Escape: Omega Book 1 (Omega: Earth's Hero) (3 page)

Determined that he would not turn tail and run, Fallow gripped the handles of his gun tight enough to turn his knuckles wide. A brave man that had lived many years and planned to live many more, he stopped short of the ship by ten or so feet.

“I think we should call in reinforcements, sir.” Fallow looked beside him. One of the newest of his men--a private, but he couldn’t quite recall his name--stood straight, his rifle at the ready. Despite the terror that infected him, Fallow couldn’t help but feel a little pride and more than a little surprise that the only man that chose to stay at his side was fresh out of boot camp.

“Stand firm, kid,” Fallow ordered. The light began to die away. The softest of a breeze blew, cooling Fallow.

Everything went dark. The strange light. The spotlights. Even the headlights of the Jeeps and trucks. The sudden pitch-blackness was a devouring beast that seemed to swallow up the whole world, plunging it deep into its monstrous belly.

“I need light,” the captain said. “Now.” Perhaps now the craft wasn’t as scary as what could lay beyond, unseen, in the wild land. After a moment, someone did produce a flashlight. The private next to Fallow took it and shone it down into the crate…

Just as something reached over.

Never in a million years would Fallow admit to another human being what he did next. Truth be told, however, the piercing scream he let loose was much better than the private’s reaction, which would show itself as a growing stain on the crotch of his pants for at least half an hour.

Fallow’s finger instinctively pulled the trigger, but the shot went a little wild. It was a hand, he now saw, as the light was placed back in position. A pasty white hand, normal enough-looking, was pulling itself from the crater.

The body that quickly followed the hand was definitely not normal-looking. Humanoid, sure, but that’s where the similarities ended. The head was slightly larger than a grown man’s and the eyes were set a bit further apart. The head, smooth and hairless, was domed. Nothing green about the skin, nothing bulging about the eyes, but Fallow knew, just knew, it wasn’t human.

All he could see was the top of the shoulders up, but that was enough to know that whatever the hell this thing was, it wasn’t Russian.

And it was hurt. Badly hurt, was his guess. For the briefest of moments, they stared into each other’s eyes. Man to, well, whatever it was. Something plucked Garrett Fallow’s heartstrings. He slammed the pistol down into his hip holster and stepped forward.

“Keep that light on me, soldier.” All around him, his company inched forward. Hesitant, though they were, they were not going to leave a captain in the face of danger. Fallow, paying too much attention to the task at hand, never noticed.

He squatted down at the lip of the basin, his toes digging into the dirt embankments. He reached out his hand, offering it to the strange being. The creature--that’s how he thought of it, though somehow that felt wrong, but it wasn’t quite a man, either--trembled as he approached.

“Come on,” he said gently in the voice one might call a scared animal. “Grab my hand.” Realizing that his words might not be understood, he spread his fingers wider, nodded his head slowly, and reached a bit further.

What in the hell am I doing?
Fallow wondered.

Red liquid—blood—oozed from the corner of the creature’s thin mouth. The crimson fluid bubbled. Fallow didn’t know where this thing, this person, came from, but bubbling blood was never a good sign. After long deliberation, the thing from the ship grasped Fallow’s hand.

The captain pulled with all his might but couldn’t budge. Finally, the soldiers realizing that the creature was in true peril stepped in. One grabbed Fallow’s waist, one on each shoulder.

“He’s as heavy as a pick-up truck,” one soldier commented. After great exertion, the being started to move slowly up over the brink, and a few more soldiers moved in. They took over for Fallow, brought the strange humanoid completely out of the hole, and lay him on his back. Fallow stayed squatted to the side of the stranger. Several flashlights were trained on the rescued… alien. That’s what Fallow finally accepted. The strange visitor from beyond the stars was dressed in a bright blue jumpsuit with chrome boots, a belt around its waist and matching bracelets. There was strange insignia down one sleeve of the uniform, but Fallow couldn’t make heads or tails of it. His skin, or at least he thought of it as male, was smooth, creamy white. At least six-and-a-half feet tall, the form was thin, but was heavier than it appeared.

All the lights, save for the odd glow from the craft, came back on, and for an instant everyone was blinded. When Fallow’s sight returned, he looked at the prone form. The thin mouth, now with more blood flowing, opened, but closed without a sound. With huge effort, it reached out its hand to Fallow. Fallow did the same. The fingertips of each connected and they held that contact for several seconds.

The alien’s arm fell to the ground with a plop of dust. The big round eyes, with irises as blue as any summer sky, fell away to nothingness, and Captain Garrett Farrow, who’d never thought the stars anything more than navigational tools and decoration for the night sky, watched the extraterrestrial visitor, something he never would’ve conceived of, die silently, alone and far, far from home.

Chapter 3

June 1—Present Day

Miranda Scott was a breathtaking image of American beauty as she walked down the plushy carpeted corridor. Dressed in a smart dress suit with matching pumps, her red-brown hair cascaded in lustrous locks down to her shoulders. Irish-American by birth, a southerner by marriage, she enjoyed these jaunts back to the city on occasion. While she’d grown up in Boston, New York had always seemed the epitome of the civilized world. Which was why, after graduating high school, she turned down scholarship after scholarship from the Ivy Leagues to attend NYU.

While the metropolitan ambience of DC was never boring, the Big Apple exuded an energy that, even at forty-two, Miranda found exhilarating. Bart, her kid brother, was all the family she had left. Since he’d set up shop on the forty-second floor of the newly constructed Fushun building, already a fixture in the New York cityscape, she couldn’t help but identify New York with family. But Bart was no longer a kid. At thirty-seven, he was the owner and CEO of Broken Mind Software, a company that he’d started right out of MIT--with, of course, a little financial aid from his big sis. Broken Mind was now one of the largest privately owned software companies in the country, if not the world, designing not only commercially successful computer applications, but those for smartphones and tablets as well. And while the main facility was out west, Bart kept a check on the home fires from a continent away.

That was all fine with Miranda. It was much easier to make the jump from D.C. to NYC than across the country to Silicon Valley.

Miranda’s cell phone rang. The Star-Spangled Banner played, so there was no need to look at the screen before she answered.

“Hi, Bob.”

“Miranda. Sorry I’m just getting back to you, but I’ve been in meetings all morning. Did you have a pleasant flight?”

“As always. The Virginia countryside is stunning as the sun comes up.”

“Yes. Yes it is. How’s Bart?”

“Just on my way in now. I’ll be back by this afternoon.”

“Have fun. Take your time. Just remember we have that dinner engagement tonight.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Well, I’ll see you soon.”

“I love you, dear.”

“Oh, Bob, I love you more,” she said, and hung up the phone. That was a little game they played. One she usually won. Probably because he let her.

Miranda approached the offices of Fushun. “One second, ma’am,” one of her escorts said. As she came to a stop, two of her three escorts made their way quickly through the glass door and separated immediately, taking in the entire environment in a swift, practiced manner.

A few minutes later, her third escort spoke into his palm. “Green light, Mrs. Scott.” It was Fleming, her favorite. A retired marine that knew his job and his boss well, she had no doubts in her mind that Fleming would do whatever it took to keep her safe. Only sometimes it was too much bother to worry with.

“Miranda,” Bart said as she stepped through the door. He moved in and hugged her. In her periphery, Miranda saw Fleming tense, but only for the briefest of moments.
Training
, she thought.
Exceptional training.
She only hoped that Bart hadn’t noticed it. While Bart was as understanding of her new life as any sibling could be, for someone to act as if he could be a threat to his own sister bothered him greatly.

“You look great!” Bart said, releasing her. “Come on into my office. I just brewed a fresh pot of coffee.” Barton O’Riley was a brilliant computer wizard that shared his sister’s red-tinted brown hair and her jovial outlook on things. When their parents had died in a car crash, courtesy of a drunk driver, when Miranda was only twenty, Bart, born Barton Gordon O’Riley, had taken his place as head of the surviving O’Riley clan. While Miranda, in her second year at NYU, had fallen to pieces, Bart had stepped up to the plate. Her parents hadn’t been rich, but their wealth was not insignificant. Bart took care of the funeral arrangements, put the house up for sale (with Miranda’s blessing,) taken care of any debts, transferred holdings into stock, mutual bonds, etc., and split them evenly between them. He had done what Miranda, at least at that time, had been unable to do: take care of things.

Since then, while she considered Bart her kid brother, she knew that he was a rock that she would be able to lean on for the rest of her days. Not that he hadn’t suffered as much or more than she had. He just found different avenues to express his sorrow. Like schoolm for instance. Always a competent student, after their parents’ death, Bart had excelled at MIT, becoming a golden boy among the esteemed staff.

He developed an addiction to coffee during those years, and eighteen months after launching BM, he married Christine Mason. An equally matched intellect, if there ever was one, and a genuinely charming woman, they’d met during the advanced computer classes that he enjoyed so. They were expecting their first child, a boy, in two months.

Now, here he was, a software giant that had come from a little house outside Boston to the top of the world. But then, hadn’t she also made a significant rise in station, herself? 

Bart led the way, with Miranda and Fleming in tow. Miranda might be able to have time with her brother without a bevy of guards with her, but Fleming went everywhere with her.

Bart’s office was a study in modern interior design. Light wood furniture accented with chrome. Completely aesthetic, but quite cozy. A huge plate glass window immediately behind his desk revealed an awesome view of the city. He walked to a small sofa and invited Miranda to sit. He motioned to a nearby chair for Fleming, more out of habit then true politeness. At a large bar he poured three oversized mugs of piping hot coffee, handed one to Miranda, the other to Fleming. Miranda knew that Fleming enjoyed good java as much as her brother did.

“So, sis. Tell me: what have you been up to lately?” Bart asked as he took a seat near her on the sofa.

“Not too much. I’ve missed you lately, Bart. Besides, I thought I might stop in at Saks before heading back.”

Bart smiled and turned towards Fleming. “That’s my big sister and her weakness for clothing.” Then, turning back to her, “How’s hubby?”

Miranda sensed Fleming tighten up a bit at the remark, but didn’t pay it any attention. She knew he was as loyal to her husband as he was to her, which was not a bad thing. Around Bart, however, it could be nerve-racking. While Bart and Bob were civil enough when they were together, there was no disguising their disdain for each other. It wasn’t outright hatred, which would probably be too much for Miranda, but more of a continual game of one-uppance for the two. I have this; well I have two of them; and so on and so forth.

“He’s fine, Bart. And he sends his best.”

“Good old Bob. A king of a man. But anyway. Let’s not waste time with him. It’s been a while since I could sit back and have a cup of Joe with my sister. You look tired. Been burning the midnight oil?”

“Actually, I have. A senator out of Minnesota has started a program that I’ve been involved with. We plan to purchase hundreds of laptops and tablet computers for inner-city schools. Should be right up your alley.”

“Senator Ross, isn’t it? And yes, it’s a good program, but since they haven’t included in the small print to have any of my software preloaded on those supposed devices for the financially challenged, it’s not up my alley. Even offered a big contribution. Still, no dice.”

“Really, Mark is usually as susceptible to contributions as we all are, and when
you
say big, it had to be huge.”

“Believe me, sis, it was. But that’s neither here nor there. What’s your part in the good Senator’s play?”

“Public relations. I’m pretty much the meet and greet spokeswoman. If you’d still like to contribute, I’m sure I could have a word with him, have at least a couple of BM’s programs preinstalled.”

“Thanks but no thanks. It is a noble venture, but I’m not
that
anxious to give away money.”

“Oh, Bart. A computer maestro and an economist all rolled into one adorable package.”

“That’s what they say.”

“Oh, before I forget. I have something for the baby.”

“Really? You know, Miranda, she’s not due for a couple of months, and already we’ve had to expand her nursery to accommodate all the “little” things you’ve picked up for her.”

“Hush, now, Bart. Bridget’s getting ready to head off to Dartmouth and hates being called a baby anymore. Therefore, my niece will definitely be the object of my maternal affections for a while to come. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”

“No, no, sis. Calm down,” Bart said, exuding a placating smile. “I was just stating a fact.”

“I thought so.” To Fleming, she said, “Have him bring it in.” Fleming nodded and spoke into his collar.

“Wonderful. The black suit express.”

A second or two later, the door opened and all three of them expected a man similarly, if not exactly, dressed as Fleming, to step in. One such man did enter through the door, but he was dead before he concluded his entrance. Several small bullet holes rimmed with bright red blood were blaring on the white oxford shirt underneath his black suit coat. Behind him five, dangerous-looking men entered. Four of them held assault rifles in their grasps. The fifth and last to enter held a pistol with an attached silencer.

“Good day gentlemen and lady. I hope I have not disturbed your conference, but I assure you that what I have to say will be well worth your time.”

Miranda began to stand and speak, but Fleming moved to her and pushed her back down. Just as she made contact with the fabric of the seat, a bevy of gunfire erupted. Fleming’s chest exploded in half a dozen miniature geysers of blood. His body was knocked back eight feet and he fell, lifeless, to the floor with an odd thump.

Immediately, Miranda felt bile rise in her throat. She fought it back and down. She turned to see Bart, his face ashen and paled.

With calmness she did not at all feel, Miranda Scott turned to the man holding the semi-automatic, the apparent leader of the group. “You just killed a man in cold blood! W-What is it you want?”

“Why, Mrs. Scott, I thought you’d never ask.” When the man had first spoken, Miranda had detected an accent, but she couldn’t quite identify it. Perhaps Armenian or an offshoot of Iraqi. Now she could narrow it down to Iraqi, even if the harshness of the accent was softened by the inflection of proper English. “What I want, Mrs. Scott, is for you to place a call to the President of the United States and find out just much he cares about his wife. Then I want you to hand me the phone. If, and only if, he agrees to the terms that I have set forth, will you leave this place alive.”

Miranda looked at the man, slack-jawed and bewildered. “My husband does not meet the demands of terrorists. That’s the policy of the United States.”

“True, but for the First Lady, I believe an exception
can
and
will
be made. Do you not?”

Miranda wanted to answer, but she kept seeing Fleming—a good, honest man graced with the integrity and courage of ten men—falling to the floor, blood exploding out of him. It made her sick; it made her nauseous. She looked to Bart. Usually a man of  determination and unflinching confidence, her brother looked beaten and whipped… but not defeated. She prayed that he would do something. That he would step forward.