Ageless Aliens & Angels

By J. Rickley Dumm

The enigmatic, simplistic Jo Machine is in an extreme quandary! Well, that is, for her.

She is suddenly trapped in a conspiracy that threatens the national security of the United States and she can’t reveal what she knows to those upon whom she trusts and relies. If that isn’t enough, Machine encounters some very different char

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Rickley Dumm
• Release date: Jun 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9780999544051

J. Rickley Dumm

J. Rickley Dumm is a graduate of the University of Oregon (GO DUCKS!!), a Sigma Chi, and a former television producer and writer (Magnum, P.I., Riptide, Silk Stalkings, et al.). He currently lives in Southern California.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

angel-wings

Over two years ago, two adult figures stood apart amid the swirling sand that was blown about by some unknown contrivance above them that departed in nearly three blinks of an eye. Very soon, the churning sand that had surrounded them settled.

The two adult figures faced in opposite directions. One of them appeared female, the other male, and each were scantily attire in nothing but pieces of burlap-like apparel wrapped at their waists and covering their loins. They were skinheads, had high cheekbones, bare feet, and looked to be approximately the same height. Their differences were three: The female figure owned small, nonhuman breasts and a smooth torso; the male adult figure had a larger, wider mouth and lips and a shapely, more muscular body.

It was difficult to interpret any racial or ethnic origin, as either could have been part or half of any seed or breed. One similarity was determined by their respective appearances: They were uncommon.

Turning to face one another, both their eyes were the same: brown, the whites of their eyes almost mother-of-pearl, and their pupils a deep, deep purple. After a brief moment’s connection through mutable hued, pulsating eyes, and without a word spoken, they turned and walked away in completely opposite directions.

Hours later west of Kabul, Afghanistan, along and near the Hari Rud there was little to be seen but sand and brush, and hills to the west. It was, as one might have expected, dry and hot. The female adult walked with a deliberate gait, unaffected by the high temperature; no perspiration was evident.

From the hills two Afghani men observed the figure through binoculars. They wore smudged shirts, baggy pajama bottoms and sandals.

It is violation. One of them said in his native tongue, disgusted.

The other removed his binoculars. "We will go! Now! Asri; bisur’a!"

They quickly moved to their horses, mounted up and rode off.

The female adult continued her trek across the hot sand and soon began to detect an odd, distant rumbling beneath her bare feet but persisted her unbroken gait.

A few minutes later, the two Afghanis came galloping forward, reined-in, their weapons aimed, dismounting, shouting, frantically, in Arabic.

Do not move! Do not move!

Who are you? Speak!

The bare-breasted female, without any emotion, gazed quizzically at the four-legged animals as if she’d had no knowledge of what they were, and responded in English. You are humans. Hello.

In broken English, the Arab man closest to her spoke, aiming his weapon Name! You come from where! You are here why? He demanded.

She pointed at the horses. What do you call those creatures?

There was no reply as the female looked at both of them and their weapons that were continuously aimed at her. Suddenly, the one farthest from her fired his rifle into the air! The sound and the power registered, and her eyes turned from brown to green; there was awareness about her.

No clothes! Why do you have no clothes?

She didn’t reply further angering the man closest to her. He drew closer aiming his weapon now only inches from her.

To your knees! Hands behind you! Now, now or I kill you! Knees, to your knees!

The half-naked female adult went down onto her knees though her arms remained at her sides. Is ‘kill you’ good or bad? She inquired of the human.

Both Afghanis puzzled; the one closest jetted the butt of his gun into the upper arm of the female to knock her down but she didn’t move an inch.

It was like hitting a tree!

Frozen, her eyes closed for a few seconds as the two men exchanged baffled expressions. Seconds passed. Her eyes opened — they were vibrant amber!

You should not have done that. She said to the human closest to her.

Without hesitation, she quickly and deftly snatched the weapon from the man, backed handed the long gun toward the other man, hitting him in the head, then grabbed the man closest to her by the neck, gazing her amber eyes into his.

He feared for his life. Rightly so!

Hours later, Lieutenant Andre Catalon and Sergeant Joe Rondo stood in front of their Humvee, looking at a baldheaded person some twenty yards away. The adult female was no longer naked wearing a collarless, smudged shirt, baggy pajama pants and sandals. Sergeant Ronda had the name Joe stitched on his camouflage cap.

At the same moment southeast of Zaranj, Afghanistan, in the Helmand Province, on a narrow, sandy road, the likewise deliberate pace of the male adult appeared determined. Straight back posture, he strode forward; the hot, desert sand had no effect on his bare feet. Another giant step and, suddenly, an enormous explosion from an IED erupted!

Much farther north, the female adult stood facing Catalon and Rondo who had approached her.

Yes, I speak six of your languages. She told them, holding her gaze on the Humvee.

Just then, a hushed, far distant explosion reverbed through the wide, open air across the land altering Catalon and Rondo’s attention. The reverberation nearly surrounded them as the female adult magnified her diagnostic of the Humvee.

Sounds like someone stepped in it. Rondo figured.

Yeah; we’ll hear. Catalon said, returning his attention to the female adult. What’s your name?

Referencing the Humvee, the female adult replied, Machine.

CHAPTER 2

angel-wings

Two months after Jo Machine and Captain James Tillman parted company in front of the Capitol Building Machine paid a visit to the Tillman home. There, of course, she met Tillman’s wife, Jett, and the two girls, Carmelita and Lena. Jo was on her best behavior; however, there was certainly a piece of each of the female contingent of the Tillman family that found Machine strange and quite uncommon, though they liked her, and Jett appreciated her straightforwardness and honesty despite the oddity of Jo’s demeanor. Jo returned to the Tillman residence a few times for brief visits; and, she and Tillman spoke, telephonically, on occasion, but as were her custom and primary necessities — to survive, and to learn and adapt to Earth’s society — she would go someplace else and do her diligent duty as prescribed.

Many months after the last visit to the Tillman home, Machine zipped her Chevy to the curb in a Phoenix, Arizona red zone at a branch bank where an ATM was located. That particular thoroughfare was fairly deserted with light traffic. A bright green digital clock in a storefront window indicated it was 10:08 P.M. Three men were lined up in front of the ATM and two women waited patiently a few feet away, chatting. It was quiet and peaceful except for two well-dressed men standing on the corner down the street laughing and observing the customers withdrawing cash, an acquisition Jo Machine realized as part of her primary necessity in order to ‘learn and adapt’ to Earth’s society. Currency, as Machine called it, was vital and the lack of the legal tender had put her in jeopardy and brought her great danger and harm at times many months earlier.

After escaping from Afghanistan and flying to Ramstein Air Base in Germany, Jo Machine was, in a sense, still in diapers; that was to say, naïve and inexperienced in the human condition and earthly societal norms. She spent two-and-a-half months on the European continent.

One evening, alone in the French countryside and shutdown to preserve her energy, a strange thing occurred: Her eyes abruptly opened and she gazed into the darkness, her head rising to the deep, dark, starry expanse above as her eyes changed from brown to green to blue to amber. Her pupils expanded and soon she heard a softly whispered male voice: "Companion." Several seconds after that unusual thought transference her head lowered, her eyes returned to brown, her pupils returned to normal, and she continued to gaze into the darkness of the countryside. There was something about her expression, as if she wasn’t able to decipher what had just happened. Was that mellow, murmured voice a message? Was it contact? Definitely, it was something her Core had manifested, though it was unknown to her at that moment. Her eyes closed and she shutdown.

Soon after Machine’s escape and still in the corporal’s fatigues she had commandeered during her flight from Afghanistan, she began to realize such apparel was putting her in jeopardy. The clothing was over-sized and fit her like a garbage bag, and the looks she got from passersby alarmed her. Unable to acquire adequate clothing from commercial establishments, Jo recognized she would have to use her powers and abilities to capture a human female that was about her height and size; she did so, exchanging outfits with an unsuspecting woman then continued on her quest to ‘learn and adapt.’

Her existence seemed to be working fine until she spotted her skinhead photograph among other fugitives, wanted by the Paris anti-terrorism office and Interpol, in a couple of hallways in Nice, France, the site of the Bastille Day terrorist atrocity, months before Machine even arrived on the planet, that left 84 humans dead when a truck plowed through them on the famed Promenade de Anglais that ran along the Mediterranean Sea.

For Jo Machine, this photographic recognition was bad; indeed, counter to self-preservation, her primary ‘necessity.’ At that moment, she had very short-cropped hair, resembling the skinhead photograph too closely. Not so naïve were her abilities to survive. Thus, she began her law-breaking trend, not only to alter her physical identity, but also hacking into a private data and communication satellite in order to boot-out detection and leave the continent.

Using her trickeries, she used a computer and the satellite to establish a temporary I.D., and after some unforeseen difficulty, managed to acquire the necessary currency from an American Express office in Nice, boarded a high-speed railway to Paris, and bought a plane ticket.

(Later, of course, via a government satellite, she was able to obtain a passport, driver’s license, and library card that in the present day she carried under the name of Jo Martin)

Jo landed in Miami, Florida, and from there, after observing humans thumbing rides on highways and hopping freight trains, she copied their mannerisms, obtained rides on cars and trucks, and crossed the United States, ending up in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and it was there that she ultimately discovered just how vital currency on Earth would be, and where she achieved her first, and only, employment; she hadn’t yet learned of the ATMs.

It was now, two years after her arrival on Earth, that Machine got out of her red zone-parked Chevy in Phoenix, Arizona, and stood in line behind the men at the ATM, a technology she’d discovered was simpler than dealing with a human at a place such as an American Express office or inside any other authority where currency could be dispensed. And, as always, she wore her designer jeans, T-shirt and sneakers. Normally, at least for humans, a bomber’s jacket was unnecessary in such a warm environment as Arizona; and, for a non-human like Jo Machine who appeared human in every way it was conspicuous.

A younger man concluded his withdrawal at the ATM and joined the two women. The next man stepped up and took care of his withdrawal while Machine observed those in her immediate vicinity and the two guys at the corner down the street; the next man took his cash and receipt, and joined the ladies and his buddy; they walked off in the opposite direction. Next in line in front of Jo was an elderly fellow. He had salt-and-pepper hair, mostly salt, and may have been in his mid-sixties-to-seventy. After his transaction was concluded, he moved along toward the corner and the two fun-loving, well-dressed gents were observing him.

Machine stepped forward to the ATM. Her hands and fingertips manipulated the ATM’s technology in her favor, influencing the technology’s innards. As she waited, she indifferently eyed the spry old man ambling along down the street toward the two men who continued laughing and chatting, paying him no mind. Once acquiring a balance of a well-endowed account and balancing the chosen account and the bank’s ledger, she quickly withdrew $500.00.

When the elderly gent rounded the corner onto the side street the younger of the two men began to follow. Machine pocketed the currency and nosily watched as the second man followed.

A few vehicles were parked at the curb along the side street as the younger man, a 25-year-old named Kyle Troupe, continued following the older guy with evident determination, hurrying his pace. As he was about to pass the gentleman, Troupe pushed him through a wooden gate, breaking the latch, and into a shadowy area where a few trash dumpsters were situated. He took the old man to the ground, standing over him. Though Troupe’s necktie was loosened, he wore an expensive dark, pinstriped suit, and his hair was neatly combed.

Your money, old man. Troupe bullied.

The old guy’s eyes were snow-white surrounding dark brown eyeballs; in this dimly lighted, small blind alley, his pupils were barely visible.

Older than you think, young man. He simply replied, not seemingly unnerved by this assault. You don’t look like you need my money.

I don’t. Troupe grinned. Just for fun, so now . . . Troupe bent down, grabbed the gent by the collar, lifted him to his feet and slammed him against one of the dumpsters, give it up and home you can go.

No. You have no right to the money I earn, young man. I will not give it to you.

Troupe didn’t seem to mind the old man’s impudence and kind of enjoyed this game he was playing, so he searched he old man’s pockets, finding his wallet.

That’s a spiffy suit you wear. The old gent said, taking deliberate stock to look at Kyle Troupe’s ears. Is this what you do for a living?

Troupe pulled out some bills from the wallet. Sixty bucks? That’s all?

The gent just shrugged.

How old are you, gramps?

244. He answered. It’s easier to rob older folks; cowardly, but less risk.

Troupe quickly got pissed at the man’s cheeky behavior. Smartass motherfucker. He sent a right cross to the old man’s jaw!

He slid down the front of the dumpster like a drop of rainwater, out cold, as the other, older well-dressed man stepped next to Troupe.

Jesus, Kyle, did you kill him? Adler wondered with concern. Milt Adler was thirty-eight.

Wise ass! No. Sixty-freakin’ bucks! Troupe agonized, gazing down at the old man.

Fine. Let’s go. Adler said and turned, coming face-to-face with Jo Machine who was about Adler’s height, and both were partially shadowed by the cul-de-sac’s lighting.

Return the sixty-freakin’ bucks and leave. Machine plainly told them.

There was something about Milt Adler that caused Machine to rewind, recalling his face from an earlier time:

• • •

Adler got out of a limousine in the dark of night and gazed over its roof as someone else exited the limo on the other side.

• • •

C’mon. Adler said to Kyle.

It would be a good idea to return the currency. Machine insisted, stepping between them and going to the old man slumped at the dumpster.

Troupe whispered to Adler. Wait, Kyle said quickly, wasn’t she at the ATM, too?

Machine knelt and picked up the old man’s wallet, looking at the I.D. It read, Smitty Jones and had an address that was in Alexandria, Virginia. Smitty groaned and his eyes opened slowly. His and Machine’s eyes met. Between them, something registered.

I’m Jo.

I’m Smitty.

Alexandria, Virginia. What are you doing here?

Personal business.

Any cash on you, cupcake? Kyle Troupe asked, interrupting, standing behind her.

Machine’s eyes shifted. I am not cupcake.

Adler stepped closer to Kyle. Let’s go.

Machine looked at Smitty and held up a finger for him to wait for her.

A young couple came walking arm-in-arm up the side street. Suddenly, Adler’s body came flying out of the blind alley, landing on top of one of the vehicles; seconds later, there was a yell and Troupe’s body followed Adler’s, landing on the hood of the same vehicle. Both men rolled off, ending up on the asphalt in the street. They slowly recovered, Troupe was limping, Adler was holding his side as they trudged off down the street, passing the young couple that decided to cross the street rather than pass in front of the little cul-de-sac.

Jo handed Smitty back his wallet and sixty bucks. What’s cupcake?

A little cake in a cup.

Oh . . . I have to go. She said.

Smitty got back to his feet — he was about 5’9’ — and took his belongings. Thank you. Until again, my friend. He handed Machine his business card.

This is where you stay here? Machine asked.

I’m renting.

Kyle and Adler hobbled across the main drag, dodging a car that honked at them. Machine left Smitty and came to the corner and watched them get into a Buick SUV. Her diamond eyes magnified to the license plate before the vehicle drove off. Jo turned and started back for her Chevy, seeing a Phoenix police car parked behind it and started walking toward it when she tapped behind her ear. It was a call from Captain James Tillman who was in his Pentagon office.

Have you arrived in Phoenix yet? Tillman was anxious to know.

I have and you haven’t told me why I’m here.

A Phoenix police officer was getting out of his patrol car with a pad.

Tillman tried to briefly explain he had an undercover operative in jeopardy, but Machine interrupted.

Use your military, Tillman.

Not yet.

Is this what you call top secret? Machine figured, asking.

Some other time, Jo, this’s urgent.

Machine had her eye on the policeman who was moving around the Chevy. It always is. Explain, Tillman.

Tillman told her the operative was using the name Tommy Espinosa who believed he was ‘made’ and being followed; Tommy feared for his capture to acquire some data he had in his possession, he was aware of Machine’s ensuing presence in Phoenix, and Tommy had agreed to meet Machine at Rally Square Street tomorrow at 1200 hours. Tillman wanted Jo to find him, keep him safe, and to let Tillman know when she had him in her custody then he’d send lieutenants Estes and Nickles to assist from there. Tillman’s brief explanation was nonspecifically specific and it was all he was going to offer Jo at that time.

The cop was about to write his citation for the illegal parking in the red zone and Jo quickened her pace.

Describe Tommy Espinosa and give me his number.

Tillman quickly described Tommy and gave her Tommy’s contact number.

Okay, Tillman. I have to go. She tapped behind her ear, disconnecting, and approached the cop, observing his nameplate that read Zapata. I’m going to leave.

You can’t park here, ma’am, at anytime. He advised her. I’m going to have to cite you; your license and registration?

I was helping someone. She tried to explain. The vehicle has only been here for eleven and twenty-three seconds of your minutes.

The officer gave her a polite smile. Eleven and twenty-three seconds of my minutes includes anytime. Your license and registration, ma’am?

Machine processed