The Sensitives

By D. O. Thomson

The aliens sat on the back side of the moon, watching as humanity without power or communications regressed into the dark ages. Millions died. In six months, Zul will complete their conquest of Earth with no Zulon blood spilled.

Survivors will be given opportunity to work the Zulon farms to raise Canapopius, a plant that is the base for the most potent drug in the universe, and distributed by the Zul cartel.

A small group of evolving humans, unaware of the alien involvement, works to expand new abilities. Called Sensitives by their founder, they become entangled in an intense battle with the aliens in an effort to save Earth and its people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. O. Thomson
• Release date: Jun 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310498985

D. O. Thomson

D.O. Thomson author "The Sensitives" So how do you get into this crazy writing business? It's a twisted path in either music or novels. I can only relate how I got hooked at an early age. My mother used to take me to the library every week with my sister. We would check out books, of every kind, and read them before the week was over. My early reading was so diverse I can't remember all the different areas covered. I still pick up something to read anytime I sit still. It's a habit that falls into the compulsion level. Loving to read as I do, it seems strange that I carried the story of the 'Sensitives' around in my head for decades. It finally started erupting two years ago came to completion in June of 2014. Life just kept getting in the way of writing a novel. It's not an easy process. You have to be committed. During the writing process my wife often thought of doing that very thing. Having me committed.. Now I am in the middle of writing a second book as part of a trilogy spinning off the first book. I spent several years as a Nashville BMI songwriter with a major artist cut to my credit plus several regional artists recordings. I am a former major market radio personality and broadcast consultant living in the middle of nowhere in the Hill country of Texas. In addition to reading I enjoy sailing, golf and dog training. My German Shepherd Marie and the many characters in my head live on a few acres north of Austin Texas. It's not the end of the world but if you climb on my roof and look hard you can see it.

Book preview

Chapter 1

June 5, 2078. Frank Leslie sat on his front porch looking at his dark neighborhood. After five days without electricity, Personcom communication devices still worked, but not well and with no visual service. The city’s backup power ran the water pumps, so Frank’s toilets flushed and his shower flowed.

High humidity filled the night air, a normal condition this time of year in Mississippi. The unmistakable scent of honeysuckle in bloom floated in the breeze. His block had a small town atmosphere and he missed the old-fashioned streetlights glowing on the sidewalks. A few houses had generators; the noise of them running disturbed the night as the exhaust mixed with the sweet honeysuckle.

Most of the homes showed the flickering of candles. Frank located an old lantern to provide light and a two-burner kerosene camp stove for preparing meals. He took half a day to find a manual can opener: he hadn’t used one in years. It was an old Swiss Army knife with the right kind of blade. It proved slow and awkward, but workable. On the second day of the outage he started cooking everything from his refrigerator freezer so his food would spoil less quickly. A pantry full of canned goods and available containers topped off with water provided some comfort. If the water stopped flowing, sanitation would become a problem; a bridge to be crossed later.

Lightening strikes from a thunderstorm flashed west of town as a cool front moved into the warm moist air. These conditions could produce tornadoes. His battery powered all-bands radio provided reports with limited information on the loss of electricity. Opinions seemed scattered and confused about what happened but it appeared to be a global phenomenon. One Ham operator reported that in addition to the basic problem, all the satellites had quit functioning.

His neighbors from across the street came by to check on him, knowing he depended on an oxygen concentrator. Frank used much of his energy to breath. When resting, he didn’t have the sixty-pound cat sitting on his chest; however, small amounts of exercise brought the pressure right back. His portable device ran plugged into his car’s lighter receptacle and he started the car twice a day, running in idle for half an hour to aid his lungs.

Frank’s car held more than three quarters of a tank of fuel but his neighbor said that getting additional gas was impossible because stations with supplies underground had no way to pump it out. He didn’t know what he’d do when he ran out.

On a larger scale, millions had little food and many had no way to cook what they had because they lived in exclusively-electric homes. Folks got creative and neighborhoods reeked of wood smoke after they tore down fences to fuel fires for preparing meals. Tent cities popped up in parks and other open spaces. Sanitation would be a significant issue in short order.

Survivalists had expected the power loss for years, so they were prepared. They packed up and headed to predetermined locations near water, and set up camp. Then they hunkered down, guns ready, and waited.

In major metropolitan areas, burglary, theft and gang fights occurred with regularity. Sheer volume made it impossible to control. The National Guard helped, but they couldn’t be everywhere. Garbage piled up in the streets and disease would not be far behind as hospitals and clinics reached the end of their supplies. No fuel trucks delivered, and refineries sat idle. Unlike previous major tragedies from weather or other natural disasters, no safe zone existed, and no superpower could come to the rescue. Everybody fought for survival.

In a third world country you might not be aware of the loss after two weeks without electricity. Living off the land, in primitive conditions, seemed a normal existence for Abidkerim, who resided in the small village of Bayahow some seven kilometers from Jowhar. He studied by candlelight and helped his father with the livestock. Two men from the veterinary school in Mogadishu had come to his area today to check cattle for mad cow disease, and they told stories about the total power outage worldwide. In their city, food was running out, with the militias stealing everything and people leaving in droves.

Three weeks without electricity. Thousands of people started dying for a multitude of reasons as hospitals reached the end of their resources, and violence escalated. People streamed to the countryside to escape. Cars and trucks packed with survival goods crowded the highways.

Any area providing a water source teemed with new residents in tents or other makeshift quarters, and the liquid became the new gold, with murders occurring frequently to secure locations with that resource. ‘Civilization’ was becoming a word of the past.

The gleaming, polished windows of Sarah’s high-rise in New York reflected the late afternoon sun. Twenty-one days into June, looking at the building from outside, everything appeared the same as the last day in May, except a total lack of traffic.

Inside, cluttered hallways filled with the stench of rotting garbage and human excrement in bags. The smell was unbearable. Most tenants left the first week, but Sarah Weinstein had nowhere to go.

She had run out of any real food two days ago, so she subsisted on dry cereal and crackers, eating in small bites, well spaced, to hold off the hunger. She stared out the expansive window at the normally beautiful view. Central Park had become a mass of tents surrounded by piles of garbage.

She walked back to the bathroom. Her last bath on Wednesday was before the water stopped running. Today she added Archipelago Botanicals Lavender salts to the remaining tepid water.

After pouring a large glass of Champagne from a bottle she opened earlier, she carried a handful of pills prescribed to help her sleep, and her flute, to the tub. She took all she held in her hand, chased by sips from her drink. Then, after refilling her glass, she slipped off her robe and stepped into the bath. It felt incredible, even with semi-warm water; and the fragrance was even better. She leaned back, sipping the expensive lukewarm Champagne, and waited.

In Mississippi, Frank Leslie stood on his front porch in an eerily quiet darkness with all the generators shut down. Water had stopped flowing a week ago, and his Personcom lost its charge, so he couldn’t call anyone. His back yard became his potty. His friends across the street packed up and left, looking for a location to survive. Most houses on the block stood deserted.

The car’s gas gauge rested on empty. Frank’s food supply was totally gone and his breathing was impossible. In two months he would be eighty-four. So during the third week of the outage, Frank drove his car into the garage and closed the door, plugging in the oxygen concentrator but leaving his mask on the seat. He opened the car window on the driver’s side, leaving the car running, and the exhaust fumes filled the space.

On a ranch near Albuquerque, Hunter Weston watched TV from a local source. The picture was fuzzy, but on their small antenna it was all you could get. The station no longer received any network feeds and the announcers stumbled around, trying to fill all the hours. One report earlier indicated that all satellites were out of service.

The small generator kept everything going at the house, but they took care to monitor the load they put on it. The residents of the ranch, eleven adults and four kids, all gathered in the large common room.

Shana asked, Hunter, do you think the Jihadists are responsible for this power outage?

To tell you the truth, I don’t know. Some of this doesn’t fit. What do you think, Harmon? You have a lot of experience with those guys.

Not much time has passed, and we don’t have much information, but what we’ve learned doesn’t match. The Jihadists always make a public spectacle of their attacks, and there are no reports of explosions or mass shootings or anything else matching their MO. To be honest, I’ve got my doubts. This seems more like something the Chinese might pull off with their hacking units. I wonder if they’ve done something to screw up the power grid software?

Race said, That’s possible.

Keaka sat on the floor with the kids. How long do you think this might last?

Race answered, I don’t have a clue. If it’s still down a few days from now, we’ll need to make some decisions.

Lewis said, If we don’t recover service soon, I may be a permanent resident.

Hunter laughed: Remember: I told you that if you needed a place to hunker down, we’ve got plenty of room.

By Wednesday, following the big outage, nothing had changed except that getting Personcom service had become impossible.

Six days later (eight days into the event), power had not been restored. The local stations announced their fuel supplies were depleted. They reported problems with looting and gangs roaming the streets, and then no TV signal. They heard an occasional Ham radio operator.

Shana translated a broadcast bouncing in from India. Conditions are bad. People are near the panic stage, and residents are rushing to get out of the city. Water is in short supply. Our national government ceased to exist. The army maintained control for a few days, but disappeared. The streets are not safe because gangs have taken over. India’s problems will be compounded soon by the start of the rainy season. The signal faded.

Race, hearing the reports from Albuquerque, decided that he and the other men should keep a close eye on the front gate. During daylight hours, two men split shifts, watching for activity. They worked three and a half hours, two times a day. The way Race planned the schedule out, each man pulled observation duty about every third day, and they made random rides to other parts of the ranch looking for signs of strangers.

They had plenty of two-way radios on chargers, and they transmitted a long way with a clear line of sight. Local communication would not be a problem. Race gave instructions to everyone to stay off the air except in an emergency, because he did not want to draw attention to the group. They might not have trouble way out here, but he liked being prepared.

Three weeks after the lights went out, Harmon sat at the kitchen table with his son Brax and Rish. The kids played some mental game, and it didn’t include him. The young Sensitives often withdrew into their own unique world. They had a maturity and depth of understanding far beyond their years. Harmon’s mind drifted back to the not-so-distant past, before his name change. He still reflexively responded when Krystal used the name when calling their son.

He had used the name Brax a lot longer than his new one, Harmon. He sat thinking about the twisted path leading him to the Sensitives.

Chapter 2

Over thirty years ago, March 14, 2048 Earth date, the plans for destruction of the planets power grid and communication infrastructure began.

Waiting on the backside of the Moon, Zzens assimilated the data coming from his monitor, which lay 6000 feet deep in the largest ocean on his newly-discovered planet. The unit had been on station over one cycle, deploying a surface communication buoy nightly. One Zulon cycle equaled to one Earth year. He collected enough background material to allow Zzens to think in terms of this planet.

The superior species, homo sapiens, only existed for the past two hundred thousand cycles. His species started traveling space long before the humans developed. Earth, as it was called by the natives, seemed perfect for growing Canapopius, the lifeblood of the Zulon Drug Cartel.

The first survey of atmospheric and gravity conditions indicated exoskeleton pressure suits would be required for a Zulon to work on the surface. Every Zmcycle Zzens received a report from the surveillance probe that expanded his knowledge. After a full cycle, he found 7000 different languages on Earth. His Ztranslator identified them, and after breaking down their essential structure, estimated the potential that they would understand basic Zul as zero. So he made no particular efforts to scramble his reports. The earthlings might discover the signals being sent, but would never be able to translate them.

Zzens led a crew as a Cartel wormhole mapper. Only three Zulons crewed a mapping ship. The vessel with a capacity of seventy-five seemed overly large for the work they did, but the extra space accommodated hundreds of the tiny surveillance probes, which moved much faster than the mother ship.

They also carried several Skimmers. Experience dictated three would be the optimum number of explorers. They lost a lot of ships trying to map the wormholes. The latest versions of Zulon spaceships traveled at about a tenth of the speed of light. Planet to planet trips were easy, but without the wormhole jumps, galaxy-to-galaxy proved impossible. The Skimmers moved faster than the mapping ship and were more agile. They would be put to use when the Zulons reached the surface of Earth.

Zzens was young, under a thousand cycles, and full of himself, and he had discovered this backwater planetary system with one of its planets proving ideal for growing Canapopius. He estimated that the planet would support millions of plants and the native population would be available to work the farms. He contacted Zul, and a return transmission confirmed a megaship with proper supplies and personnel had started on its way to his location, eta in thirty cycles. Even though he had learned English, it was still difficult to think in earth measurements. Cycles equaled years and Zmcycles were days.

He set his ship’s protection alarms and went into stasis. They would be stimulated out of their deep sleep when the megaship reached the solar system.

Earth would have unexpected visitors in 2078.

September 16, 2048, time 0223Z.

Blackfish II US 803 came to periscope depth. It was a dark night with no moon, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. The sub maintained its position while they collected messaging from COMSUBPAC and updated their exact location. They also acquired family grams for the crew.

They stayed on station at periscope depth for about ten minutes, then the Skipper ordered all stop and ballast blown, bringing them to the surface for fresh air. As they surfaced, a cable crossed their deck and a loud clank rang through the sub as something banged into the con tower.

The bright deck lights turned on. Two submariners started topside to see what had caused the noise. They opened the hatch and found a buoy with an antenna attached to a two-inch thick cable running across the deck and down the starboard side into the sea. Both items had the appearance of some sort of metal, and they were hung in the railing on top of the con tower.

The officer on watch came out of the hatch to evaluate the entanglement. He saw no markings on the cable or buoy. He thought, Wonder what the hell it’s attached to way out here? We’ve got over six thousand feet of water under us.

One of the submariners asked: Sir, do you want us to get that buoy off the con tower?

Not yet. I want to make sure we tie it off so we don’t lose the whole thing. Once you secure it to the cleats, you can unwrap it.

They started down the ladder to the deck.

The Officer went back through the hatch. Contact COMSUBPAC. Ask about any commercial efforts at this coordinate. Also ask about China or Russia’s operations in this vicinity. Tell them we picked up an unidentified buoy with no markings of any kind still attached to a cable, and tell me when you get something back from COMSUBPAC. I’m going back on deck to try to figure out what we’ve got.

He went back up the ladder.

The sub started to slip sideways. Pressure on the secured cable increased, and they were developing a list to starboard. Without warning they rocked back to the port side as all the strain evaporated, with the cable appearing to lose its deep-water connection.

Try pulling the slack in now, the officer said.

Yes sir.

Both men reached down to grab the cable and quickly backed up.

The officer asked, What’s going on?

The taller of the two answered, Sir, the cable is untouchable, its so hot.

As they stood on deck, the cable started glowing intensely and paint under it burned, sending smoke drifting above the sub. The buoy began to glow and exploded, knocking all three men flat, and seconds later a second explosion from deep in the ocean rocked Blackfish like a far-off depth charge.

Men came pouring on deck to help their fallen shipmates. Others accessed the damage to the sub. No bulkheads were damaged and no water leaked. Divers were dispatched over the side to check the hull and props but everything seemed to be in order. The medical officer tended to the wounds of the men. No one had sustained a serious injury.

Final assessment: The Blackfish II had no significant damage. They contacted COMSUBPAC and reported the incident, and received orders to return to Pearl Harbor.

Back at Pearl, scientists swarmed the submarine. The remnants of the cable and buoy would be subject to examination for months. The metal was light, strong, and of an unknown source. The explosive residue matched none of their chemical compositions. In the end, they discovered nothing.

238,857 miles away, alarms rang...

The feeding tube supplied nutrients to the Zulons while they were in stasis. It also became the conduit for a stimulant drug designed to awaken the space travelers as needed.

In the case of an emergency, massive stimulants would be injected, bringing Zzens to a conscious state in a rude awakening.

He had been through the process enough times to expect that whatever had happened was not good. This one was easy: no transmissions, as the probe had failed to report for two Zmcycles. His experience told him it self-destructed.

What he couldn’t guess was: did someone discover it transmitting and try to capture it? Did the earthlings have remnants in their possession?

His mind began responding normally. Even if they secured small pieces of the buoy and tether, they would not be able to identify its composition or origin. However, the parts could serve as a warning.

A transport vessel hitting the cable at the wrong angle would cause self-destruction. The resulting explosions would be obvious, but a supertanker couldn’t maneuver in a manner to pick up remnants.

Zzens decided to send replacement probes into three separate water areas to prevent losing information flow again. He would place two in the water described by the Earthlings as the Pacific, and one in the smaller Atlantic. He was getting better in his use of English, the Earth language he chose to learn because it seemed universally accepted. He still found difficulty transposing distances and time from Zulon to the new language.

While he programmed the probes, he thought about his plans. Their history of acquisition long ago proved that conquest by brute force was counterproductive and unnecessary. Zzens harbored no ethical problem over killing. Human life had no value to him, other than as farm workers. Armed conflict wasted resources.

The makeup of Zul society was unlike any other planet. Zzen studied the recordings of all their classic Mappers and no one had ever reported another species with the same social structure. They had two classes of citizens. The defining factor was not a caste system, but rather a true physical difference in actual brain size and ability. Class A Zulons compartmentalized processes, dealing with issues in real time with one part of their brain while doing deep analysis of unrelated information with another section. The function was not unlike having two computers running separate programs in the same room.

The Class A population had Mind Touch. If two Class A Zulons occupied the same solar system, they maintained constant contact. The Mind Touch absolutely prevented any other species from trying to pass as a Zulon. Shapers on some planets mimicked other species; but they didn’t fool the Mind Touch. In addition, a Class A Zulon continued to compile new information while in a stasis condition.

Class B Zulons lacked those capabilities. They dealt only with a particular issue until completed. Afterward, they turned their attention to the next problem. Class B citizens could never be Class As. It was not a learnable skill set. They evolved differently.

Zulon society allowed no cross-pollination. All Class A children came from Class A parents. There were no ABs. All Dominates of Zul, all Spaceship Commanders, all Mappers, all Inventors, all Analysts and all Prime Directors of enslaved planets developed from Class A.

The Class B Zulons numbered in the millions while the Class As were a few hundred thousand. Class A did the thinking and technical development. Class B was regulated to manual labor.

Zzens finished the programming and set up departure times for the new probes. He returned to stasis for a twenty-nine and a half-cycle nap.

Chapter 3

Tomorrow celebrated the fourteenth reunion of the Westwood class of 2060. The high school was near the site of the Newark dirty bomb incident. The radical Jihadists started getting their hands on spent radioactive materials before Brax had left grade school. By the time he finished high school, dirty bomb attacks had occurred in thirty-eight cities around the world.

His current job was to make sure the Jihadists never got their hands on a real nuclear device. They never stopped trying.

His day started with other problems. More than a third of his Personcom system had malfunctioned. He could not afford to be on any open channel. The agency he worked for didn’t exist. It was necessary that his communications be secured on scrambled beams. This was a real pain in the ass. Central scheduled a Robo-tech at his cube at 1400 for repair or replacement. So, he waited.

Everything was screwy this morning. The damn regeneration chamber seemed to be taking forever to rebuild the missing digits of his right hand. The process, still new, was effective only if you started in twelve hours or less.

Brax activated his mental display screen and noted by his bio-clock that he had been clamped in the chamber for three hours, twenty-three minutes, and forty seconds. Seemed like a month.

He scanned the available Reality News channels for a report on the fight he’d been in last night. Fight Palaces were filled with low lifes, dopers, gangbangers, extortionists and ex-cons. The Jihadist recruiters found plenty of potential in there. Brax had been approached on more than one occasion. He developed a reputation as a bad ass; exactly what he needed to be able to move in those circles. He created lots of contacts in the underbelly of the world.

The safety latch on his wrist released, and the chamber hum subsided. Brax removed his hand from the regeneration solution and examined the newly grown fingers. The index finger displayed a slight imperfection near the fingernail, but that was minor.

He scanned the news channels again while he completed the mandatory flexing procedures on the new digits. The fresh skin started to stretch into shape. Fifty more reps and they would be working like new. He thought to himself, well, hell: they are new.

His scan locked on a channel submitting a promo through the sublevel about a fight film. Might be his. It would take a little time to find out.

Many of the channels pounded a story out of D.C. about some goofy professor at the physics convention going off the deep end on paranormal potential. It didn’t take much to entertain some people.

While he waited, he tried reaching Krystal on her scrambled channel. Not available. He guessed she had shut it down while she grew a new hairstyle and color for the occasion. He had never expected her to show for this reunion. Why the fourteenth? She had not attended any before this. The last he heard from her before this, she was living on a ranch somewhere outside of Albuquerque.

He had had the hots for her from the tenth grade. She was a tall slim Creole, and beautiful. Heads turned everywhere she went. She made it clear she had no romantic interest in him, but they became tight friends over the next three years, sharing each other’s deepest secrets. A complete trust developed between them. When her dad died in a building site accident, Brax became the shoulder she cried on.

Two days before the reunion, he picked her up at the airport. She would be staying at the Grand. On the way to the hotel, they talked and laughed about old times and guessed how everyone aged the last fourteen years. They pulled into the circle drive. He got her bag out of the trunk and carried it to the concierge’s stand. A bellboy came to her side at once.

She turned and flashed a smile. Thanks for your help Brax. Can I buy you dinner tonight?

What time?

How about seven?

That sounds good to me. He had guessed right. She was still a mighty easy view.

There had always been something mystical about Krystal, and he couldn’t quite figure her out. She told him once she could sense things, guess things, and see things other people missed. Her mother did Tarot readings. Her grandmother had become one of the best-known psychic mediums in the Crescent City. Krystal lived in a world filled with mysteries.

The front door of his cubical swished open and the Robo-tech rolled toward Brax.

Brax sat at the table, and the Robo-tech peeled back the Simskin covering the opening on the side of his head and plugged into his Personcom. A lot of little noises and hums occurred while the analysis took place. Thirty minutes into the process, Brax found himself getting antsy.

The Robo-tech disconnected and spoke for the first time: I need parts. Out the door of the cubical he rolled.

He returned with a bag filled with electronic components. He plugged back into Brax’s Personcom. Parts came out and parts went in. So far, an hour and a half had gone into this ordeal. Experience proved you couldn’t hurry a tech. They always worked full speed. BUT, this Robo-tech needed to get on with it. Brax had a hot date tonight.

He checked the time again. 1533 hours. No need to panic, yet. Brax continued to be perplexed about Krystal showing up for this reunion. There was nothing special about this year’s event. The next one, at fifteen years, might make sense. Or number twenty. His investigative mind kept asking, why is she here; why now?

Everything in his Personcom worked. Brax was a new man. The Robo-tech completed his work in plenty of time for him to shower, shave, and get dressed for his dinner with Krystal.

He slipped on a pair of jeans, loafers, a black silk shirt and a blazer. He would go open collar. He did not do ties. She decided a good steak from the best restaurant in town suited her, so Brax suggested Morton and Galloway, renowned for the quality of its food and the depth of its wine cellar. New since Krystal had lived in the city, it was one of his favorite spots. The preferred dress was semi-formal; but the truth was, a t-shirt and shorts could get in if you waved enough