A Bellicose Dance Read online

  A Bellicose Dance

  Patrick MJ Lozon

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  Revision: 1.0

  ISBN: 978-1-7753222-2-1

  Copyright © 2019 by Patrick MJ Lozon

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  Dedicated to my family.

  Table of Contents

  1. Abduction

  2. Kalmaka

  3. Providence

  4. Oasis

  5. Visions from the Past

  6. Seed

  7. The Dancing Queen

  8. First Engagement

  9. Into the Breach

  10. Rescue

  11. Recruits

  12. Confrontation

  13. The Strengthening

  14. Everything Has a Cost

  15. Freedom

  16. Xilo

  17. Legacy

  18. Inception

  Acknowledgments

  1. Abduction

  D ust snaked over the blacktop of the highway in curling streams. It was a hot, dry night, just past nine o'clock. The Earth was surrendering her vast amount of heat collected during the day. By noon, the temperature had risen beyond the local records and this night, on the Majove, was a warm one. The small dust devils blew up randomly as the wind currents shifted back and forth.

  The soft rustling of the wind was abruptly drowned out by the tell-tale growling of a car's engine. Its lights appeared over the gradual rise of the horizon, beams reflecting off the almost barren desert landscape, creating shadows behind shadows.

  A lizard sprang off the hot asphalt barely in time as the Buick roared by, a blur of black steel and chrome. Its taillights quickly faded into the distance. The sound of its engine echoing to a low rumble, in turn giving way once again to the whispering wind. The desert’s creatures, momentarily frozen in fear, now slithered and scurried once again to search for their next meal.

  Behind the wheel of the Buick was a young man in his mid-twenties. He was Ryan James, one of four children of Martha and Edward James. A recent university graduate of engineering, with a new job working in automation control systems. Being the junior on the team, the position did not pay too well, but it provided him with the experience he needed. It was a start. Besides, he was good at it, accustomed to long hours, sweating over minute details.

  Tonight he was on his way home. He knew this route all too well, having been down this road more times than he cared to remember. It was exactly four hours and fifty-three minutes to the door of his parent’s house but he didn’t mind the long trip. It was a welcomed change. He couldn’t stand the four bare walls of his apartment for one more day. More importantly, today was special: it was his father's birthday, and he was late. It had been out of his control, but he felt lousy just the same, and he still had a long drive ahead of him.

  The first stars twinkled faintly in the evening sky. A veil of darkness was settling over the desert, devouring the last dying traces of a spectacular red sunset. Ahead, florescent dotted white lines turned solid as they drew closer, the Buick speeding over them in an endless game of catch up. He was so tired. It was so tempting to close his eyes and drift, to get lost in the rhythm of the car, to let the miles slip away underneath him.

  But that would be suicide.

  He shook himself awake, letting the thought sink in with a cold shiver. He hated driving down this desolate stretch of highway. More often than not, he could swear he caught a movement of something just outside his vision, just to the side, something traveling out there in the desert, always keeping up with him.

  He remembered catching a TV show on desert rally racers. One driver, after 40 hours behind the wheel, would start to see the image of a white horse running beside him.

  He would not be so lucky. It would be much worse.

  Far behind the lone, speeding vehicle lights appeared in the night sky. A faint murmur permeated through the air as something unusual passed overhead. The native creatures, once again rudely disturbed, retaliated with an unusual silence.

  Ryan edged the accelerator down. The speedometer needle climbed as the Buick’s engine pulsed with a steady thunder. He was proud of his car. It had taken a long time to restore it, and more than a few hard-earned dollars. The engine was far from stock, as he had beefed up the factory 350 to produce a respectable 450 hp.

  No one was on this stretch of road this late at night - not even the cops.

  He poured on the power. The speedometer needle climbed just past 96 mph when the dashboard alternator light flickered on. The Buick coughed, then stalled.

  His heart sank. He shifted into neutral and started to coast.

  What now? No electrical, everything’s dead. Fusible link maybe?

  He bothered to switch off the now dead lights. Soft moonlight guided him as he coasted silently onto the shoulder of the road. The Buick rolled to a stop with a short and final squeak of the brakes.

  He stepped out onto the hot desert floor, eyes now adjusted to the faint moonlight. The sound of his footsteps seemed to echo hollowly as they cut through utter silence.

  It was unnerving. He glanced around, peering through the blackness. So quiet. Strange to be so quiet. He glanced down the road. Movement. A brilliant, white light jabbed into his eyes, blinding him. Another car, coming in fast!

  In one frantic motion, he jumped and threw himself across the hood. A moment passed as he lay on the ground. There was no ensuing crash or roar of a passing vehicle – there was nothing: not a sound, not a movement, just bright, white light. He got up and dusted himself off. The light remained, steady and focused into a tight beam upon his car. He stepped back, and let his eyes trace the beam to its source.

  It lay straddled across the highway approximately 300 meters up the road. Flickering lights traveled along its circumference revealing a shape that was almost oval but pockmarked with irregular projections.

  The light suddenly blinked off.

  Ryan stood on the edge of the road and listened, but the only sound he could hear was that of his own heartbeat.

  Should he get closer? Is it dangerous? A brief moment of indecision seemed to last a lifetime, but insatiable curiosity eventually won out. He had to see. He had to know.

  Mentally mustering up the courage, he began a slow, cautious walk toward the object. Though still a considerable distance away, it emanated sufficient light to provide varied details. Sections of its surface were polished smooth; others charred black or hidden within the shadows. Its size became apparent. It was huge, at least 100 meters wide.

  He was closer now, less than 20 meters away. Every step brought with it a feeling of dread that twisted deep from within the pit of his stomach. It wrenched at his consciousness. He fought down an intense urge to turn and run.

  A faint movement ahead. He stopped mid-stride.

  There was something out there.

  He could make out some more details on the object now. Strange markings, unfamiliar twisted shapes, interrupted by scorched, blackened scars. A sound arose, very subtle, a whistle varying in pitch, accompanied by a low reverberating bass.

  Something was very wrong here.

  He glanced around quickly, feeling vulnerable, exposed. He made a quick step back, only to catch another movement in the corner of his eye.

  He never knew what hit him.

  * * *

  Around seven the next morning a gas station attendant on his way to work passed by the black Buick. He pulled over when he noticed the driver's door had been left wide open. As he approached the car, he noticed it had been abandoned with its keys
still in the ignition.

  He eased in behind the wheel and flipped the key. The starter whined and the engine caught, roaring to life readily. The attendant scratched his head, puzzled. He stepped out and cast a surveying glance around the area. Something strange lay up the road. His blank eyes sorted out the scene before him: depressions over a large permanent blackened scar.

  The idea registered slowly. He never considered himself very smart, and he never saw this before, but he knew it wasn’t right. The harder he stared, the sharper his idea became. With it came denial, then astonishment, then fear. He glanced around. Hot wind seemed to blow at him from every direction, carrying with it eye-scratching dust. He felt the fear creep up the back of his neck.

  Time to get outta here.

  He left the car there, hastily pulling a U-turn to head back to town, leaving plumes of dust in his wake.

  The local sheriff was the gas station attendant's brother. He was at the scene before he'd managed to drink down his morning coffee and his mood reflected it. He took another swig and spit it out.

  “Goddamned sand,” he cursed, tossing the cup to the side.

  He called in his crew of deputies. Crime scene tape was twisted around the car, stakes driven into the ground, and more tape strung across the highway. Pictures were taken. Radios were kept busy as traffic was re-routed.

  The two brothers stood in the middle of the blacktop. The sun was already beginning its relentless burn and the morning breeze was dry and hot. Everything smelled of cooked dust. The sheriff wiped the sweat from his brow and glanced over at his brother. He could read his features easily. After all, that was his job, reading people, knowing when they were lying, when they were hiding something, when something weighed heavy on their conscience.

  "I swear she's getting hotter every year," he stated, attempting to divert his brother from his troubled thoughts. He acknowledged him with a grunt, totally distracted by the scene ahead of them, watching the deputies who were busily surveying the sectioned off area.

  The sheriff raised his voice as he spoke into the wind. "You know it's funny, I had a talk with one of the old Indian chiefs last night. He said the locals are a bit nervous. Flying machines are snatching up people and taking them away. Damnedest thing I ever heard. I was thinking the old bugger finally lost it."

  One of the deputies heard him and looked up. "I reckon we have something close to that sheriff. Whatever this thing was, it was heavy enough to push three inches down into the asphalt."

  The deputy’s face was white, eyes wide. The man's tapeline was dangling in one hand, and his other was busy holding down his hat, trying desperately not to surrender it to a rogue dust devil. He was standing in one of the ‘depressions’ which pockmarked past both sides of the road and spanned out in a circular fashion. A shadow of burnt sand outlined the area where the main body of the thing must have sat.

  The sheriff knew what was coming, and it was the last thing they needed. A bunch of damn UFO crazies swarming up and down the highway, pitching tents, and bothering the locals. They were going to have a heyday with this one.

  "When you're done taking your pictures and measurements, get back into town and check the hotels, motels and the hospital," he yelled back.

  The sheriff glanced back at his brother, "I surely hope the poor soul who was driving this here automobile doesn't show up missing."

  His brother spat. "I think we both know the answer to that, already."

  A day later, an Air Force investigation unit was dispatched to examine the site. It was a special detachment, hastily resurrected to address a sudden and very real increase in unexplained events.

  * * *

  Ryan awoke face down with a tremendous headache. When he opened his eyes a flood of bright light literally blinded him, making his head hurt even more. He attempted to recall the past events. It all seemed blurred, like a bad dream.

  What happened? Where am I?

  He pulled himself up and instantly regretted it. A fresh surge of pain welled up from the base of his skull. Laying back down was the only way to make it subside. The floor on which he lay was cold and smooth to a texture of marble. He let his tortured eyes roam. Recessed lighting in the ceiling, walls that looked like polished stainless steel, bare, unremarkable.

  Again, he sat up, but this time more slowly. Every joint in his body ached. Just what the hell hit me?

  He reached for the back of his head and felt something warm and sticky. The light revealed his hand covered in blood - his blood. It made his stomach churn. He'd been hit, but by what? He had to get back to his car, back home.

  He tried to stand, but the pain quickly climbed to a ravenous ferocity. Sickened, he collapsed back down. His head swam. Bright lights swirled, and shadows filled the room. He closed his eyes and waited for the nausea to pass.

  Strange, pungent smells filled his nostrils. Blood, urine, mixed in citrus and underneath all that, the unmistakable smell of rotting death.

  A warm breath beating down upon his face brought him back. He opened his eyes to something. It was grotesque, hideous, stooped over close to him, examining him. Ryan screamed and frantically clawed at the floor to pull himself away. But it was ready for him. A thin, spindly, black hand clenched upon his arm. Something sharp cut into him. Instantly everything became blurry, out of focus. Sensation abandoned his body, leaving his arms and legs totally numb and totally useless.

  The world turned unreal. He was in the bottom of a pool, watching the light from the sun above dance through slow-moving ripples. The sun began to move. No. It was a light – no many lights – above moving by one by one. He was being dragged. The thing was pulling him along the floor.

  He managed to turn his head to again see dark repulsive shapes. He felt his body jump as one of the things kicked him savagely in the side. Dull sensations trickled into his mind, pulsating and unforgiving.

  Broken. Maybe one rib, maybe more.

  The view above changed to intermittent blocks of dim light and darkness, alternating in sequence, mesmerizing in his drugged stupor.

  It stopped. The thing reached down, hoisted him off the floor and tossed him sideways toward the wall. He waited for the crushing impact, but it never came. Instead, he fell through the wall and slid down a smooth surface, hitting bottom with a sickening thud. Above him, he heard a metallic clang, and all traces of light disappeared, surrendering to absolute darkness.

  Everything faded to blackness.

  Hours must have passed before he finally came to, suddenly and savagely, choking with pain – a sharp, cutting pain, like the fear he was feeling. His back was raw. His arm throbbed where the creature had injected him with some unknown drug. And his side was literally on fire. It was a familiar sensation, as he had broken his ribs once in a football game. It was the second sensation that really scared him: the smell. It was revolting. A hazy combination of vomit, compose, and rotting flesh. He gagged, bringing up the bitter taste of bile. The process forced the last bit of dullness from his mind and brought him back into full consciousness.

  He was scared. He was really scared. Was he a victim of some elaborate joke? Who? Who would do this to him? No one. No one had a reason. This was no joke. That thing had been real.

  He remembered the past images, like the remnants of some insidious nightmare. The face of his captor was imprinted sharply in his mind: fly-like head, dripping mandibles, long skinny arms drawing out to sharp claws.

  How did he get here?

  The object that had spanned the road had to be some kind of ship. He recalled how its skin was scarred and damaged. The details swarmed in his mind in silent reflection, like an old silent movie. Strange how he had missed all this before. He should have never stepped out of his car, should have stayed put, not let his curiosity get the better of him.

  Why hadn't he been more careful?

  He strained his memory for a clue, but could only wretch out brief, muddied memories of the last few moments: a shadow in his peripheral vision, a step back i
nto blackness.

  Aliens. Not human. Not some elaborate trick. Would they bring him back, like the stories of abductions he recalled from conspiracy websites? What did they want?

  He felt around desperately, groping at the smooth grimy walls of the cylindrical tube. He pulled himself up the slope and was able to feel the edges of the closed door that he must have passed through. There was no release, no handle. He continued to search, moving downwards within the darkness, approaching the other end, the flat bottom of the cylinder. He touched something slimy and warm. It wriggled and he sprang back frantically, letting out a frightened yell, pulling himself up the incline until he banged his head on the door.

  "Let me out of here you bastards!" he screamed. He pounded his fists against the hard, cold metal until they were too sore to continue, all the while cursing in desperation.

  No answer came.

  He was alone. His company was that of darkness, and a low, uncomfortable vibration reverberating through the walls around him.

  * * *

  Zorlog waited until he was seated comfortably in his chair before he turned his full attention upon his first officer, Charvok Kitohk. He glared with disdain at the Charvok’s image through the monitor.

  His constant high-pitched squealing voice and the unforgivable questioning of his decisions were finally beginning to take its toll. He had no use for this one, none at all. A typical political opportunist fool. His debt would have to be paid another way. No more favors to the Brinishe.

  "And do you agree, my Tarvok?"

  Zorlog took a moment to respond. As Tarvok of this vessel, he was the uncontested Commander. But one never had total control within the Xi-Empire slavership, as there were checks and double checks to follow. It was wise to exercise caution with all political officers – including this one.

  "What do you want me to say, Kitohk?"

  "I have ordered the slaves to be loaded into the freight compartments."

  "And I did not issue that order, did I? And I thought I was clear when I stated all the slaves are to be put into the shipping tubes.”