Trespassers: a science-fiction novel (8 page)

Suddenly a shadow appeared over Jin
’
s shoulder, and a voice came with it.
“
Is there a problem?
”
Jin shoved the kit back into the bag and turned to see the silhouette of a man in uniform standing over him. Jin rose to face the man, his mind racing. He recognized the blue uniform. This was a cop. And he was asking questions. Jin wondered whether he had given himself away. He wondered whether he looked suspicious. Jin
’
s eyes glanced just above the cop
’
s head to see the broken window. Now, the cop pointed at the duffle.
“
Your bag sir.
”

This was it. A plan sprang into Jin
’
s mind:
grab his throat; sweep his legs; force him down to the pavement; jam a knee in his diaphragm
. At the last second, Jin forced this horrible plan out of his mind. He would have to come up with something better. He tried hard to recall the training. Suddenly it came to him.

“
What seems to be the problem, officer?
”
Jin delivered the line just the way he had practiced in orientation.

The cop pointed again.
“
Can you move your bag, so I can get in there?
”

Jin looked to the bag. Now the logo on the side of the drop box was painfully obvious: a blue-and-white eagle
’
s head above the words UNITED STATES POSTAL SERVICE. Jin didn
’
t know why he hadn
’
t put it together before. The man
’
s uniform had the same eagle
’
s head embroidered above the pocket. This wasn
’
t a cop. This was a mail carrier. With a sigh of relief, Jin grabbed the bag.

“
Sure,
”
Jin said.

On the outskirts of town, a small bar was just opening for early-afternoon business. A large, faded wooden sign on the roof read,
Pioneer Post
. The evening rush had not yet begun; only three cars sat in the worn parking lot.

Inside the bar, Bruner sat at the counter, a chilled glass of Dewar
’
s Scotch Whiskey in front of him. He slowly twisted the glass around on the bar, watching the condensation stretch out into long curved lines on the hardwood, trying to decide whether he would drink it.

Actually, he had already decided
not
to drink it. He made that decision long ago, this morning sometime. Yet, he still drove to this bar.

His hand continued to ratchet the glass around in a slow circle. He stared down into the faint-brown liquid. If he stared at it long enough, he could make the color disappear completely. But it wasn
’
t the color of the whiskey that he was trying to make disappear.

Bruner felt he was steadily drifting away from his life. As days and months went by, it got farther away. To him, it felt like driving down a long off-ramp, watching the main road of his life getting farther and farther away. He wanted to stay on that main road. Instead, he was fading off and slowing to an inevitable stop.

He should be thrilled now. But for some reason he wasn
’
t. He had stumbled across a breakthrough, today
—
the kind that only comes along every few years. A license plate from the park this morning brought back matches from two previous sites. It had been standard practice to collect information from each investigation site, including vehicle tag numbers. The plate traced back to Stewart Faulkner, an agent for the Limestone Deposit Survey Group
—
a federal agency.

What do aliens have to do with limestone deposits
?
Are aliens attracted to limestone? Do they use limestone for some purpose?
Bruner had never seen a limestone connection before, but he was never looking for it. He mulled this over as he pushed his glass around on the bar. He would love to interview this Agent Stewart Faulkner. Perhaps Stewart had seen something that could shed some light on the matter.

Bruner cast a hard stare down at the drink. He could see both possible outcomes. He visualized himself walking away from the full glass, and of course he pictured himself emptying it in one shot. What was it going to be? Bruner had made the hard decision: he would track down Stewart and follow up this lead. Stewart had managed to stumble into three sites of suspected alien activity, so there was a good chance his work with limestone deposits would lead him to a fourth, and Bruner wanted to be there.

Now, Bruner moved to the easy decision: he would put the drink to its proper use. There was no hesitation or remorse. He had been here thousands of times, and he had never left a drink behind.

Weather Balloon

A 1984 Chevy C-10 pickup rattled down a long county road that cut straight as an arrow through endless fields of corn. It was the kind of vehicle that a collector would dedicate years to restoring and admiring. Ken Thompson, the driver and holder of the title, was not such a person. To him, this was just a work truck that he bought off a neighbor, way back when people used to write letters with pen and paper and when telephones were attached to walls, instead of being carried in the pockets of all his grandkids.

Jin bounced around in the passenger
’
s seat, his forearm crutched against the door with his elbow sticking out the window. The screen of the tracking device was a blur in his right hand from the bouncing of the truck, but he could see they were on the right course.

“
It dudn
’
t matter who you vote for, the same egghead
’
s gonna
be in office. They
’
ve already determined who it
’
s gonna
be,
”
Ken called to him, over the wind that washed back and forth through the two open windows. Jin knew he would never see this man again, so it didn
’
t matter how he responded. It only mattered that he not say anything suspicious or give the man cause to call the authorities.

After careful thought, Jin turned to the man and delivered his answer,
“
Ye
—”

“
They act like you can vote,
”
Ken cut him off,
“
but you can
’
t. They only count electoral votes, so they don
’
t even count your vote.
”

Jin quickly realized that this man wasn
’
t interested in hearing from him. He was more of a talker than a listener. So, as long as Jin didn
’
t try to vote right there in the cab of the truck, he wasn
’
t going to rouse any suspicion.

A crow bar, a dented paper cup, and an empty bag of chips bounced around on the floorboard, taking turns jumping on Jin
’
s shoes.

“
Global warming
’
s another thing they use to make money,
”
Ken prattled on.

The display screen showed Jin that his colleagues were just around the corner. He pointed to a patch of grass up ahead.
“
This is good enough. You can just pull off here,
”
Jin said. He had been practicing that line in his head for a few miles. He was bouncing between
good enough
and
enough good
. He wasn
’
t sure which was correct, and he hadn
’
t made up his mind until one version just came out. In any case, he was fairly confident that it wouldn
’
t make a difference to Ken, one way or the other.

The truck eased to a stop in the thick grass, and Ken shoved it into park.
“
That thing says your weather balloon
’
s here?
”
Ken asked. That was the story Jin had given him: that he was from the weather service, tracking a fallen weather balloon. Jin would love to take credit for the cover story, but it was actually one of the first templates he learned in basic training. When properly used, the details are changed to fit the surroundings and the situation. Jin figured he couldn
’
t be the first person to just rip off the template completely, without inserting any creative changes. Anyway, it worked.

“
You got your work cut out for ya
’
,
”
Ken said, looking into the dense cornfield.

Jin pulled a small, black cylinder from the bag and held it out to Ken.

“
Does this smell funny?
”
Jin asked.

Ken gave him a strange look, then leaned over and took a whiff of the cartridge. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell limp against the seat. Jin pressed a clear tube against the man
’
s arm and hit a button on its base. A sample of Ken
’
s blood was quickly drawn. Once the tube was full, Jin tossed it in the bag and placed the black cylinder back under Ken
’
s nose. This time he twisted the dial the other way, and invisible gas floated into the sleeping man
’
s nostrils.

When the gas took hold, Ken
’
s eyes popped open and he sat straight up. Jin was already halfway out the door, and he fed Ken a line to defuse any suspicion.

“
Yeah, you
’
re right,
”
Jin said.
“
I
’
ll make sure I do that.
”

Ken threw up a wave and nodded.
“
Okay, be safe.
”
He looked forward and stared out the windshield. It felt as if his mind was struggling to remember something, but he couldn
’
t pin it down. Jin disappeared into the cornfield with the supply bag on his back and the tracking device in hand.

As Jin pushed his way through the cornstalks, the display screen zeroed in a little closer with each step. He was expecting to hear one of them call to him. But as he reached the edge of a clearing, he saw something he didn
’
t expect: a farmhouse, sitting on an island of clear ground.

According to the tracking device, his team was just ahead, probably in the house. Suddenly, Jin felt silly for having thought they would be waiting for him before taking any action. From the looks of it, they may very well have commandeered a house.

Knock! Knock! Knock!
Jin
’
s fist tapped against the wooden door as he stood on the porch.
“
I
’
m tracking a weather balloon,
”
he whispered to himself in an awkward rehearsal, in case it was a stranger who answered.

He felt footsteps approaching from inside. He heard the knob turn and watched the door begin to open. He had decided he wasn
’
t going to panic, and he didn
’
t. But when the door swung open to reveal Lyntic, he felt his tense frame relax. Lyntic was all business as she waved him inside. He didn
’
t even notice she was dressed in a bra.

“
Did you get a blood sample?
”
Lyntic asked, as she shut the door behind them. Jin could hear the skepticism in her voice. He tired of her always doubting him, but at least this time he could harpoon those doubts. He lifted his hand from his pocket and presented the vial of blood.

“
Oh, good,
”
she said, with genuine surprise. He wanted to craft some great response that would highlight how capable he was, while pointing out how unreasonable she had been for doubting him. Luckily, before he could embarrass himself with any such attempt, Dexim entered the room and cut him off.

“
Are you all right?
”
Dexim asked, not as a polite gesture, but as an official inquiry.

“
Yeah, I
’
m fine,
”
Jin reported.
No, I
’
m not
, he wanted to say,
I landed on a freaking pile of beer bottles. I can only imagine how bruised and sore I
’
m going to be in the morning
. Instead of this, he simply repeated himself,
“
I’m fine.
”
After all,
having something to complain about is not a valid reason to complain
. Jin lived by these words, but they were not his: he had taken them from an inspirational poster he had seen as a kid.