up; she could hear a disruption in the thrum of its engine as one of its sparkplugs misfired. And, for a fourth, they gave off an unusual odor as they passed. It didn’t smell like diesel fuel but rather like – here she wrinkled her nose – burning garbage.

What kind of convoy was this? her detective’s mind would like to know. She doubted, however, that she was unlikely to find out.

Presently, Larkin announced the approach of the turn-off onto the gravel road which led to their destination. At his signal, Sheena deftly made the turn and listened to the gravel pummel the underside of the station wagon. At once, she began a variation of her ability to count blocks. Previously, she had determined that, from the highway to the gate at the farm, 341 seconds would elapse.

When the count reached 330, she automatically slowed down. At the count of 340, Larkin instructed her to turn right and stop. She heard him open the station wagon’s door, slide out, and walk to the gate. There followed the scraping of metal on metal which would be George pushing open the gate manually. Ordinarily, he would have used the electronic gate opener, but Mr. Jones had burned out the gate’s locking mechanism during his unexpected – and fatal – visit days before. When her partner was back inside the vehicle, she accelerated slightly and, with his directions, steered a careful path between the double rows of trees which lined the driveway.

When she had braked in the front of the farmhouse, she heard the creaking of the front door as it was opened. Heavy, short-paced footsteps marked the passage across the porch, down the steps, and over the lawn. It had to be Monk.

Hiya, Monk, Larkin greeted the Department of Energy man cheerfully.

Hiya, Georgie, Sheena. A short silence followed. Say, weren’t you s’pposed to be bringin’ a new inmate?

"Yes, but there was a mix-up. I have to tell Emil our plans need to be changed.

Oakie-doakie. See ya later.

Larkin and Sheena got out of their vehicle and headed for the barn. The former pulled out his gate opener and clicked the code for the barn door. They walked in, and the detective clicked the door shut. At the trap door, Larkin began his laborious climb down the shaft leading to the underground facility. Sheena crouched down, felt for the rim of the opening, found it, and swung her body around. She eased herself onto the ladder and began her own descent. Because she didn’t have artificial limbs, she had an easier time of it.

With the metallic grating of the emergency door as it opened, they accessed the world of DEDEP, a haven for persons with paranormal/unusual talents.

The corridors were sparsely populated. As it was past the dinner hour, most of the residents would have returned to their quarters. They could have availed themselves of a recreation room and a small library, but there was little left by way of recreational equipment or reading/viewing materials, the previous occupants having removed everything which was easily portable. Dr. Emil Razumov, DEDEP’s Director of Research and nominal head of the facility, had thought about restoring those areas, but the lack of time and sufficient funds had worked against the project. The residents were thus left to their own devices, and most chose to pursue those devices in private.

Those few who were in the corridors were most likely in transit from one place to another. When they encountered Larkin and Sheena, they greeted them heartily, exchanged a few words, and continued on to their final destinations. One of the few was the Perkins family, who seemed to be the most tightly knitted of all the residents and whose members were seldom seen apart; whatever they did to amuse themselves, they did it as a unit. The two detectives caught them as they were entering the central corridor. The greetings they gave were effusive, leading Sheena to whisper to Larkin that her biopsychometric readings of all four were the strongest she had ever read in a family unit.

In the central corridor, at the midway point, stood a four-foot-high black pole topped by an equally black sphere. It was the only piece of equipment the detective had looted from Mr. Jones’ apartment; it was the dampening-field generator, and Larkin had taken it simply because it had been the only piece easily transportable. He had reasoned that, if it worked well for the alien, it would work well for DEDEP; and, at this juncture, the residents needed all the protection they could get.

Hmmm. That’s odd, he murmured. The generator’s been turned off.

I’m glad, Sheena remarked. That field makes my skin crawl.

I know. But, I brought it here for a reason. I’ll have to ask Emil about it.

The remainder of the trip to the Director’s office was made in sullen silence. Sheena had been with her partner long enough to know when to make a comment and when to keep quiet. George had been on edge ever since the demise of the Swarm agent precipitated by the psychic gestalt created by Eve Pelletier and Stan Jankowsky (quite by accident). The black sphere had been full of surprises from the moment of its creation, but the biggest surprise of all occurred when it had acted independently in the face of a threat to its existence. And Larkin had been standing next to it when it reduced Mr. Jones to a handful of black powder. The detective had immediately identified the gestalt as a dangerous weapon with the potential for large-scale destruction, and he had recommended that it be used as such in the coming war with the Swarm.

Presently, the pair arrived at Dr. Razumov’s office. Larkin rapped gently on the door three times, opened it, and walked in.

The Russian parapsychologist was engaged in his usual activity when he was not conducting an experiment – poring over a pile of computer read-outs from one testing session or another. He was making frequent annotations to the strips of paper and muttering to himself in Russian as he was wont to do. Emil Razumov was one of that rare breed who were completely absorbed by their work to the point of absent-mindedness. If Sheena Whitley knew when to keep quiet, so did George Larkin. And so, the detectives sat down as unobtrusively as they could and waited patiently until they were recognized.

When he was finished with one strip of paper, the Doctor tossed it aside and grabbed the next one. Occasionally, some datum puzzled him, and he dug into the already-examined pile and re-read a strip. This interruption in his routine provoked more muttering plus a shaking of the head in frustration. Whatever anomaly he had discovered might or might not be voiced aloud. The curious person had to bide his time.

Abruptly, the old man whipped off his glasses, tossed them onto the pile of read-outs, and rubbed his eyes. He then discovered that he was not alone in his office. He blinked a couple of times to focus on the newcomers and broke out in a huge smile.

"George, Sheena, zdrafst. Where have you been these past few days? I have so much to tell you."

Hello, Emil, Larkin responded. We’ve got a bit of news for you as well. You first, though.

"Spaceebo. I have been wracking this old brain of mine since the…incident with Mr. Jones. And I have formed a theory about it."

I’m not surprised. Does it have anything to do with radiopsychology?

"Konyechno! Everything I do here is connected to radiopsychology. The gestalt that Eve and Stan created was a product of their combined radiopsychological abilities, and it follows that it too has a place in both my General and Special Theories."

Which is?

The gestalt is, in my estimation, both a receiver and a generator of radio energy. This is evidenced by what it has done so far. We have seen that it increases in size in direct proportion to the number of persons it comes into contact with. And we have seen that it utilizes radio energy to produce certain phenomena, such as transmitting images to Eve’s mind and, particularly, the demise of Mr. Jones. In these respects, the sphere acts very much like the human brain.

Do you think it’s a sentient being? Sheena entered the conversation.

"Kto znayet [who knows]? We shall not have an answer to that question until we communicate with it – assuming, of course, that we can communicate with it. Thus far, it seems to have bonded with our two young people who possess powerful psi-talents and with no one else. Whether it has communicated with them remains to be seen. But, I could imagine that it is sentient; it did respond to a threat to it, nye pravdy?"

I’d have to agree with you there, Larkin said. The gestalt targeted Mr. Jones specifically. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here having this conversation. My guess is that, at least, it has the ability to differentiate between hostile and non-hostile agents.

"Da, oo tyebya mnogo pravdy [you are very correct]."

So, what’s next?

More experimentation, naturally. We must learn the full range of its abilities and then to assess their usefulness to us. We must also proceed with caution so as not to be identified as a threat to it. He regarded the detective expectantly. "So, moy starry droog, what is your news?"

Larkin launched into a detailed account of his failed appointment with the eel from St. Louis. With each new bit of information, the Russian’s frown grew deeper; at the end of the report, he was staring worriedly at the ceiling. He stared at the ceiling for a minute or so. Then:

"Bozhu moyu!’ he murmured with a shake of his head. "Mnogo chuzhdye kosmonavty [more alien spacemen]? Is there no end to this dilemma, George?"

I’m afraid not, Emil. I’d hazard to guess that, when Mr. Jones failed to report to his superiors in a timely fashion, they sent out a team to investigate.

But why would they murder that Disciple?

If Mr. Jones had informed them that the Disciples were a threat to their plans for invasion, they would need to know how much of a threat.

What about the ‘eel’?

Ah, well, I’ll have to come up with a thorough search plan. We can’t afford to lose her.

Certainly not. She is in great danger on her own.

Right. Um, before we return to the City, we should look in on Eve and Stan. Is that permissible?

The old man peered at the ceiling again, his lips puckered. Larkin knew in an instant what he was thinking. As always, Emil Razumov took a great interest in DEDEP’s residents, as care-giver, counselor, and father-figure, and he guarded these positions jealously. Any attempt to put his charges in harm’s way drew an instant rebuke. And the detective had been on the receiving end of rebukes more than once whenever he had enlisted Eve Pelletier’s psycho-imaging abilities in his investigations. The Doctor feared that images derived from criminal activity would push the already mentally unstable woman over the edge.

Just for a short while, George, he said at last. They are still under observation.

Thank you, Emil.

The detective pushed himself to his feet, using his arms as levers. At once, he felt a tug on his sleeve. Sheena was regarding him with concern.

What?

Aren’t you forgetting something? The field generator?

Oh, right. I did forget.

What is this about the field generator? Dr. Razumov inquired.

It’s been turned off. Why?

Christopher complained that he couldn’t project outside of DEDEP, and so I turned it off.

Oops. In my haste to protect the place against electronic snooping, I forgot what effect it has on certain people. Sorry about that, Emil.

"Perhaps you have had too much on your mind lately, starry droog. But, there may be a solution. I will ask Christopher to notify us when he wants to go outside and when he wants to return. We can turn off the generator at those times."

That sounds reasonable. Let’s go, Sheena.

* * *

(He)(She) stares at the ceiling and sees nothing. (He)(She) has been staring at the ceiling and seeing nothing for the past three days.

(He)(She) is not unconscious, however. (He)(She) is perfectly aware of (his)(her) surroundings. But (his)(her) mind is too full of images to take notice of any externalities.

The images are memories (?) of The Incident of three days ago, and they replay in (his)(her) mind on an endless loop. As soon as one loop finishes, another one begins; but the point of view is altered slightly as if the same scene is being seen through different eyes in succession. The replays are both confusing and fascinating.

The memory (?) loop begins with the Summoning. (He)(She) is directed by the one with the non-organic limbs to bring the Entity into (his)(her) plane of existence. (He)(She) does so in co-ordination with the third member of the summoning process, the short malformed creature. (He)(She) follows the Entity in (his)(her) mind’s eye as It drifts out of the structure in which (he)(she) inhabits. (He)(She) sees (his)(her) director a few [untranslatable] away. That one is not alone. That one faces another bipedal creature of much different configuration. (He)(She), via the Entity, senses anger/anxiety/tension from both creatures.

As soon as the Entity appears in the open and is observed by the creature of much different configuration, its anger is replaced by surprise and confusion. The director radiates amusement at the other’s reaction. In an attempt to further confound the surprised one, the director commands (him)(her) to maneuver the Entity in a non-threatening manner. This action does not produce the desired effect; instead, the creature of much different configuration becomes angry again, and it searches the ground for something it has dropped. It finds the object and touches various facets of its surface.

(He)(She), via the Entity, recognizes the object as a miniature electromagnetic-field generator, although (he)(she) does not know how it operates. Further, (he)(she) realizes that the generator has begun to produce a potentially destructive frequency. The Entity takes action to protect Itself. The scene is filled with a bright, white light, blotting out all details. (He)(She) is not blinded, however, but is protected – along with the director – by the Entity.

A moment of Time passes.

The bright, white light dissipates as quickly as it had been created. (He)(She) now observes that the director stands alone. The creature of a much different configuration has been reduced to a fine black powder. The director radiates horror. (He)(She) is not horrified but is fascinated/intrigued/curious. The director commands (him)(her) to recall the Entity. (He)(She) disengages from the summoning procedure.

The next loop begins, slightly altered.

* * *

From the diary of Christopher Wredling:

Where do I begin?

I’ve had enough adventure in two hours to last a life-time, and George says that what happened at DEDEP was just the beginning!

The mobiles had to settle for second-hand accounts of what happened. But, because of my psycho-projection ability, I had a ringside seat, and I wish I hadn’t had one. I was so close to the action that, if I had been there physically, I could have touched either George or the alien Mr. Jones – not that I’d want to touch the latter in the first place! He was a dark force to end all dark forces, and there are more like him out there.

I have never told anyone – even George and Emil – that I can see energy fields as colored splotches of light. That I can do so helps me in my travels since energy fields act as barriers to me. Emil mentioned some time ago that different energy fields generate in different frequencies and that, theoretically, each frequency corresponds to a specific hue. Well, it’s more than just theory – it’s reality. And, if all humans could see these frequencies like I can, it would be a mind-blowing experience. Sometimes I encounter a veritable kaleidoscope of colors when I’m traveling in the vicinity of cities – lots of energy fields there.

I mention all this because humans generate energy fields too. (In ancient times, these fields were called ‘auras.’) This is part of Emil’s General Theory of Radiopsychology, and he says that they exist to protect the organism from personality-altering radio waves. If I concentrate, I see these fields as a low-level glow around the organism. Emil shows up as a ‘yellow’ which reflects his intellectual acuity. George is a ‘reddish-brown,’ passion mixed with adventure. Sheena is a ‘red,’ pure passion (if George only knew!).

In this scheme of things, Mr. Jones was a shadow-shape as if he absorbed light rather than reflecting it. He gave me the willies every time I looked at him. I did say that he was a ‘dark force,’ didn’t I? Well, he was – literally as well as figuratively.

I have to confess that I can’t see the gestalt that Eve and Stan conjured up. The mobiles describe it as a ‘black sphere’ bobbing in the air, but there’s something in its nature that renders it invisible to my unique visual capability. On the other hand, I sense heat energy radiating from where it is supposed to be – sometimes warm, sometimes scorching. I suspect it correlates to the amount of energy it generates at a given moment. I’ll have to ask Emil about that….

…I have been replaying my experience of that final battle over and over for the past three days, and each time I get the willies. I don’t know which is worse: an alien invasion from outer space, or the tiger we’ve got by the tail.

A dangerous weapon indeed!

* * *

Half an hour later, Larkin and Sheena were back on the road, returning to the City. The visit to DEDEP’s make-shift infirmary had been a waste of time; the moment they walked in, they knew they wouldn’t be able to talk to either Eve or Stan. All they could do was to stare helplessly at them.

The gestalt-summoners had appeared as if they were in a coma – silent, unmoving, and unaware of their surroundings. Yet, it hadn’t been some run-of-the-mill coma, for their eyes were wide open and they were staring at the ceiling in a stuporous fashion. Emil had likened their state of mind as being in a trance; whatever was playing out in their minds was absorbing their attention completely, and no external stimuli could penetrate the mental barrier which had been erected. That something was playing out was evidenced by rapid-eye movement of the sort that dreamers exhibit.

They’re wide awake, the detective had mused, and yet they’re dreaming. If I had a right arm to give, I’d gladly give it for a chance to see what they’re seeing.

Larkin and Sheena had said their good-byes and left in a mood of great sadness. The former was especially upset. He had formulated the plan to get Mr. Jones off DEDEP’s back, and the plan had worked better than he had wanted it to. And that hadn’t been the first time one of his schemes failed to account for all of the consequences – Eve had been the principal victim there too – and he couldn’t be sure that future schemes would be exempt. He could have written off the unintended consequences as the result of unknown variables, but he would have been rationalizing his inability to take all the variables into account. He was supposed to be the master strategist, wasn’t he? He had to take responsibility.

The drive back to the City was as silent and uneventful as the outbound trip. The partners were again lost in their private thoughts. Once they had entered the City, Larkin suggested that they return to the depot in order to check on any new developments.

He wasn’t disappointed. As they approached the depot, he spotted two squad cars still on the scene; the officers were still searching the area where the bodies had been (although the bodies had long since been taken away). And the usual crowd of rubberneckers who invariably collected around a tragic event – the morbidly curious humans who lived vicariously through the misfortunes of others – was in full flourish. All this he related to Sheena.

I can sense many people there, she responded. Their emotions are hammering at my mind. They’re full of lust, on the verge of having an orgasm. She wrapped her arms about her in order to keep from shaking. Please, George, let’s leave.

All right. I’ve seen enough here. Look, I want to cruise around for a while and see if we can spot our missing ‘eel’.

Sheena pulled away from the depot and began criss-crossing the streets in the business district. Personally, she thought it was a waste of time. True, a stranger in town might keep to the main streets so as not to lose her bearings more than she had to; on the other hand, if she were used to being on the run from the St. Louis branch of the Disciples, she might be able to apply her experiences there to the not-so-different environment here. In which case, she would be the needle in this urban haystack. She could be hiding in plain sight for all they knew, using her skills to blend into the backdrop. Even if the eel were easily frightened, she could still be hard to find. She’d be constantly on the move, seeking some safe haven, not stopping until she had found one. She could backtrack to a previous location if she thought the place she currently occupied became compromised.

But Sheena was not about to tell George this. He was the master strategist here, not her, and he usually knew what he was doing. Personally, she would rather cuddle up with him, caressing and kissing – and a lot more. But she couldn’t tell him that either; he’d have some excuse for not being romantic. So, she kept driving.

Whenever Larkin spied a lone female on the street, he had Sheena slow to a crawl so that he could eyeball the suspect more readily. The reactions he received from those females fell into three distinct categories: (1) fright; (2) anger; and (3) invitation. (1) thought she would be raped and have no avenue of escape. (2) thought the fellow was a pervert and gave him an obscene hand gesture. And (3) thought she had a customer for the evening. But, none of the females matched the description Larkin had gotten from his contact in St. Louis, and none resembled the frightened young woman who was nearly run over at the depot.

Just as the detective was about to call it a night, he did spot the eel. She was slowly walking along Main Street, darting from one shadowy doorway to the next in a well-practiced manner, all the while looking this way and that for any threatening persons. He might have missed her altogether but for the fact that she had passed by a street lamp during one of her maneuvers, and he recognized her. Quickly, he had Sheena pull over to the curb where he rolled down the window and called out to her.

Jean! Jean Fulton! I’m George Larkin. I’ve come to pick you up.

Why she didn’t believe a word he said could be chalked up to any number of reasons. In her present state of mind, she was in no mood to trust anyone late at night on a lonely street in an unfamiliar city. Instead, she bolted and ran down the street. Larkin and Sheena pursued her. She turned into a narrow alleyway and disappeared into the darkness. They circled the block in an attempt to intercept her at the other end of the alleyway but caught no sight of her. Somehow, the eel had gone to ground.

CHAPTER TWO

COUNTER-ESPIONAGE

AS THE YEAR 2018 wore on, each passing day set a new temperature record. While temperatures did not always increase – sometimes they plateaued for a day or so – they did not decrease, and they reflected for the most part the total number of sequential days where the reading reached a certain level and/or exceeded it. The weakening (and occasional disappearance) of the ozone layer over the Earth’s polar regions expanded in slow progression and allowed ever more amounts of raw solar energy to bombard the planet’s surface. Weather alerts were now an hourly occurrence, and the inhabitants in all parts of the globe were advised to limit their outdoor activity to the bare minimum. Nevertheless, the hospitals were full of patients who, on a daily basis, succumbed to heat exhaustion/prostration. The demand for salt tablets threatened to outstrip the supply, and their prices increased in direct proportion to the temperature.

Two other areas of concern threatened to over-tax the ability of human agencies to avert them. One was near-spontaneous combustion. As the planet heated up, the land masses dried up, especially in the naturally arid regions. The least spark could trigger a raging wildfire, even in the heart of a populated area. Fire departments everywhere were on constant alert for such outbreaks which became a daily occurrence. Some fires were easily put out where there was sufficient manpower, water supplies, and anti-combustion deterrents available; others raged on for days and weeks, resulting in a large loss of life and/or property.

The second area of concern was actually a consequence of the first, and that was the diminishing supply of water (or the lack thereof). It was a two-prong problem. First, the rising temperatures evaporated liquid water at an ever higher rate, and, second, they prevented water vapor in the atmosphere from precipitating out in the first place. All of the Earth’s rivers, lakes, and oceans began to shrink, and water consumption for personal use, manufacturing, agriculture, and fire-fighting was subject to rationing in the hardest hit areas. Rationing was not at all popular, of course, and water wars broke out everywhere as humans fought for possession of dwindling supplies. Civil society