Unbelievable: A Novel of the Exotica Chronicles

By C. Richard Davies

Towards the middle of the twenty-first century, human beings began to develop unusual, even paranormal talents. For many years they were kept secret from the general public. And then they weren't.

This is one of the stories of what happened next.

It's the story of Kent Masefield, former crime-fighter, former super-hero, and now former galactic cop, returning to Earth after fifteen cycles -- sorry, twenty-one years -- away. It's the story of Rachel Baldwin -- but don't call her that -- a convicted murderer doing community service and hating the world and everything in it. It's the story of their world, their friends, their foes ... and always, the story of what happened next.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. Richard Davies
• Release date: Feb 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310562914

C. Richard Davies

There was once a young man who dreamed of super heroes, of spaceships, of wizards, of all manner of things that never were or might have been or might be. Sadly, not being Peter Pan, this young man grew up to become me.So now I write about what I used to dream about.

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Unbelievable:

A Tale of the Exotica Chronicles

by C. Richard Davies

Copyright ©2016 by C. Richard Davies

Cover Art by Dora Gonzalez

Smashwords Edition

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

PRELUDE - FLASHBACK

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

INTERLUDE - FLASHBACK

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

INTERLUDE - FLASHBACK

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

INTERLUDE - FLASHBACK

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Towards the middle of the twenty-first century,

human beings began to develop unusual, even

paranormal talents. For many years they were

kept secret from the general public.

And then they weren't.

This is one of the stories of what happened next.

PRELUDE – FLASHBACK

His name is Kent Masefield. He's twenty-three years old. For the last seven years of his life, he has been what might be called a vigilante, or, more charitably, a private investigator and bounty hunter. If he was asked to describe his job, he would simply use the words crime fighter.

His crime fighting involves investigations of serial murderers, kidnappers, drug cartels, and other examples of man's inhumanity to man, as well as interfering in the schemes of more melodramatic, megalomaniacal criminals who can only be termed 'super-villains'. He dislikes that term, but has never found a better one that describes all the examples of the phenomenon.

He does not act alone. In the beginning, he was essentially a sidekick to an older, more experienced crime fighter, acting as a distraction for their enemies as well as an assistant for his research. He grew out of that role as his mentor likewise grew too old to continue his own role, choosing to end active participation and fade into the background as a supporter and trainer.

By this point, Kent Masefield is the leader of a small group of crime fighters. Some, like Jane Lenoire or Matthew Baldwin, possess powers beyond the human norm, legacies of experimentation with what can only be called mad science. Others, like Sheila McMillan, follow Kent's example and get by with the peak of human ability, trained and honed by genius, equipped with the most modern technology, and amplified by simple luck and courage. He trusts them all with his life, and believes that all of them would trust him the same way. He has never been given cause to doubt that belief.

On the night everything changes, he and his friends are chasing a falling star. They believe it to be a de-orbiting satellite which may have been launched by one of their vanquished opponents as part of a complicated scheme that they thwarted. Or at least, an opponent they think they have vanquished who had a scheme they think they have thwarted. In many of their cases, there are unanswered questions, and finding the satellite will – they think – answer a few of them.

They are in a car, driving down a rural road at just a bit above the speed limit, heading towards a location that their team's chief scientist has plotted as the most likely crash site, hoping to beat other interested parties who will also be heading there, yet prepared for what will have to happen if they are not.

And then the car's hands-free cell phone explodes with a startled voice. Hoooleeeeee Toledo!

In the driver's seat, Masefield flinches, then gives a look at Lenoire, who is in the front passenger seat beside him, her telekinesis holding her hair in place so that not the strongest errant breeze can distort her coiffure. She shrugs, mouths, 'He's your problem'. Such a comfort, Lenoire.

McGovern, he says aloud. I don't like it when you say that. Bad things tend to happen when you say that. Why are you saying that now?

It bounced! replies Aleister Q. McGovern, technological savant, in an excited manner.

What do you mean by bounced? Masefield asks with great patience.

It was descending at a perfectly normal angle and velocity, and then it was ascending at a completely different angle and velocity, so that it arced as neat as a rainbow, and now it's descending again at the same angle as before but towards a completely different landing site. I'm sending you the coordinates now.

A different set of coordinates do in fact display on the car's dashboard GPS, relaying adjusted driving instructions into Masefield's earbud.

All right, Masefield says. Any notion on what could have caused this?

Nothing that I'm prepared to suggest without a lot more evidence, McGovern replies, earlier amazement momentarily banished from his tone. Kent, I don't think this is one of Andropov's satellites, anymore.

Noted, he replies coolly. Who else knows?

To my knowledge, nobody. I've been spoofing NASA's feed, so the Air Force's blue bookers are going to be heading to the original site, and most other agencies just content themselves with pirating that feed instead of using their own instruments like we do. Like I said, there's an excellent chance that we're going to be the first responders for whatever this is.

Dammit, rumbles a voice from the back seat of the car. I was looking forward to a fight.

Sheila, I can't reach back there, would you mind? Masefield says absently.

Got it, McMillan replies cheerfully. The sound of someone's head being smacked ensues.

Ow, mutters Baldwin.

If this isn't relating to Andropov, why are we even bothering? Lenoire asks. I mean, it's interesting, but --

If it is what McGovern isn't saying, then it's a lot more than interesting, Masefield answers as he starts to steer the car in the new direction prompted by the GPS. It's world changing.

I'm not saying anything, McGovern's voice snaps.

That's what I said, what you're not saying. Fortunately, I've gotten good at reading your silences.

And on it goes, until at last they reach the crash site. Even before the car comes to a halt, the magnitude of what they are seeing ends the banter. In silence, they exit their vehicle and begin to walk towards the vessel which has come to rest in this agricultural conglomerate's field.

'Vessel' is the word, even though it is not streamlined like craft built by human hands to deal with the winds of the atmosphere before they grow too thin to matter. It resembles, more than anything, a much larger version of the re-entry modules of the Apollo space program. It shows clear signs of having slightly melted as it descended through the atmosphere.

Lenoire is the first to find her voice. So what kind of close encounter is this? she asks in humbled quiet, as close as she will ever come to an apology for implying this was a waste of time.

I think it's a two, but I don't remember the exact definitions, Masefield admits. Okay. We need to transport this back to the lab. Sheila, I'm going to need you to drive back, wake up Vince and get him to drive his rig up this way so that we can load it into the trailer. Face to face communications only, don't even call to let us know that he's coming. Matt, Janet, I wish we had more back-up, but --

We're good, man, Baldwin says, grinning like a big kid. (In his case, a very big kid, over six feet of muscle.) This is the greatest thing ever! I just hope the rest of the people who'll want this thing show up and --

Then the pod opens.

Oh god I take it all back, says Baldwin, staring.

Rising up out of the pod's interior, now open in a way not unlike a high-tech coffin, is a figure every bit as humanoid as they themselves – at least, as humanoid as Baldwin, only taller than him by at least two feet, and even broader of shoulder. The hairless giant has chalk white skin made paler by the darkness of his uniform. He – Masefield is too busy being stunned to feel ashamed at this assumption – seems almost dazed as he stares at the small creatures who are staring at him. Or rather, he is staring through them.

Masefield takes a deep breath. Greetings, he says. I hope you understand our language. Welcome to Earth, if you have come in peace. If not … then not.

Now the giant seems to focus on something, staring at, not through, Masefield. He takes a long breath, the first breath he seems to have taken. Earthhhhh, he says, drawing out the last sound just a little too long.

There is understanding, then, and Masefield nods. Are you -- he starts to ask.

The giant begins to rise up from the ground, empty space between the huge boots of his feet and the field below him. Higher and higher he rises.

Janet? Masefield asks quickly.

I'm already trying, but nothing is happening, Lenoire says in a tense voice they've never heard her use before.

He's not only more buff than I am, he's better at hoodoo than you, too? Baldwin asks, no humor in his voice for all the absurdity of the words.

It's not about being better! Even if he was more powerful, if he's using telekinesis in the same way that I do, I should be having some luck interfering and slowing him down. But I can't! Lenoire says through clenched teeth. I don't know what's happening.

The giant ignores them, turning in a circle in mid-air then abruptly stopping. Gazing up at the giant's face, Masefield believes that he recognizes the emotion expressed there, as it is one he's been feeling all this while. Is that truly amazement, or some other emotion? He has only a few seconds to see it before the giant begins to move swiftly through the air on a horizontal axis.

Abruptly, Masefield realizes the direction in which this strange visitor is moving. He's heading towards L.A., he announces in the same moment he realizes. Janet, we need to follow him. Sheila, follow us in the car, forget what I said, start calling in every favor we're owed by everybody we know, Matt, get your uncle out there with all his people, everything!

Even burdened with his extra mass, Lenoire's telekinesis is powerful enough to allow the two of them to catch up to the giant, who has come to a halt in the Hollywood hills, not far from the famous sign, staring down at the uncountable lights below. The giant isn't moving. He doesn't seem to be breathing, either. And, most definitely, he is not wreaking havoc beyond imagination. No one seems to have noticed him, yet. Calmer now that he can see this, Masefield waits a moment, watching the giant watching the city, before speaking up. It's called Los Angeles.

You said the planet's name was Earth, the giant says without turning back to look at him.

It is. This city's name is Los Angeles.

Oh, the giant says. How many?

I think there's about 24 million people in the city, all told, Masefield replies.

No. How many cities like this?

Oh. Um, there are a few larger ones, and many more smaller ones, so it's hard to say.

How many on this planet? the giant asks, voice growing firmer. How many that are people?

Eight billion. Well, almost. It should be that many by the end of this dec– within a few years.

Eight billion. All the same species?

Yes, Masefield confirms.

So many, the giant says. It takes a moment to confirm, but then Masefield is sure. The giant is sobbing, though no tears fall from his eyes. So many lives, all on one planet. Not far from here, as the stars are measured, there is a species which counts itself great among the nations. Across a dozen worlds, there are not more than a billion of them. You amaze me. Now, slowly, it turns to face Masefield and Lenoire, as they hover near him. You are protectors, aren't you?

They exchange glances. We try to be, Masefield answers, just as Lenoire says, Yes, we are.

The giant nods. I want to help. So many lives. Please. Let me help to protect them.

Masefield takes a breath.

It occurs to me that we should perhaps not make this decision without consulting a few of the other 'protectors', Lenoire whispers into his ear.

Probably not, Masefield agrees, just as quietly. But I'm going to make the decision anyway. Yes, he says, more loudly. We could use all the help we can get. We shake hands to indicate agreement, he adds, holding his hand out. The giant's grip, when he takes hold of Masefield's hand is incredibly strong.

Kent Masefield is twenty-three years old. Over the years he has spent fighting crime, he has reached the conclusion that he will die in this fight some day. He has lived with that certainty for some time now. But now, as he shakes hands with a giant, he begins to feel a sense of hope that this might not happen.

It will not last, this hope of his. The giant, Phaethon, the first 'super-hero' – a term Kent will also come to dislike, but which describes what he and others like him will become better than any other – will be the cause of as many challenges as those that Phaethon helps to overcome. This first contact with a strange creature from another world will change so much about the world they both hope to protect, for good and for ill.

But Kent Masefield will never forget the moment he shook hands with a god.

CHAPTER ONE

Masefield found himself waking up in a surprisingly comfortable chair set down in front of a sturdy-looking desk, behind which a tall, bald humanoid with sharply pointed ears and solid black eyes was regarding him patiently. Both chair and desk were placed in a small square room without visible entrances and exits. Despite this, if he hadn't known better, he might have found it entirely plausible that he had nodded off for a moment in this chair and only now awakened.

But he did know better. Even so, he took a deep breath, let it out, and nodded once in the direction of the figure sitting across from the desk.

The Administrator spoke. I believe that you have no permanent injuries, Agent Masefield. The voice used was vaguely familiar to him, somewhat reminiscent of a character from a television program