Coming from Darkness

By Casper Parks

Title 14, Section 1211 Code of Federal Regulations, passed into law on July 16, 1969.  Anyone in contact with an extraterrestrial and or UFO is jailed. NASA can enforce quarantine that a court order cannot break.

Coming from Darkness is an epic near future Science fiction novel.

After a UFO crashed into a motel, public outcry demanded action. Title 14, Section 1211 Code of Federal Regulations is reinstated. A governmental agency moved a Disclosure plan ahead of schedule. In the name of public safety, alien abductees are herded into special camps.

In the years following, RFID biochip implants go from voluntary to the law of the land, and anyone refusing placed into retraining camps. Government scanners for biochips double as scanners for alien implants.

First three years after Disclosure, young alien abductee Bryce had unintentionally dodged capture. When biochips became law, he fled into the wilds to live among survivalists. Former operatives of a shadow government whom had defected scanned him for an alien implant.

Bryce is not simply a former abductee - He is an Unknown abductee. Like a society gone mad around them, survivalists fear former alien abductees.

They suspect that, aliens programed him to complete a secret mission. The government learned he is an Unknown, and intensified their hunt for him.

Abandoned by aliens, pursued by the government and hated by society, Bryce must come to terms with an abusive past. He must learn to forgive others and forgive himself.

All the while, he must evade capture and learn what it means to be an Unknown and discover whatever his mission was.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Casper Parks
• Release date: Mar 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507091524

Casper Parks

Throughout schooling, Casper Parks was enrolled in Remedial English Classes. He is quoted as saying, "Teachers inferred, I could never become a writer. Creativity wins!" Compelled to write and self-taught, he has published four novels: With each new novel, his writing improves. Currently, he is editing book five and writing book six for the start of a new series. His readership spans numerous nations and ages. After high school Casper Parks served in the United States Navy as a Radioman, held a Top Secret Security Clearance and completed a Westpac.  Three semesters into college opportunity knocked. For many years he worked in the music industry, starting as a roadie and working his way into lighting-tec and stage manager. He has worked as an announcer for rock, easy listening and country radio stations. In the early 1990s, he was onsite manager of a rehearsal studio for bands in Downtown Los Angeles. He left his career in the music industry on Labor Day 1993. Since early childhood, he has had a fascination with space travel, UFOs and aliens. He is active and respected in the UFO community, and featured on Fade to Black, Beyond The Strange, Shift Happens, and The Fringe FM He has witnessed UFOs and posted an encounter at The Outpost Forum,

Book preview

Part One

Living On the Edge of Darkness

From dark heavens, they came to Earth forever-altering beliefs. Opening close-minded doorways, they insert their will and bring humanity one-step closer to self-fulfilling, self-annihilation.

1

The Long Haul

Irritated by a periodic screeching of wiper blades, young Bryce Kerstin cringed. Near non-stop cross-country driving had kept them in constant motion. They had spent two days in Seattle for grandmother Kirstein’s funeral. They had saved money on a hotel in Seattle by staying at the grandma’s house.

Bryce leaned back against the passenger seat, kicked off both shoes, braced his stocking feet against the glove box and gazed into the night. Persistent darkness enveloped everything beyond reach of the headlights. He thought about their two days in Seattle, but not speaking a word of it.

Not only was Leland upset over the loss of his mother, they were losing of her home. Medicare had seen to that. Other than personal effects, there was no monetary inherence. The family home of fifty years and grandma’s bank account was in process of seizures.

His father was not pleased and complained that corporatism had overrun the government. A corporate contractor was selling the property on behalf of the government, and keeping a percentage of the sale as fees. Another corporate contractor was handling the seizure of grandma’s bank savings, and keeping a large percentage as processing fees.

His father’s sister had promised go through their former home and rescue personal items passed from generation to generation. In coming weeks, Kern’s aunt and father would speak over the phone and internet, deciding how best to share family heirlooms.

The morning after funeral services, they had said their goodbyes to family living in Seattle and rotated toward home of the Twin Cities Minneapolis and Saint Paul, breaking only for fuel, restrooms and food. 

Bryce decided they were cruising in a future family heirloom. As with most boys, he counted age at six-month increments. He had the math-work clocked at four half years when the vehicle was passed too him. The two-door hunter green 1995 Blazer lacked state of the art onboard digital gadgets. It was destined to become a classic and able to impress girls.

His father had saved long and hard to buy it. Seven months ago, he had gone along for the initial test drive. It had belonged to an older man, and a good buy with twenty-five thousand miles on a crate motor and transmission. Modifications on replacement engines and transmissions had upped miles per gallon as compared the original V-6 engines. The only upgraded his father had done was the stereo system. Thus far, their SUV had proven reliable and comfortable for a long haul.

As 24-hour news station began fading in and out of reception, he leaned forward and fine-tuned the radio. He stayed current on new laws, which was an obsession he concealed from his parents. As it was already, he had an abundance of strange interests that troubled them.

A reporter was discussing another amendment to the Constitution. Washington had granted law enforcement and military usage of facial recognition on street and business cameras in conjunction with State Real IDs already embedded with an RFID chip. Those proclaiming the amendment was in conflict with the Constitution had fallen on deaf-ears. The Supreme Court upheld government tracking of individuals without a warrant. Every movement, call, email and internet surfing was recorded and stored for later use if needed.

Yesterday afternoon on the news, he had heard about changes in motorists' laws at the federal level. Threatened with a loss of federal funding for roads was forcing unwilling States to comply. A teenager now had to wait until the age of eighteen for a driver license. Although he sympathized with his sister’s frustration, he would never admit it aloud.

At age sixteen, Dot had obtained a learner's permit and waited. For a teenager, two years with a learner's permit seemed an eternity. Until having their mother’s car in two years, she was making the best of it. After school, she worked part time at a fast food restaurant and saved for car insurance.

Bryce suspected their mother was looking forward to passing her car keys down the family-line. Until the passing of cars keys, like mother like daughter, she was saving ahead for a replacement car. On drives to stores, school and church, he had noted her eyeing white convertibles.

He stared into the passenger side-view mirror. As Interstate 94 melded into a void of darkness, he reflected westward. Ventilation ducts dash emitted a rain musk odor that agreed with his prevailing mood. A combination of light rain, plus the early hour, and not another motorist insight raised a feeling of isolation. It was a feeling that he liked.

Earlier, his father had commented, Bryce’s love for the open road was in his genes. Bryce agreed it was in their genes but did not say it. He credited his father’s ingenuity in planning an unexpected trip. They had flipped the rear-seat forward and spread a foam mattress for sleeping. A blue plastic cooler located behind the driver's seat granted easy access for someone in front passenger side.

Bryce glimpsed over his shoulder and shook his head. He watched Dot roll from one side to the other in her sleep. Unless driving, she had slept for almost the entire trip. He slipped his hand beneath the cooler lid, submerging it amid a mixture of chilled water and ice chunks.

Finding what he wanted, he fished a bottle of Sobe B12 water from inside. After wiping his hand dry against a pant leg, he unscrewed the top and dosed a swig of vitamins. Bored, he fiddled with the stereo. A foul rap of words drowned screeching wiper blades.

Straightaway, Leland grumbled and fingered down the volume. Then he tapped a rotate button on the stereo and stretched his arms. A timeless Bone, Thugs n Harmony song Crossroads replaced a nerve-racking throb of vulgar words.

Leland flexed his cramped fingers around the steering wheel and said, I don't want you waking Dot. If I get too tired, she's gonna be driving again.

Bryce settled into the seat and shuffled his stocking feet against the dashboard. Then he crossed his arms and matched his right foot with the melodic beat of Crossroads. His father had permitted him to load the music player prior the trip on the agreement of mellow songs, no nerve-racking beats and no songs containing foul language.

We should be home in a few hours or so, Leland commented without lifting his eyes from the road. He leaned forward and stared across the horizon. Rain that had started as a casual sprinkling now fell in heavier thumps. Eastward, dark clouds cast a deep purple haze along the horizon. Lightning flashed from air to ground as if Thor was waging war on North Dakota.

Leland shook his head, Looks like we're catching up with the storm. He shrugged, Sorry there hasn't been much time for sightseeing. Maybe next time, uh?

Bryce nodded, knowing there was no next time in their foreseeable future. If not for a death in the family, a trip like this was out of the question.

At the funeral, his father and sister had cried. He paced his breath and regarded his own lack of emotions during the viewing, then later at the service and graveside. In life, he felt as if an observer, never fully taking part in it. Grandma Kerstin's death was another situation in life to ponder.

In private, Dot had called him Stone face and stated, I’m starting to wonder if you are sociopath.

Mute, he had warped an eyebrow and smirked.

He refocused on a blur of dark scenery passing alongside of them. This was his first cross-country venture. Not wanting to miss a thing, he avoided sleep as much as possible. He found the Dakotas treeless and flat. Montana was all right but lacked big city life. He had no desire to live in either state.

Although near treeless and flat, the Great Plateau was interesting. At an upper elevation, the stars seemed within easy grasp. Never before had he inhaled air as purer. After getting his driver's license, he planned to return there for a camping trip and gaze at the night sky.

In route to Seattle, coming down from the Great Plateau and into Idaho was even better. Tall mountains and pines portrayed a rugged virgin landscape. In northern Idaho, they had stopped at a small combination motel, resort and restaurant for a bite to eat. A woman serving at the restaurant decided he looked thin and served him a free slice of peach pie.

Her sweet kind smile and rosy cheeks had melted his heart. She had the full figure of a good cook. Her plastic frame glasses rested halfway down her nose and heralded a design from the 1990's. Lilac perfume hung suspended around her as if an aura.

Bryce believed her happiness came from living among serene mountain wilderness. Something special about that place kept drawing his thoughts back there. From the moment he stepped from inside of the Blazer, he had fallen in love with the region.

Talking his parents into vacationing there was not an option. After the turn of the millennium, a lack of money for living expenses had the middleclass gasping for air. Family vacations were limited to local campgrounds.

Bryce tired of his father’s old CDs and plugged a flash-drive into the stereo. Then, he pulled one of his favorites and engaged the music file Lyric Dubee.

As speakers resonated - Alive, he returned to ponderings. Several times and late at night, he had heard his parents discuss their financial savings. They had nearly fifty thousand saved in 401K plans toward retirement. Even if the stock market held, outrageous fees charged by brokers and banks leeched a large percentage of their retirement funds.

He watched his father cringed at each economic report issued by the Federal Reserve. As rich people became wealthier, the working poor couched surfed between friends’ apartments, while blue-collar workers found themselves degraded to the next generation working poor.

In recent weeks, the media had reported the working class was earning more money as compared to ten years ago. Bryce knew better. Wages had not kept pace with inflation. Adequate and affordable health care remained rare. Legal loopholes abounded favoring insurers and medical providers.

His mother's employer provided partial healthcare insurance, however a large portion of her paycheck went toward paying the remainder of the premium. When Dot had her appendix removed, their out of pocket expenses combined with deductibles had forced his parents into long-term medical debt.

He moaned, agreeing his father was right. Corporations had infected government. Recent laws favored medical providers by having medical debt categorized the same as student loans and exempt from bankruptcy.

His father asked, What was that?

Nothing, he replied, just thinking. As they rolled eastward toward the storm, lighting flashed stronger and thunder grew louder. He discarded meaningless pondering on politics and fixated on nature’s wrath.

In retaliation for a century of abuse, planet Earth fought-back with greater intensity with each passing year. Rain storms in southwestern deserts and droughts where rain usually fell. Temperatures rose and fell in a matter of hours, causing black-ice winters in the Midwest and East coast.

Sleet froze on trees, lawns and roads. Tree limbs snapped under the weight of ice, severing power-lines, and smashing cars and houses. One week, winter temperatures above freezing, and the next near zero with wind chills that dipped double negative digits on thermometers. Often summer heat indexes topped the hundred-degree mark.

Leland ruffled Bryce’s hair and asked, How's my little copilot holding out?

Bryce tipped his head away, groaned and stared at his father as if to say, "I’m too old for the hand through the hair routine."

Leland inquired, Why don't you lower the backrest and catch a little shuteye?

Bryce struck a stern face of "I’m not a baby and insisted, Nope, not tired... Then he inquired, Getting tired?"

Leland kept his eyes on the storm and replied, I'm the son of a long haul trucker, so driving is in my blood.

Since driving is your blood; then it must be in my too, uh? Bryce probed, watching his father’s fingers stretch open and closed around the steering wheel. He continued, So, I should turn out to be a good driver? His question sounded more like a statement.

Leland chuckled. I suppose so.

Bryce spread a slick grin. Then pull over and let me drive for a while. I can handle it, no problem...

Leland tightened an abrasive brow. Forget it.

Bryce inserted the ‘it isn’t fair’ method, Why not? You let Dot drive.

Leland refused to yield. She has a learner's permit.

Guys are better drivers. It's a proven fact and everyone knows it.

Leland tossed his son a fast glare. You're not becoming a sexist are you?

Sexist, what's a sexist? Bryce queried, knowing what the term meant and enjoyed seeing his father squirm. Two years ago, their father-and-son talk concerning sex had not gone as father had planned. His father had since avoided the subject.

Uneasy with the direction of the conversation, Leland cleared his throat and maintained, You're not driving and that's, that's.

Ah, come on... Bryce pushed harder and motioned the dashboard clock. It's two-thirty in the morning. Who's gonna know? The cops are in bed or chasing drunk drivers. Anyway, I heard kids in North Dakota start driving at age twelve, and I'm almost fourteen.

As Lyric Dubee’s Black Ice came into play on the stereo, Leland yield, Tractors, maybe... He was unsure about the truth of that statement. He had heard similar stories when Bryce’s age.

Bryce forged onward without losing a beat. Cars too, I saw it on a PBS show. Anyway, they don't need a learner permit or nothin... They just start driving, and no one says shit about it.

Before Leland managed a comment on foul language, they had caught-up to the storm. Thor god of thunder heaved hail pellets from the clouds and nearly drowned Leland’s voice. The point is moot I wouldn’t even let Dot drive in this.

Bryce agreed but kept that opinion to himself. He twisted around and glimpsed at his sister. Dot moaned and rolled over, nothing was going to wake her. He on the other hand was a night person. A number of times, his mother had told him as a baby he lay awake at night.

Being a night person was not easy. He remained awake until almost sunrise and struggled to stay alert during school. Lying in bed for hours at night, he pondered society and life in general trying to understand why people acted as they did.

His father increased wiper blades to battle an on slot of bad weather. Outside, windswept sleet replaced pounding hail. The truck's high beams reflected waves of freezing rain, making driving strenuous. He eased his foot off the accelerator and flicked the headlights to low beams. Seeing became easier, but not by much.

Damn, Leland grumbled, roads are getting slick.

Bryce assumed copilot responsibilities, turned off the stereo, sloped forward and peered through the windshield. A moment later he announced, Overpass up ahead.

Leland slowed, pulled to the side of the road and parked. Under the protection of an overpass, the pelting rain ended leaving only the sound of gale force winds. He switched the headlights off and engaged the flashers.

This could be as bad as the spring floods of.... Leland fell short of finishing, leaned back and sighed.

Bryce knew his father thoughts reflected on grandpa Kerstin. Three years ago, grandpa had perished in a semi-truck accident. Bryce's consideration of his grandfather’s demise came to an ended when ahead of them an orange glow sank at a measured pace from the rainy sky.

At first, Bryce thought it was an airplane. Puzzled, he asked, Dad?

Leland extended his arms, legs and yawned, Yeah?

Bryce pointed and remarked, Isn't the weather too bad for a small plane?

His father squinted at the glow. Maybe it's a drone checking for flash floods. He lowered the backrest and yawned a second time. I'm going to catch a little shuteye. Wake me when the storm eases-up.

Bryce’s eyes remained fixed on the orange glow. Maybe his father was right, and it was a drone checking for flash floods. The craft altered course and migrated in their direction. As it drew closer, it dropped lower to the ground before coming to a halt directly front of them.

With the object only a few yards away and eleven feet off the ground, he realized it was no drone. A white haze outlined an egg shape orange glow. He tapped his father's shoulder. Ah, Dad...

Leland jolted upright, gripping the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles bleached white. Transfixed, he stared at the craft. The Blazer’s engine died. Wiper blades, dash-lights, the heater and stereo ceased functioning.

Leland keyed the ignition switch. Nothing happened. Again, he attempted to restart the Blazer and again nothing. He exhaled, Fuck... Desperate, he flipped the ignition switch on and off. Everything was dead.

It was rare hearing his father swear. Was this a forgotten nightmare from his father’s past coming back to haunt them? Sweat beaded across Leland’s bow, his entire body trembled. Whatever hovered beyond the overpass, his father had seen before and frightened him, which ultimately terrified Bryce as well.

The craft's glow dimmed, and Bryce noted pulsating lights rotating at its circular center. He wanted to wake Dot, however discovered he was unable to budge. A wheeze escaped his throat, Dot...

In hopes of escaping on foot, Bryce tried to reach for the door handle. His arm felt weighted as if gravity held him prisoner. An avid watcher of television shows on alien abductions, he knew what to expect next.

He mustered his inner strength, broke free of the trance and shielded his eyes a second before a bright flash encompassed the truck...

2

Attached to the Department of Defense, Central Intelligence Center, Major James Benson sat inside of his custom black-jet helicopter. Forty-five minutes earlier, a fast thunderstorm had passed over the region and now flickered along a clouded eastern horizon.

Below, farmland lay hollowed beneath predawn darkness. A few scattered particles of light marked the locations of isolated farmhouses. At the outskirts of Sanford, a motel fire reminded him of firefly’s luminous glow. Considering known facts, he shook his head.

Sanford, North Dakota with a population 2,587 was a small farming community west of Fargo. A major dilemma had presented itself at Sanford. An alien ship had crashed into a motel, killing twenty-two people.

Benson studied information that scrolled across the screen of a laptop computer. He glided his index across the touchpad, shuffling an arrow to a menu list. In seconds, satellite relays linked his laptop computer to a mainframe in Colorado nicknamed Uncle Sam that operated separate from the National Security Agency.

Benson scrolled and clicked through a series of options, then selected law enforcement for North and South Dakota. His fingers tapped the keypad, instructing Uncle Sam to search for specific data. Unusual reports for that evening formulated as a spreadsheet.

Earlier that night an elderly woman had reported a UFO sighting forty-five miles west of Sanford. Her phone records noted no activity beyond calling local police. At age eighty-four, she posed no threat. Although doubtful, if she became a problem it was an easy resolution. Label her senile, or she had mistaken a lighting ball or police drone as a UFO. He preferred the latter, allowing her retain a sense of dignity.

Residents of Sanford asserted a series of complications. For an unknown reason a large number of people had witnessed the crash. Benson grumbled, What the hell are two hundred and fifty people doing awake at three-thirty in the morning?

There’s a rodeo in town, his pilot replied, They were partying into the wee-hours at a local bar across the road from the motel, sir.

Benson cocked a puzzled brow. I thought bars closed at two AM... I find it difficult to fathom local law enforcement had not shut the party-down.

The pilot shrugged. The local sheriff’s department was more-than-likely overlooking it. A rodeo is a big money maker for town’s folk.

Benson muttered, A rodeo this early in the Spring Season. I’ve never heard of it, too cold for people to be sitting outside.

Sorry sir, I’m only passing-on what our mobiles on the ground reported. It was likely a rehearsal before the summer rodeo circuit starts.

Benson sighed. Fargo was roughly an hour drive from Sanford. It was safe to assume, Fargo media was reporting on the rodeo. The laptop beeped notifying him of an incoming transmission. It was Foxworth-two, his second in command transmitting a report regarding a cover story for the media.

Benson scanned the report and nodded. A cargo plane carrying toxic chemicals had crashed into the motel, and the entire village exposed to poisons causing hallucinations.

Foxworth-two reporting, crackled over Benson’s headset.

Major Benson answered, Foxworth-one, here. I received your transmission. It looks good, go ahead.

Benson hated sharing a joined operating taskforce title that separated individuals by mere numbers. Boys at the top used a mix of code-names and numbers for identification, making it easier to distinguish people assigned across regions of the globe.

Benson stayed busy heading the Western portion of the United States. A temporary adding of the Midwest kept him hopping from place to place. Not that it bothered him, commanding on the move helped him focus. A prior commander of the Midwest, Major Frederick had died of a heart attack. Frederick’s family had not questioned the death certificate.

Benson knew better. Frederick was on the verge of violating silence regarding alien life. Divided factions within shadow governmental agencies had reached an agreement on a timeline for Disclosure. Fredericks had planned to step outside of that agreement. Frederick should have stuck with the plan.

Again, Foxworth-two’s voice crackled over the headset. You are sighted on approach. Have your pilot land on the East Side of the village. You should be able to see a Big Boy in the parking lot on final approach. We set up a command tent in their parking lot. Go ahead.

Benson replied, We have the parking lot in view, one moment please. Foxworth-two was preforming an outstanding job. Before summer, he expected Foxworth-two would assume command of the Midwest region. He looked at the pilot and asked, Big Boy?

It’s a chain restaurant, sir. They use a giant statue of a cubby kid wearing checker overhauls, a white shirt and holding a burger on his hand like a waiter. The statue usually stands in front of their restaurants.

His pilot smirked, Near graduation time, high school seniors tend to relocate the statue as a prank. Given graduation isn’t far off, I’m surprised it is there.

Did you grow up here soldier?

No sir, not here but an area like it. It is a common prank in small towns to relocate the Big Boy. Almost like a ritual, graduating students simply have to do it. His pilot offered a sheepish grin, Not that I ever did such a foolish thing in High School, sir.

Benson shook his head and keyed the microphone, What about the media? Go ahead.

Foxworth-two conveyed, Three television stations from Fargo are in town for the rodeo. A couple radio stations from Fargo, and one local country station. All media personal are contained in a special area. Not to worry, they bought the toxic plane crash story. They are demanding to film footage of the crash site. I informed them it was dangerous, and we did not loan government-issue biohazard suits to the public. They are not happy campers. Go ahead.

Benson asked, Do you have a plan to quell them?

Foxworth-two continued, In a few minutes, I am having one of our people wearing a bio-suit borrow one of their cameras to shoot footage on their behalf. We will link to our ever-loving Uncle and doctor the footage using that toxic plane crash in Northern California five years ago. Go ahead.

Benson agreed, Excellent idea, you have my approval. Go ahead.

Foxworth-two confirmed, Consider it done, over and out.

Benson leaned back and grinned, another situation under wraps. Although he worked outside normal military channels, he loved his appointment. He knew things even the President did not know. He viewed the current President as a babbling idiot. As with other presidents in recent decades, simply another corporate minion placed into office by another fixed election.

His pilot asked, Sir would like fly over of the motel?

Yes, that would be fine.

His pilot maneuvered the helicopter in a circle, keeping the crises at their starboard side. Shaking his head, Benson studied an inferno of what was once a motel. Several cars and trucks at the motel parking lot were ablaze and expelling toxic smoke into the air. Between a parking lot and main road, flames reflected orange ripples across an outdoor swimming pool.

He had ordered his people to allow the fires burn and destroy evidence of a crashed alien spacecraft. Later, a crew would shift through rubble in search of anything unconsumed by the flaming holocaust.

The aftermath was predictable. In months that followed, the motel owner of would file a lawsuit against whatever company was credited with ownership of the crashed airplane. Residents claiming nausea and sickness would file suites. Of course, they would be lying or hypochondriacs. In situations of this nature, mass-hysteria spread like an uncontrolled virus.

Circling the motel was fruitless. He had pressing issues requiring his attention. Bring us down in front of the Big Boy.

On final approach for a landing, Benson’s thoughts turned toward a matter that mandated his personal attention. Four grey aliens and one hybrid had survived the crash. The hybrid was a mixture of human and grey DNA.

It was only a matter of time until another spacecraft arrived and demanded survivors of the crash. There was no lying. Being telepathic, greys would know if anyone had survived. He had orders to interrogate the hybrid. However, he had other plans for the hybrid.

His pilot angled their helicopter for landing and stated, I just overheard on the radio the local restaurant cooks are working overtime to keep our boys’ stomachs filled. Our people are reporting they grill a mean steak burger with fried onions and mushrooms, alongside of heaping plate of hash browns. I can radio ahead and have meal waiting for you, sir.

Benson tossed the suggestion aside with a firm, No, thank-you. Meat eaters emitted a foul stench that he had learned to tolerate. Veganism was the only religious practice he had carried from childhood into adult life.

Benson’s own belief in God had faded long ago. He pondered the current whereabouts of Efren Toliver. Efren Toliver had similar religious upbringing. One of several reasons he granted leeway each time their lives had intersected.

For the most part, he kept his vegan-ways to himself. Feeling generous he stated, It is rumoured a large precent of beef is contaminated with a Bovine HIV virus.

Almost everyone had a similar reaction. As anticipated, the pilot cringed. Then, he answered with stronger than normal southern draw, Now days it seems everything is bad for you. He caught himself having spoken. It was better not to have withheld comment. He concluded with an apologetic, Excuse me, sir...

Benson considered anyone who spoke with a regional accent to have a poor grasp on the English language, and not intelligent enough to be of use under his command. It was his only prejudice, but he allowed himself the luxury of it. For now, the pilot’s assignment under his command was safe. Another slip of a regional tongue and the pilot would find himself serving in a remote desert.

It was not a type of discrimination that someone could file complaint. That Foxworth-two was of African American descent held discriminatory complaints at bay. Foxworth-two had earned his rank through work and dedication, characteristics Benson respected.

After the black-jet helicopter had touched down, Benson exited the aircraft and headed toward a makeshift command center. As the helicopter blades slowed, the outer edges of the army tent snapped under an on-slot of wind. He glimpsed at his watch and noted the time. Circling the site prior to landing was standard procedure but had wasted precious time.

Taking a moment, he paused at the tent entrance and cleared his mind. Hybrids were like their grey counterparts and telepathic. A male hybrid was rare but that was of no concern. Preceding this meeting, almost all encountered hybrids were female. When present during meetings between humans and greys, hybrids stood silent in the background. As of late, meetings of that nature had become non-existent.

Interrogation was a last option. It was a long shot. Offer him political asylum. If this hybrid agreed, perhaps others would defect as well.

Nothing out of the ordinary lingered amid his forethoughts. Simply the facts, they wanted out of their deal with the greys. Over fifty years of lies, treachery and deceit had taken a toll on the nation. A clean break was needed but not without forging new alliances.

He strutted past guards at the tent entrance without returning their salutes. Inside, additional guards snapped salutes. Again, he discarded them and maintained his vocal-point of political asylum.

A yard from where the hybrid sat on a folding chair, Foxworth-two stood waiting. Emotionless, Foxworth-two’s face appeared as if sculpted in granite. Thus far, the hybrid refused to speak.

As the hybrid stood, his ash stained white gown fluttered behind him. His thin, straight, coarse white hair drooped past his shoulders. White eyebrows accented his coal black eyes. If he had a name, it was likely unpronounceable.

Benson introduced himself, My name is Major James Benson. I have travelled a great distance to speak with you. The hybrid’s lankly frame and tight skin reminded him of someone on the verge of starvation. He inquired, Are you hungry? Then, he felt foolish for having asked it.

The hybrid’s eyes fixed on him as if reading every thought.

Benson motioned at the metal folding chair and suggested, Please sit.

Not flexing, the hybrid stared at him.

Benson queried, What is your name?

The hybrid answered using a foreign language. During past contacts with hybrids, they had spoken perfect English. Then again, prior contact with hybrids, greys were usually present.

Benson turned to his second in command and inquired, Any idea as to what he said?

No sir, Foxworth-two replied his Harvard educated tone ensured none mistaken him as an uncultivated individual. He remained silent until you arrived just now. I planned on the possibility he did not speak English and have linguists in route. He glimpsed at his watch, They should arrive within thirty minutes.

Benson injected humour, hoping it would set him at ease. Perhaps, he decided to speak now because I’m better looking than the rest of you. He looked around for a reaction, hoping he had raised a few chuckles. Unsure of how to react, guards had suppressed their chuckles.

The hybrid replied, Your primitive speech patterns are understood.

Wide-eyed, Benson swung around and gawked at him. Something he desired his entire life was becoming reality. Since childhood, he had dreamed of a conversation with an alien entity.

The hybrid explained, I prefer a direct linkage of minds however, speaking is what your Kind prefers. You are surprised that I am a male?

The hybrid stared at Foxworth-two and informed Benson, From this point forward I will remain silent until we are alone. He spread his feet shoulder width, clasped both hands at waist level and bowed his head.

Benson spun around and ordered everyone out of the tent.

Foxworth-two eyed an objection, then turned and exited.

Benson suspected the hybrid was scanning his thoughts. He focused on the matter at hand, I offer asylum to any hybrids who desire breaking-away from the greys.

The hybrid’s soft-spoken manner and carried vast emotions, You may call me, Harb.

Benson had suspected like the greys, hybrids lacked sensitivity. That assumption was wrong. He wondered if the human part of the hybrid bore emotions. If an emotional factor was true, there was a possibility of a defector.

Yes, Harb answered prior to hearing the question. I do feel emotions.

Benson tensed, drew a breath and requested, Please allow me to speak what’s on my mind before answering. It is unnerving having you beat me to the punch.

Respectful, Harb nodded. It is your destiny to ask, proceed.

Point-blank, he stated, You knew my thoughts upon entering the tent. There is not much time left, they are coming and you know of our offer. What is your decision?

Harb’s thin lips formed a taut grin. I cannot speak for others of my Kind. Your offer of asylum is accepted.

Benson arrested his joy at the threshold of a broad grin. At last, they had a defector and he was the one who had negotiated it. After the truth became public knowledge, his name would down in history.

Over the past few decades, a number of factors eased the population toward a broader reality. The public was charmed through, books, magazines, television and films that aliens existed. Soon, religious zealots would have to admit God never existed and Christ had not come in the flesh.

Harp smiled. Ah, but He did come.

Benson’s head snapped firmly, pulled from pondering what was to come. It was more difficult controlling his thoughts than expected. He apologized, I’m sorry...

Harb nodded. There is no need for an apology. You are human and part of your nature is for thoughts to wander.

Benson had suspected greys had interfered on Earth for thousands of years. He expected Harb to know a great deal regarding such matters. Within hours, Harb would reside at an underground hidden inside of a Colorado mountain base. Questions of a personal nature needed asking now.

Harb’s voice was drawn and tired. Please let us sit, for I grow weary and need rest. Then shall I answer your questions.

Benson had not considered Harb might have suffered injuries in the crash. He inquired, Were you injured in the crash?

Nothing serious, Harb replied. A number of bruised muscles however, I lost my mate and children in the crash.

My God, Benson gasped without thinking. Here sat someone who had tragically lost his entire family, yet he was composed and thinking clear.

Harp injected, You are mistaken. He is not your god rather you are his children. For some death is merely a changing of bodies, for others eternal sleep, and for others a transformation. Of these things I speak most of your Kind are unable to comprehend.

What would you like done with their bodies? Benson asked, thinking of Harb’s family.

Former containers from the crash are to be destroyed. Should their former containers be desecrated our arrangement will be at an end.