IN THE WEE HOURS
Roma…
"Feel it?" Roma said as he and Mauricio waited in the basement. "It is beginning again."
"To what end?" Mauricio said sourly. "To send the rest of the device to the stranger?
Roma sensed that Mauricio was troubled…much more so than usual.
"What is wrong?"
Mauricio looked away. "I must tell you something. Earlier tonight I tried to eliminate the stranger."
"What?" Roma cried, suddenly furious. He'd half-suspected the creature would do something foolish, but had hoped his better judgment would prevail. "Without checking with me?"
Mauricio still did not make eye contact. "I felt it the safest course."
"You said 'tried.' I assume that means you failed?"
"Yes. And that is what is most disturbing. I had him down. I was about to deliver the death blow, when suddenly I was pushed away from him."
"Pushed? By whom?"
"By myself—or rather by some strange sudden impulse within that would not allow me to kill him."
Roma's anger evaporated. He did not like the sound of this at all. "Did you sense the enemy protecting him?"
"No. That is the strangest part. It seemed to be the work of the Otherness. I am very confused."
So am I, Roma thought. Why would the Otherness protect the stranger? It made no sense. Perhaps Mauricio was mistaken.
"You shouldn't have acted without my approval in the first place," he said. "I will tolerate no more of that, understood?"
Mauricio said nothing.
"I had a long talk with the stranger earlier. He is blissfully ignorant of the Otherness and anything connected with it. We have nothing to fear from him. When the second half of the shipment arrives, we will relieve him of both packages."
"In light of my experience with him, that may not be so easy."
Roma pondered that. He would not allow these anomalous events to rattle him. He would remain in control.
"That is why we must learn who he is and, as I said before, who he loves. With the proper leverage, we can move him in any direction we wish." Roma closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "Ah. Feel it?"
Right now he could almost smell the charge in the air. Once again he congratulated himself on his cleverness at being able to concentrate all these sensitives in one spot. They were lightning rods, so to speak, attractors for the influence of the Otherness, and as they slept they would draw it in and funnel its power through the building, weakening the barrier between this plane and the Otherness just long enough to allow something to slip through from the other side.
The second delivery was on its way now…he could feel the barrier thinning, the tiny rent beginning…
And once again, just like last night, that seepage from the other side would gift these sensitives with the worst nightmares of their lives.
James…
…awakens squinting in the white glare that pours through his room window, creating a brilliant rectangle on the carpet.
The light blazes intolerably, searing his retinas, so bright it seems solid.
Jim could swear he pulled the curtains before knocking off, but now they're wide open, as if pushed aside or burned away by this beam from above.
Where's it coming from? Sure as hell ain't the moon, and it's too white for sunlight.
He doesn't want to move, doesn't want to leave the security of his bed, but he's got to know the source. Like a reluctant moth wise beyond its genus, knowing its wings will be fried but slave to a hardwired compulsion, Jim is drawn inexorably toward the shaft of brilliance. Without allowing the light to touch him, he peers through the window at an angle but cannot find the source. Finally he takes the plunge and steps into the shaft—
—and screams as the light pierces him. It is a physical thing, lancing through skin, fat, bone and organ, spearing every cell of every tissue. He feels the birdshot sting of each photon as it shoots through him.
And once he is firmly and irretrievably spitted, the light lifts him like a speared fish and hauls him toward the window. He cringes in fear as he sees the glass rushing toward him. He raises his arms across his face and howls as he hits the glass…but his wail fades as he passes through it, leaving both window and flesh unscathed.
He's afraid—shit, he's one absofuckinglutely terrified little boy who wants to go home to Mama—but he's filled with awe and wonder as well. He's not trapped in the light, he's part of it, one with it. And as he looks up he sees its intolerably bright source, a circular doorway into the blazing heart of the Cosmic Egg at zero-point-one nanoseconds before the Big Bang.
He's not drifting toward it, he's careening upward at near light speed, far beyond escape velocity. He leaves behind the moldy apple of Earth, flashes past the moon, and hurtles through interplanetary space, past Mars, straight through the tumbling asteroid obstacle course, and on toward the red-eyed beach ball of Jupiter.
But Jim doesn't reach Jupiter. He's drawn into a huge saucer-shaped mothership hovering off Io. He flashes through the searingly bright portal. His universe dissolves into blinding liquid brilliance…
When he can see again, he finds himself naked, strapped facedown upon a gleaming block of polished steel in an oblong room with mirror walls. The surface of the block is cold and hard against his bare flesh.
He is not alone in the room.
The grays are here, perhaps a dozen of them, but it's hard to tell with all the reflections off the walls. They're not quite like the drawings he's seen, but close enough. They're big-headed, small-bodied, and three to four feet tall; their hairless gray skin is wrinkled, as if they've been left in the water too long. They float through the air, whether by levitation or zero gravity, Jim can't say. Probably levitation, because those puny legs don't look strong enough to support an infant. And nothing between those legs to give any hint whether they're male or female. Long skinny fingers at the end of long skinny arms, big, lidless slanty black eyes over a rudimentary nose and a slit mouth.
The wonder is gone, leaving only the terror. Jim feels something warm and wet pooling around his pelvis as his bladder cuts loose.
His voice echoes off the shiny walls as he cries out—inanely—in dread. "Who are you? What do you want?"
He knows damn well who they are. And he's afraid he'll have the answer to the second question long before he wants it.
None of the aliens pauses or even looks his way. They float on, going about their business as if he were a fixture.
Suddenly something cold is thrust between his buttocks, and a whirling searing pain shoots into his rectum. As Jim screams, a gray floats into view and hovers near his head. Nothing in those black eyes as they stare down at him. The gray lifts something in its hand: a slender instrument with a thin, needle-like probe attached to its tip. The alien extends it toward Jim's face, taking dead aim at one of his nostrils.
Jim screams again, writhing and twisting frantically within his restraints.
No! Please! Not a mind-control probe! Anything but that!
But he's utterly helpless, a test animal in a vivisection clinic. He can't even turn his head. All he can do is watch in crosseyed horror as the probe enters his left nostril. But instead of a stab of pain in his nose, Jim feels a sharp blow to the side of his head—
"What the fuck?"
He was on the floor of his hotel room, mummied in his sheets, his left temple throbbing with pain.
Damn, that hurts.
He wriggled an arm free and rubbed the spot, then reached out and felt the corner of the night table, inches away.
Must have fallen out of bed.
He unwound himself from the sheets and crawled back up on the mattress.
Kee-rist, another wild-ass dream.
He glanced at the clock: 4:32. Same time as last night. What was going on here?
He lay back, sweaty and trembling. Awfully fucking real, that dream. How could he be sure it was a dream? He felt his nose—no tenderness there.
And yet…
James Zaleski lay in the dark, trembling, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, afraid to go back to sleep.
Miles…
…awakens with a start to the sound of gunfire.
A dream, or real? And where did it come from?
Another burst of automatic fire—from the hall.
Miles leaps out of bed, pulls open the night table drawer, and reaches inside for his .45.
Gone! Panic nibbles at his entrails as he runs frantic fingers over the entire interior of the drawer—except for the Gideon Bible, it's empty.
Leaving the lights off he feels his way to his suitcase where he always carries a spare. But that's gone too. Miles jumps at the sound of an accented voice behind him.
"Don't waste your time, Kenway."
The lights go on and he sees a man in full military battle gear, all in black except for his pale blue helmet. He looks Japanese or Chinese, or maybe even Vietnamese.
"Who the hell are you?"
Miles knows full well who he is—not his name, but who sent him. He recognizes the uniform, and cold dread seeps through his soul. It's finally happened—the New World Order has begun its takeover.
"Your new master," the trooper says. He's pointing an AK-47 at Miles's gut. "Out into the hall."
Miles looks down at his undershirt and boxer shorts. "At least let me get—"
Without warning, the automatic rifle bursts to life. Miles cringes as it stitches a row of holes across the wall of the room.
"Move!"
Miles moves. Barefooted, he raises his hands above his head and pads toward the door. His heart thuds against his chest wall like a mailed fist. Where are they taking him? To a mass execution area? Or to a detention camp? Better a quick death here than a slow death in a camp.
With that thought powering him, he lowers his hands and grabs the doorknob. He pretends it won't turn.
"Something's wrong," he says. "It's locked."
The NWO trooper shoves the stock of his rife against Miles's back and barks: "Open it!"
"It won't turn, I tell you."
The trooper shoves him again and reaches past him…and that leaves only one hand on the rifle.
Do I have the guts to do this? Miles wonders. His bladder feels ready to explode and he's got so much adrenaline flowing through him now he feels like he's floating. Do I?
Guts or not, this may be his only chance, so that leaves him no choice.
Miles twists and drives his right elbow into the trooper's throat as he grabs the AK-47. The trooper lets out a strangled cough and staggers back, clutching at his throat. Miles knees him in the balls as he gets a two-handed grip on the rifle and rips it free. Without hesitation he aims and fires a short burst. The rifle kicks and bucks and blows the bastard through the window onto the street below.
Miles stares at the ragged hole in the glass. Jesus, he did it! All that training paid off! He blew the son of a bitch away!
Suddenly the remaining glass is shattered by a barrage from below. Miles turns, ducks, and dives for the door. They'll be after him now. No time to get dressed. He runs out into the hall and automatically turns toward the elevators. He stops. No. Too easy to trap him there. He whirls and runs for the stairs.
As he reaches the door he hears a commotion behind him. He looks back and sees a squad of NWO troopers rush out of the elevator foyer.
"Damn!" he whispers and pushes through into the stairwell.
He starts down but hears the sound of running feet echoing from below. He's got only one option now, and since there's only one floor above him, that doesn't leave him far to go.
He bounds up four flights to a red door. The sign says: