“Aliens? You must be joking.” Dr. Stanford Ellis collapsed into the chair with a squeak of faux leather. The last 6 hours had rocked his world to the core. Now, in this small, grey, military office smelling of paper and the Colonel’s unlit cigar, he faced the CO of the base. Emblazoned with ‘Top Secret’ in red ink across the cover, the offending file sat in the middle of a desk that fairly bristled with military efficiency. He closed his mouth and looked back across the desk toward Col. James Hardaker.

The Colonel certainly didn’t appear amused. He looked like a man who had never made a joke. Steel grey, regulation-cut hair topped piercing blue eyes while an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth oscillated on its own wavelength. He was a walking, talking monument to stress.

“That is currently our operating theory, unless you have an alternate one,” Hardaker replied out of the corner of his mouth opposite the circling cigar.

Stanford took a sip of water, his hand shaking as he lifted the glass to his lips.

He hadn’t expected this when they’d roused him from a dead sleep and hurried him into an SUV. Up to this moment, Stanford had felt hard done by. The two men in uniform had given him no chance to shave, shower, or even dress aside from throwing on a coat. Told nothing, they’d escorted him onto the air base in a manner more in keeping with a spy novel: being waved through every checkpoint before they slowed down to check ID’s.

They’d then shoved him into a lab containing two of the strangest objects he’d ever seen. One resembled a wide electric guitar, albeit with a number of strange lights and knobs. The other vaguely resembled a rifle, yet there was no visible operating mechanism, no chamber, and no magazine. Only the fundamental shape, a stylized firearm grip, something resembling a buttstock, and what could only be some sort of scope or display on top, really made it stand out from some interpretive sculpture.

Both items could serve as movie props.

Many hours and two pots of coffee later, he and the other half dozen laboratory staff continued to puzzle over the items. There were five bags filled with ordinary things like clothes and climbing equipment. However, they decided to focus on a few items packed amongst the more mundane objects which piqued their interest.

A medical kit filled one bag, identifiable by the plethora of bandages and pills. The unidentifiable elements of that bag included a few incandescent purple ampules that appeared ready for injection and some kind of diagnostic devices. A pair of bulky, yet feminine bracelets finished the medical bag inventory. After taking one of the ampules for analysis, they’d gone through the other bags carefully. Aside from another bag containing a small device that looked like a camera array with a display unit, there was little to interest them.

By far, the two most intriguing items were the weapon and the instrument and those were the objects responsible for his sleep deprived state. Stanford stifled a yawn.

So little progress.

When one of the other leads, Dr. Christine Brown, had picked up the weapon an electric jolt had knocked her unconscious. That was where Stanford completely lost his temper; if they didn’t know enough not to hurt themselves, they shouldn’t be doing this. He’d questioned the guards outside the lab, but gotten nowhere. He had tried to make a few phone calls to others on the base to help or at least get some answers.

Nothing was forthcoming.

Fifteen minutes after his phone calls Colonel Hardaker called the lab staff to the Facility mess hall. The Colonel proceeded to deliver a lecture about the need for operation secrecy and the applicability of the Espionage Act and then brought Stanford into his office.

Then and only then did the Colonel produce the woefully thin Top Secret file and a sizable stack of photographs. They were still warm from the printing. The date-time stamp on them coincided with Stanford’s arrival at the lab.

“They look human.” Stanford said as he reexamined the photos with a scientist’s eye for details. “What evidence have you got that they aren’t?”

The report from one Airman Stillson could have a number of possible explanations. None of which supported what the Colonel suggested to Stanford right now. “Conjecture is fine Colonel when it comes to unproven theory. But that report sounds more like your Sergeant Stillson has been spending too much free time reading blogs about Area Fifty One.”

The Colonel gave a blustering harumph and turned, picking up a remote as he flicked on a monitor. “The President asked the same question about their humanity. This was her and COCOM a few hours ago. You haven’t seen this footage. Am I clear?”

Clear, for the 34th time. Never understand why the military has to keep repeating not to talk about things. Stanford suppressed a groan of annoyance and nodded.

A four star General stood in the image, speaking at a table with some very important people. Behind him, large screens showed five individuals of various size and gender and Stanford guessed he was looking at the White House situation room.

” . . . It may just be a façade, ma’am. There’s a lot of confusing information, Madame President. Here is what we know. Almost three hours ago, using an unknown method of transport, the individuals you can see on screen appeared out of thin air at Patrick Air Force Base. Their arrival was witnessed by an airman on patrol. He described it as an ‘angry ball of sound and lightning’. In their possession was technology of an advanced and currently unknown function, including what certainly looks like a weapon.”

Hardaker pointed the remote at the screen, “You’ve seen the items,” the Colonel said wryly. He pressed a button and the figures on screen jerked and twitched as the footage sped forward. “I’m going to skip this part. They just talk about the objects you’re examining.”

“--what makes you think they are aliens?” Stanford couldn’t see who was speaking, but he saw the flicker of annoyance on the General’s face at the interruption.

“A major reason why we think these might be aliens, is the beings themselves. As mentioned, all five were severely injured on arrival. Air Force personnel gave medical assistance and took them to the base hospital. Dr. Gillette, if you please? ”

Stanford knew Gillette by reputation. The man was an M.D. with two Ph.D.s relating to theoretical biology. Typically, the government called on him to consult on patients when an experiment went horribly wrong. It was highly unusual for Gillette to take lead on any project. When Gillette spoke, jittery excitement colored his tone.

“Subject One. Mid to late teens, possibly Hispanic. Presented with third-degree electrical burns to over eighty percent of her body, consistent with the other patients. She should be dead. That amount of damage . . . it’s unbelievable she survived. At the time of arrival, sections of the dermis were black and charred, notably the feet and hands. As you can plainly see, the subject displays an extraordinary degree of healing, also consistent with her companions. This pink skin here,” Gillette motioned emphatically with his hands, “is new dermis. In just two hours.”

Once again, the recording moved forward at Hardaker’s push of a button. “They just talk about accelerated healing for a while,” he conveyed in a bored tone, indicating he’d watched this several times already. “Ah, here.”

Gillette’s excited manner resumed. This time an ultrasound appeared on screen behind him. “- connected directly into his nervous system, but we aren’t sure of the purpose. When we saw this, we examined the rest using ultrasound. Subject Three was a surprise.”

Doctor Gillette moved to the next bed which held an attractive and amazonian black woman. The woman was of sufficient stature that her feet touched the end of the bed, over six feet tall. The Doctor stood next to her right arm which didn’t appear to have suffered as much damage as the rest of her.

“This arm is a prosthetic. See just here?” Gillette pointed to a thin, almost invisible scar running around the shoulder joint. “This is where the prosthesis joins her shoulder. Prosthetics have come a long way in the last ten years, but we have nothing even remotely like this. This is cybernetics. Not prosthetics. Like Subject Two, it appears connected directly to her nervous system.”

Hardaker switched off the recording. “You don’t need the rest, Dr. Ellis and this is strictly need to know. So, accelerated healing, advanced technology, cybernetics. If they aren’t aliens, dressed in human masks or clones, what are they?”

Stanford leaned over the file, his mind ablaze with possibilities. “Concerning the devices in the lab, the weapon is an obvious one, but you think the . . . , “ he searched for an appropriate term and defaulted to Airman Stillson’s description, “the space guitar is . . . what?”

“We think that’s how they got here, Doctor Ellis,” The stogie circled around the Colonel’s lips like a fighter jet for another strafing run of bad breath and stained teeth. “One of them spoke about a ‘landing’. He was the one carrying that.”

“In English? Ok. Right: clones,” Stanford replied. “Wait. They’re here aren’t they? If this happened a handful of hours ago, you haven’t had time to move them. They’re here. In this facility, not the base hospital.”

The Colonel raised an eyebrow and the stogie circled again.

Stanford ran a hand through his hair. “They are your best chance at answers. You know that. What are they saying?”

There was a pregnant pause as the Colonel eyed him. He pursed his lips and pulled the stogie out with a sigh, “Not much. They haven’t all woken up yet. Those that have, seem to have amnesia. Could be a ploy.” The Colonel leaned back replacing the stogie, blue eyes narrowing.

“You know, if they are human except for the technology,” Stanford swallowed. I can’t believe I’m about to say this. “Time travel seems more plausible than aliens.”

“Yeah. One of the White House staff thought of that. Take a look at Subject Four,” Hardaker said.

Subject Four appeared to be a Caucasian man in his mid-twenties. His long greasy hair was dirty blonde, like the unkempt goatee hugging his chin. “Okay, what about him?”

“We turned up a hit on facial recognition. One Daniel Adder. Australian. Some big shot musician. Currently on tour in London,” emphasized the Colonel, allowing the implications to sink in. “Sounds like a clone to me. Current thinking is with the two of them the same age and general appearance, it’s aliens trying to blend in.”

Stanford frowned, unconvinced, “Hmm. But –“

The Colonel interrupted before Stanford could finish, “Dr. Ellis. I’m sure you can appreciate that I’m a busy man. You should be as well.” Stanford heard the unmistakable tone of dismissal. “Let me know what you find out.”

Stanford nodded and got to his feet. Before he could reach for the dossier and photos, Hardaker briskly retrieved it. Stanford left, closing the door behind him, idly wondering which room the subjects were held in.

If these are aliens, why clone someone famous? And not just famous, but an international rock star. That doesn’t make any sense.

Next Chapter: Date:  3rd of February 2017Location: 28° 14’ 5.4564’’ N 80° 36’ 15.2316’’ WTime: 11.21am