Mother Ship Page 2

  A gigantic dark mass hung suspended over Oklahoma City, motionless, defying gravity. It had the shape of a discus. Or a saucer.

  The sight struck him dumb, speechless, as waves of wonder and fear crashed against each other inside of him.

  But below his warring emotions, almost too soft to hear, a stranger’s voice whispered a single word:

  Finally.

  The soft voice sounded feminine, and young.

  With that, his phone vibrated madly inside his pocket.

  2

  9 days to extinction

  The flight from Santa Fe was uneventful, and the Uber driver who drove them home from the Will Rogers World Airport barely spoke. Cynthia rated him five stars for it. She always raised an eyebrow when the app gave “Great conversation” as one of its suggested compliments. Forced small talk did not make for a pleasant ride, in her books.

  Cynthia Edwards barely wanted to speak to her husband right now, and she sensed he felt the same. Not that they were fighting—talking just required too much energy. As Peter carried in their luggage, she made a beeline for the fridge.

  “Grab you a beer?” she called over her shoulder.

  “Please.”

  She opened two bottles and took them into their living room, where she placed one on the coffee table and sank into the couch with the other.

  The luggage inside, Peter went upstairs to the floor nestled over the garage—to check that their locked office door hadn’t been tampered with, she knew. She considered that basically unnecessary, but it was part of his homecoming routine, and it certainly didn’t hurt. If the files inside that office were ever compromised, it would change everything.

  “Everything normal?” she found herself asking as Peter crossed the hardwood to sit beside her. She’d allowed her thoughts to make her paranoid.

  “Yeah. We’re good.”

  She smiled, feeling a little foolish. “Well, I could have told you that. Max always respected our privacy. I doubt that’s changed since we left for Santa Fe.”

  He smiled back. “Then why’d you ask?”

  She had no answer for that, and they sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping their beers. The alcohol tasted incredible after a grueling trip filled with meetings. Their superiors wanted them to make the most of the summer months, when Max would be home. There were a whole new battery of tests that Cynthia and Peter were now supposed to subject him to, all designed to gauge his progress after one year at the academy.

  Peter set down his beer, half of it gone. “How are we going to introduce so many evaluations in a natural way?” Apparently, he’d been thinking about the same thing she was. No surprise there.

  “We’ll figure something out. I liked Wick’s idea, about serving them to Max as ads over Facebook. Set the bid high enough to make sure he sees them over every other ad. He loves challenging himself, and if we write the ad copy to speak to that, we can probably entice him to take the tests. It’s a great way to avoid tipping him off that we’re the source.”

  “Right. Yeah. We can try that. It would be good to have a Plan B, though, in case the ads approach doesn’t work. Or if Max starts to get suspicious. They weren’t exactly full of ideas about how to present this in Santa Fe.”

  Cynthia chuckled. “When have they ever been full of ideas on how to handle thing with Max? The few ideas they do have are usually terrible. Dealing with Max is our department.”

  “It sure is.” Her husband sounded tired—even more tired than she felt. He drained the rest of his beer and set the empty bottle on the table, sighing.

  Cynthia reached out and rubbed his leg. Neither of them enjoyed how cagey their jobs required them to be. Or the fact that the only family they knew was one built on a lie. But that was what they’d signed up for, and there was no path left except the one that led forward.

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and “The Imperial March” from Star Wars began to play. She and her husband exchanged grimaces. It was the ring tone she’d set specially for when Special Agent Janet Thompson called.

  Cynthia answered, putting the call on Speaker mode before placing the phone on the coffee table. “Janet.”

  “Cynthia. You have me on Speaker. You’re alone?”

  “It’s just me and Peter. We’re home.”

  That brought a brief silence from the agent. “You’re back in the city?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you been there?”

  “We’ve been in the house for maybe ten minutes.”

  “I see. I assume you haven’t watched the news. Or checked social media. Or looked outside.”

  Cynthia froze. Beside her, Peter went just as rigid.

  “What is it, Janet?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly as she braced for the answer.

  “They’re here. It’s begun. Sooner than we expected, and a lot sooner than we feared. They have ships over every city of any size. An invasion fleet. I need you both to lock the doors and sit tight—we’re sending an agent to get you out of the city. Where is the asset?”

  “Janet…he isn’t ready.”

  “He has to be ready. This is all the time we get.” Janet’s voice slowed, and she delivered her next three syllables in a clipped tone. “Where is he?”

  Cynthia didn’t answer, and neither did Peter. They looked at each other, eyes wide, both of them still basically paralyzed.

  “Cynthia?” Janet’s voice was cold, insistent.

  “Let me speak with General Andrews.”

  “Andrews has already left for Washington, to secure the president if he can. Our unit there is being mobilized as we speak. I’m in Oklahoma, so I’m in charge of operations here until he returns.”

  I don’t like that, Cynthia thought. That would mean Janet would also be in charge of what happened to Max—of how he would be treated. Especially if they lost contact with Andrews, and in almost every projected invasion scenario, interstate communications were lost.

  “Where is the asset, Cynthia?” the agent asked again.

  “Before I tell you, I need assurance that he won’t be harmed.”

  “Incredible. What kind of authority do you think you have here, Cynthia? You’re nothing but a glorified babysitter, and I outrank you by a mile. Tell me the asset’s location at once.”

  Cynthia drew a deep breath, steeling herself. “I’ll tell you on one condition, Janet, and I’ve already told you the condition.” She glanced at her husband. He nodded his support.

  “Your condition is moronic. The asset is barely an adult. He can’t be trusted to make the right decision in every circumstance. He may not be willing to cooperate at all. We need to reserve every option available to us to make sure he falls in line. You don’t get to dictate our approach, here.”

  “General Andrews doesn’t want him harmed.”

  “Andrews doesn’t, or you don’t?”

  A charged silence passed between them. Cynthia recognized the tactic: Janet often used silence to get people to give her what she wanted.

  Not this time.

  When Janet finally spoke again, she sounded angrier than Cynthia had ever heard her. “An agent will be there soon to bring you to me. When you get here, I will get his location out of you. One way or another.”

  With that, the call ended.

  Cynthia leaned into her husband, and he wrapped his arms around her. She burst into sobbing, surprising even herself.

  “I don’t trust her, Peter. Even if she had promised not to hurt him, I wouldn’t trust her.”

  “Me either,” he said softly. “But…do you think she sounded even harsher than usual? At the end, there?”

  Cynthia looked up at her husband. “What are you saying?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. It just…it keeps me up at night, how little we actually know about them.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling, to indicate who he meant. “We’re operating on the assumption they don’t know about us, about the GDA—and about what we’ve been trying to do. But what i
f they’re just letting us think that? What if they do know, and they’re confident they can handle us? What if….” He cleared his throat. “What if they’ve already infiltrated us?”

  Cynthia blinked. “You think they’ve compromised Janet somehow? Peter, if we think like that, it’s going to drive us crazy. If they can do that, then we have no chance. We have to assume it’s not possible.”

  “Yeah. You’re right.”

  She pressed into him again. “I wish Andrews hadn’t left.”

  They sat in silence for a long time. Cynthia couldn’t stop trembling.

  She knew how chaotic things were about to get. Leaving the house wasn’t an option. Trying to evade Janet wasn’t an option. The attempt would almost certainly kill them both, given what they knew would happen next.

  But letting Janet take them might be worse. Before her current position, the agent had been a CIA interrogator, with experience at black sites all over the world. Mostly in Iraq. Rumor had it that information she’d obtained had led to at least two significant victories against Al-Qaeda.

  Cynthia wasn’t sure she believed that or not. But there was one thing she was certain of: she didn’t trust the woman to be in charge of Max.

  She couldn’t think of two people more different than Janet and Max. Eventually, the agent would want him to do something that went against his morals—and that’s when she would start bending him to her will.

  How far would she be willing to go to control him? Cynthia gripped her husband more tightly. That was the question that kept her up at night.

  3

  9 days to extinction

  The phone’s lock screen displayed the full text of an emergency alert.

  “NATION UNDER IMMINENT ATTACK. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.”

  Max looked from the phone he clutched in his hand to the enormous object hovering above Oklahoma City, then back to the device. His mind felt like a motor turning over and over, failing to engage.

  “Guessing you got the same thing I did?” Jimmy was holding his phone too, staring at it like it had turned into a banana. He turned it so Max could see a message identical to the one he’d gotten.

  “We should turn on the news.”

  They went inside wordlessly, Max taking an overstuffed armchair splitting at the seams while Jimmy grabbed the remote and dropped onto the couch. The TV took a second to come on, and when it did, a black bar drew Max’s eye to near the top of the screen, where white text read “EMERGENCY BROADCAST SYSTEM.”

  A woman with a grave expression sat at a desk holding a sheaf of papers. “—unsure where they came from or what they—”

  Jimmy mashed the remote, flicking through channels. Every single one had become an outlet for communicating information about whatever was happening. Some relied only on text, which scrolled by in front of colored bars. Other channels featured people speaking to the camera. But every channel bore the same black box, with the same words.

  EMERGENCY BROADCAST SYSTEM.

  Jimmy stopped at the first twenty-four hour news station he came across: CNN. Max barely ever watched TV, and he didn’t know the dark-skinned anchor sitting behind the desk, calmly telling the world about its end.

  As he spoke, images from all over the world showed more ships like the one they’d seen, hovering over major cities in every country. Some of them floated in clear blue skies, like the one over Oklahoma City. Others were barely visible against the black of night. Rain battered some, and one, suspended over Mendoza, Argentina was caught in a hailstorm. None of the ships seemed affected by the weather. They all just hung there, motionless.

  “So far, the objects have refused all attempts at communication. China has deployed a squadron of its Chengdu J-20 fighter jets to confront the craft that appeared over Beijing. At this time, the US has launched no attack. We will keep you updated on the result of China’s efforts.”

  Jimmy turned toward him. “You should call your parents.”

  “Yeah.” Max blinked, feeling dazed after watching the images on the screen. “They’re probably back at the house by now. They need to get out of the city.”

  “Not just that. They probably know what’s happening.”

  “Why would—?” Max cut himself off. Normally, Jimmy’s flights of fancy amused him, but just now they were getting under his skin. Something real was happening, something catastrophic, and it had nothing to do with Jimmy’s internet conspiracy bullshit.

  Then again, wasn’t this exactly the sort of thing those conspiracy theories predicted?

  He found his dad’s cell number under “Recently Contacted” and tapped it, then hit Send.

  “Max.” Peter Edwards sounded on edge, which Max could sympathize with. “Are you safe?”

  “Yeah, Dad.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At Jimmy’s. On the acreage.”

  “Thank God. You’re safest outside the city. I want you to stay there, okay?”

  “Okay. What about you? You and mom should come here, too.” He raised his eyebrows at Jimmy, to confirm that was okay, and Jimmy nodded vigorously.

  “We can’t come right now. But we’ll be safe, too. The government has a plan in place for national emergencies. Key personnel will be taken care of.”

  Max tried to grasp what Peter Edwards had just said, but his mind was having trouble contending with it. “Wait. Key personnel. Are you saying you’re key personnel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” Why would biotechnicians be considered so important?

  “You know I can’t tell you that. Just stay at the Somerton acreage, and we’ll be in touch soon. We’ll come and get you, or someone from the agency will. The families of key personnel are going to be protected as well.”

  “What about Jimmy?”

  “He can come too. In the meantime, things are going to get very chaotic—even outside the city. I need you to bar the doors and turn out the lights. Draw as little attention to yourselves as you can. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. But, Dad…what’s going on?”

  “I have to go now. Remember what I said. Stay safe. Someone will come to get you and Jimmy soon.”

  The call ended, and Max slowly lowered the phone to the chair’s armrest as he returned his attention to the screen. Something seemed off about the newscaster. He’d moved on to discussing mounting riots in almost every American city, but he was no longer doing it with the grim professionalism everyone expected from newscasters when they were talking about tragedies.

  Instead, he wore a wide grin, the tips of his incisors showing.

  “Are you seeing this?” Jimmy said.

  Max nodded. The paper was shaking in the newscaster’s hands, and a fat bead of sweat shone on his upper forehead.

  A piercing scream cut through the studio from off-camera, followed by a thump. The newscaster didn’t react. Instead, he continued to read from the teleprompter, his grin widening. “This just in. As they approached one of the mysterious objects, China’s entire squadron of Chengdu J-20 fighter jets had their weapon systems disabled before they could fire a single shot. It appears we are confronted by a technology vastly superior to our own.” He giggled, head tilting back slightly as he crumpled the paper in his hands.

  The newscaster rose to his feet, fists clenched and trembling, his gleaming eyes riveted to a spot off-screen. He continued to laugh and sputter as he read from the teleprompter. “The White House is urging Americans everywhere to remain calm during these trying times, and stay in their homes while officials—”

  A figure entered the frame in a blur. Max spotted something in his hand before he tackled the newscaster, and they both disappeared behind the desk. The attacker’s head rose into view, and so did his fist, which gripped what looked like a paperweight.

  The paperweight descended, something crunched, and blood flew. Then the attacker lifted his arm and brought the weapon down again. His arm entered and exited frame several more times. The newscaster’s hands flailed, tr
ying to get a grip on his attacker, but soon enough his struggle ended.

  With that, the attacker froze, staring down at his victim. A look of pure horror crossed his features, and his shoulders rose and fell rapidly.

  He’s hyperventilating, Max realized.

  Gradually, his features went blank, and his breathing slowed. He let out a long sigh. Then he stood, the bloody paperweight still in hand, and walked off-camera.

  All that remained in sight was the empty desk and blood trickling down the city skyline behind, revealing the view to be a green screen.

  Max and Jimmy looked at each other.

  “Jimmy, where’s your dad?”

  His friend’s eyes went even wider than they were. “He was cutting hay with Rex. The guy he hired on last fall.”

  “We should go check on him. Right?”

  They jumped to their feet and tore through the house, Max right behind Jimmy. They both still had their shoes on, so they ran straight through the front door, and Max didn’t bother closing it behind him.

  The Somerton’s hay field was behind a large barn, away from the horse paddock and the house. Max’s stomach flip-flopped as they dashed around it, and he tried not to think about what they might find.

  Jimmy rounded the corner, then stopped abruptly, so that Max nearly collided with his backside.

  Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that awaited them—not even what they’d just watched on TV. After all, that was TV, and not actually real. Even if it had happened on a news station.

  Avery Somerton was lying face-down on the ground, and a man—Rex, Max guessed—was using an iron rake to methodically hack at his body, the metal tongs driving into flesh again and again with a wet slapping sound. Pools of blood covered the hay around the pair.

  Jimmy said something, or tried to. It came out as a strangled croak.

  It was enough to get Rex’s attention. He turned wild eyes on Max and Jimmy, then gripped the rake with both hands, pulling it out of his victim’s back.

  Max grabbed his friend’s arm. “Jimmy, come on.”

  “No,” Jimmy yelled, a sob muddling his voice.