Powering it up, she lay across the bed on her back and waited for it to come online. She felt the cubs moving in her belly and ran a hand over the rippling skin. It wouldn’t be long, another couple of weeks, maybe. The doc said they were growing at an unbelievably accelerated pace. Of course, he didn’t know at what speed the strange, new “blended” babies were supposed to grow.
She didn’t know either. She just knew what her body was telling her. And it was the only thing she could really trust around here.
The PDC was powered up now, and she had a signal. She couldn’t use the mansion’s comsat, for fear of being discovered, so she had to stay on the community core. But with all the traffic, the chances of her being detected were far less likely. It was like hiding in plain sight.
She popped up the hologram keyboard and began typing. She couldn’t waste time. Send what was needed and be done. Time was of the essence.
Vixen still at large. C. growing impatient and nervous.
After she sent the message, she knew it’d take several minutes to receive a reply as far as it had to transmit. This was always the most nerve-wracking time … the waiting.
It didn’t take near as long as she thought it would for the answer to come back.
Acknowledged. Continue to update.
She’d done all she could do. She hoped it’d been in time, and it’d be enough.
And she wondered how much longer she’d have to put up with that arrogant bastard Chastaine before she was finally allowed to slit his throat. She dreamed of that day. Every time he put his hands on her … every time he made her do some disgusting act solely for his pleasure and gratification, it made her stomach churn. Every time he beat her for the slightest infraction or strictly on a whim … he died a thousand times over in her mind.
One day, she promised herself for the millionth time … one day, he’d die for real. And she’d be the one to kill him.
***
“Here it comes!”
The ball of twinkling lights inside the dome suddenly expanded and belched out something metallic. It shot across the open area like a bullet from a gun, a large cylindrical object that bounced several times along the floor of the dome, spinning uncontrollably as it did. Authority personnel and Guard troopers scattered as it ripped through defensive barricades and over revetments, sending debris flying. It finally came to a halt when it slammed into an armored gunship, knocking it back a good hundred feet or so.
Lodged against the gunship, the steaming, hissing object looked like something out of a Jules Verne novel. With its bat-like fins, exterior piping, and sleek, cigar shape, it looked like the Nautilus gone to space. It seemed primitive, yet at the same time, there was a beauty in its crudeness.
It was also evident it was a machine of war. Some sort of weapons protruded from gun ports just below what was the cockpit area. Other armored gunships moved in, surrounding the craft and training their guns on it.
There was a loud pissshhh! as pressure was vented from the cockpit and the catches released. The seals broken, the metal-latticed teardrop canopy slowly began to slide back. Inside it, a lone, helmeted figure rose, his dark visor shielding his face. Outside, the troopers nervously sighted it in their crosshairs.
“You there! In the craft!” the officer in charge called out. “You’re surrounded!”
The lone figure didn’t seem fazed at all by this revelation. He calmly looked around, shrugged his shoulders and reached up to remove his helmet.
“Watch it!” the commander warned. “If it tries anything …” He had visions of some green-skinned alien with laser eyes burning them all to a crisp.
But it was only a man who stood before them, young and dressed in what appeared to be a pressure suit, like the ones the astronauts of old had worn. He was, most likely, in his late twenties, with close-cropped brown hair and a pencil-thin mustache. He was stunningly handsome, in an ancient sort of way, with piercing, hazel eyes that twinkled with a hint of boyish mischief. He looked about the room, and an arrogant, defiant smile formed on his lips.
“I gotta say … you all tha damnedest lookin’ folks I ever did see,” he said, with a hearty grin. “But if it’s all the same … I’ll happily be gettin’ on back home now.”
Captain Ambrose Beauregard James, 51st Pursuit Squadron, U.S. Army Space Corps, was soon to find out just how close to home he was.
About The Author
The author resides in the Birmingham, Alabama area with his wife, Jennifer, her two children, and the amazingly lazy rescue pit/lab mix, Hulk. A native-born Alabamian, he has lived his entire life in this area. When not writing, he enjoys traveling, music, Auburn Tigers and New Orleans Saints football, the beach, movies, and reading. He loves true crime, military history, men’s adventure, dieselpunk, and, of course, science fiction. His favorite writers are Wilbur Smith and Robert R. McCammon. An avid history fan and nostalgia geek, he enjoys collecting conversation pieces from bygone eras and has a cookie jar collection that numbers well over one hundred.
Please join my Facebook group:
J. Morgan Woodall's Rocket City Cafe
Visit my webpage atjmorganwoodall.com
Also, check out my other books:
Welcome to the Paradise
Li’l Red
Southern Born, Southern Bled
A Time Apart
Like a Fox on the Run
The Devil in
