Machine

By J. Rickley Dumm

There are many beautiful women but none like this. 
She is statuesque. Her eyes change colors from brown to green or blue, and always with a sparkle of diamonds.

What does she live for? What is her power? Above all, she seeks survival and adaptation. She’s naïve, somewhat childish, and inexperienced, but if threatened

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Rickley Dumm
• Release date: Oct 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9780999544013

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.

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PROLOGUE

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Millions of our years ago an extraterrestrial culture fled their galaxy because theirs was merging with another. They took with them finite elements and their designed, distantly advanced technology. They fled to the Sombrero Nebula that was alone in the infinite expanse of the universe. Sombrero was a mere 50,000 lights years across and had 800 billion suns. There, the extraterrestrials discovered oceans of hydrogen, large, intermittent pockets of oxygen, as well as nitrogen, sulfur, magnesium and other elements.

That extraterrestrial specie visited the Mayan empire thirty-five hundred years ago. Helpful and quite persuasive, they assisted the Maya agriculturally, artistically and astronomically. While doing so, they designed and cut enormous, perfect field circles for identification and arrivals. Leaving, these visitors transported vast amounts of organic material and elements: Seawater and fresh water, trees, plants, barks and skins; sea life, reptiles, birds and animals. And humans.

Give-or-take a few thousand years prior to that visitation, however, the extraterrestrials had developed, at least for them, an oddity: Solid material! These three solids and their residue, together with Earth’s elements and the humans, unknowingly became that specie’s foundation for a single-minded commitment. Though one structural, solid element was forged unintentionally, the other two were accidental residue. They later discovered only Earth’s sugar and salt were harmful to these elements, corroding them.

Oobla giyuz-og (harder than a diamond) was an impenetrably hard and weighty solid captured from the hearts of meteoroids through intense heat. (Of course, the varied heat came nowhere close to our galaxy’s own Sun’s power and energy, which on its outer layer, or photosphere, is 11,000 degrees Fahrenheit; our Sun’s temperature at its core is 27,000,000 degrees Fahrenheit.) The oobla element was slightly hazy, distressed and diamond-like when fashioned and cut by powerful, concentrated heat beams. What appeared to be imperfections within the oobla were actually degrees-of-strength. At magnification, those imperfections were tiny gold arches.

Gyoozgorga (rubbery, flexible tissue) yielded from the heat’s cutting of the oobla, resulted in a residue of dark, malleable material that was also an impenetrable element; perhaps, a facsimile to our ultra-super Kevlar. The gorga also contained thousands of tiny absorbent pockets, and it was discovered to be solar-receptive, phenomena the extra-terrestrials embraced. This extraterrestrial specie possessed an unimaginable power of transference and through these pockets, or cells, the gorga was capable of dispensing and injecting onto other objects indescribable energy in wave or liquid form when stimulated.

Uuyan (membranous) was the second yield from the oobla’s cutting. It was light, marginally-reddish brown in color, and was a smooth, sheath tissue that had peeled off the outer layer of the gorga, and when cooled it remained dry and appeared natural and surface-soft, yet so resilient it was impervious to heat, though only to a specific spectrum in degrees, yet never burned to alter its neutral color; thus, the uuyan was also solar-receptive and naturally assisted in ‘feeding’ the gorga’s tiny, absorbent cells.

Almost 1,000 of our years after their first visit to the Mayan culture, the extraterrestrial visitors returned, again leaving with various earthly crops and more of everything, including more human Maya for further study. They continued most of their studies on the Maya humans they’d taken and transported, observing their mannerisms, behaviors and conduct, each different in their own way. They watched and noted each one’s friendly, as well as love, relations, something quite foreign to the extraterrestrial specie. These behaviors were visually recognizable, but they were concepts inconceivable for them, and whether comprehensible were yet to be determined. They watched with interest and puzzlement the Maya’s edible sustenance of their prepared foods from the crops, fishes and animals they’d removed and transported through space and time, and thus they also observed human release of urine and fecal matter. Possessing that ability to manufacture liquid and soft solids through their bodily viscera, these humans were, indeed, a strange, yet magnificent, species.

They returned more frequently over the next 1,300 hundred of our years and soon, after 3,000 years of visitations and extractions since they first visited, the Mayan empire and culture had begun to decline and was gone, though the field circles remained. Considering the extra-terrestrial specie had removed, literally, hundreds, if not thousands, of Maya from their land, it wasn’t surprising it contributed to the Maya empire’s eventual expiration. Of course, historians and archivists since that era were never aware of the specie’s intervention.

Subsequently, discovering the Mayan empire’s decline and end, without hesitation the extraterrestrial visitors set their direction farther north to the flatlands where they gathered and transported more earthly elements and humans for inclusion in the ultimate first phase of their original commitment.

Over 100 years ago, humans began transmitting Earth’s societal and cultural information into the universe by every which way Mankind could devise. As technology progressed and advanced on Earth, so did these transmissions: Facts, figures, photos, images, music, languages, electronic sounds, and structural DNA et al. This extraterrestrial specie visited Earth several times during the 20th Century and into the 21st.

These extraterrestrials were unable, however, to combat human viruses, some seemingly feared as toxic to their environment and those humans had to be disposed of, painlessly, and their ashes and remains sent into the nebula to dissipate and dissolve. Nor were they able to duplicate human viscera via their knowhow and designed skill, advanced as it was; and, the human brain was unfathomably perplexing and, likewise, they were unable to finitely recreate one even during those 3,500 of our years. (Needless-to-say, the extraterrestrials were a patient lot). They did, however, replicate a likeness to the human brain, a highly sensitive and critical oobla mass called a Core.

By their own means of studying human multitudes that they’d accumulated, the extraterrestrials were able to program and assimilate actual human mental and physical tendencies by way of their designed technology — a technology, as told, that was vastly distant and distinct from our own — and incorporate their solid elements and Core, into a platform of ability, power, memory, survival and protection, specifically for their commitment after their initial discoveries within the Sombrero Nebula. Our science might have called it extraterrestrial-extraordinary-extracurricular design.

The last time the specie visited was on a dark evening ten months ago on a hot, dry desert floor on Earth.

CHAPTER 1

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Hundreds of needle-thin blips shot through deep space, many times faster than the speed-of-light; in essence, time-traveling. The instantaneous streaks passed Neptune, Uranus, Saturn then Jupiter and approached Mars, flashing by in less than a blink. In the distance, the mere speck of the blue planet called Earth.

From the choking, wind-blown sand of a desert floor came an adult female figure, scantily attired, wearing nothing but a piece of burlap around her waist and groin area. As the wind gradually subsided, she looked as if she could have been in her mid-twenties. She was skinhead bald, had high cheek bones, which were common in Mayan ancestry, bare feet, small breasts, and possessed a smooth, spread-down swimmer’s torso (as opposed to a more bulky, compressed female bodybuilder). If there was an ounce of fat on her, it couldn’t have been detected by the world’s greatest dietetic physician in a testing lab. The whites of her eyes were almost mother-of-pearl, her eyes brown, and her pupils were a deep, deep purple; her flesh had a tingible, tone color: She could have been half-African, half-Hispanic; or, half-American Indian, half-Caucasian. It was difficult to determine. What could be determined, simply by looking at her, was she was uncommon.

Sometime later, she was wearing a pair of ragged pants and a plain, smudged open shirt. The hot, burning sun shown brightly and relentlessly upon the barren desert floor and that female adult seemed unperturbed by the sand’s penetrating temperature beneath her feet, as if walking on a hotplate, nor was she physically drained from the sun’s pounding, invisible rays.

Ever so gradually the muffled sound of engines evolved, causing her to end her deliberate gait and turn. Perhaps 300 yards away, a small convoy of military vehicles approached, heading straight for her. Rather than run, she indifferently and patiently waited as three U.S. Army Humvees rolled forward and stopped twenty yards from her. Momentarily, two soldiers in desert camouflage exited the Hummer, joining in front of the vehicle and approached. The soldier on the left was a lieutenant and his name patch read, Catalon; the other soldier was a sergeant Rondo, a black man with the name ‘Joe’ stitched on his camo cap.

She watched them without expression as they approached. It seemed like the closer they got to her, the more she knew of them, seeing and knowing every piece, every object, every stitch on the surface of their clothing. Catalon and Rondo slowed a few feet in front of her and split apart, flanking her at 30-degree angles, exposing the Humvees between them in the distance. Her eyes turned from brown to green, and her visual contact shifted from the two soldiers to the lead Humvee, her gaze magnified and was as intent as it had been on them.

Though with a shaved head, this adult was obviously female, and was of equal height to Rondo’s 5’11-to-6’0 but a few inches shorter than Catalon.

Howdy. Catalon greeted her.

Howdy. The female adult repeated, holding her green-eye gaze on the vehicle while doing a distant, aesthetic diagnostic within her clear, sparkling eyes. Within the female adult’s eyes, perceived within her large, purple pupils and only by her, were a few strange, tiny, squirming figures that wouldn’t have made sense to Albert Einstein or J. Robert Oppenheimer.

Well, good, Catalon surmised. You speak English? he asked with an Oklahoma drawl.

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

Just then, a hushed, yet distinct, far distant explosion altered Catalon and Rondo’s attention. They turned toward the sound as the female continued her magnified 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.

Catalon glanced over at Rondo who nonchalantly slid a hand to the top of his sidearm.

Is that a first name or last? Catalon asked with a bit of a grin.

Only. Machine answered, looking at Rondo’s camo cap. Joe, an abbreviation for Joseph in your English language.

What the hell? No shit, you say. Rondo smirked.

I did.

Catalon might have sensed a harmless mannerism in Machine and took a step forward. Why are you here? Where are you going?

The expression on Machine’s face and the look in her still green eyes might have suggested Catalon’s queries were quite profound.

Ten-plus months ago, Admiral, Captain James Tillman was saying, she gave her name as Jo Machine; we’re assuming the ‘Jo’ is a derivation of Josephine or JoAnn or Joan or Jo-Ellen, or perhaps any number of variations. Army’s Lieutenant Catalon asked about the clothes she was wearing; she said she got them from a human on horseback. She was detained, interrogated and psychologically examined over a period of four-and-a-half days then escaped without a trace.

They gave her fatigues, sir, before they placed her in detention. Lieutenant Julie Yang clarified.

Green-shaded library lamps, resting in front of numerous chairs, adorned a long, polished conference room table in the Pentagon. Only three of them were lighted and at each position around the table there were notepads and pencils consigned. At four stations on the table were four black interoffice telephones, each had a small domed, unlit red light on its face.

Seated before these three lamps were three Naval officers: Captain James Ivory Tillman, an African-American in his forties with six rows of ribbons on his chest and a gold SEAL emblem above. Ninety degrees to his right sat fifty-seven–year-old Admiral Stephen Paxon, a veteran of the Gulf War, former combat pilot, and a man Captain Tillman admired and had emulated throughout his own career. Besides being dedicated professionals, they had become friends ‘off the deck’ so to speak, and who on occasion shared outings with their respective families. To Tillman’s immediate left was Lieutenant Julianne Yang, in her thirties, as cute as a doll, and 5’2" of twisted menace when physically confronted. Julie had come up through the ranks, endured nine difficult weeks of combat training at the SEAL facility in Coronado, California, but never served on assignment because she was an expert analyst and tactical maven as well, and whom Tillman had plucked from that service to be his deputy in the Pentagon’s Operations and Infiltration wing.

Young Jimmy Tillman grew up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, alongside his younger siblings. He was a good student at the urging of his mother and father and graduated from high school among the top 10% of his class despite the rumblings in the neighborhood in which he lived and worked part time bagging groceries, and despite his occasional stubbornness. To the delight of his parents, Jimmy earned a partial academic scholarship to Penn State University. To his detriment, however, he became a ‘college kid,’ partying and having fun, losing his scholastic focus, and that soon threatened his scholarship and enrollment. His father gave him an ultimatum: Live at home and attend a JUCO (Junior College) and bring up the grades, or enlist in the military; his father emphasized young Jimmy wasn’t going to come home and vegetate! Jimmy Tillman’s stubbornness took over; he called his father’s bluff, and entered Naval OTS. Fate had hunted young Jimmy Tillman. That significant but short part of his obstinate past had let go of him, unlike so many. The rest, so commonly said, was history, a history that would affect the many who would enter his life.

While I observed her interrogation with Colonel Leveridge, she scarcely altered her expression; she hardly blinked and wasn’t intimidated by Lieutenant Lawrence Misner, the Army’s interrogator, who at times was unmerciful.

Tillman continued, summarizing that during those four-and-a-half days she grew weaker, which was right in Misner’s kitchen, but she still didn’t break. To Leveridge’s credit, and also to his detriment, he brought in a base psychologist to examine her, and that started a series of events that led to her escape. According to the psychologist, Machine persuaded him to let her outside, to see the light, so the next morning at sunrise, under guard, she was taken to the roof of the building, into the light, and poof, she was gone.

Admiral Paxon had a folder in front of him, open to a photo of the skin-headed female, Jo Machine. I take it then she never offered anything and barely spoke?

Tillman nodded. Barely is the operative word, sir, maybe three or four word sentences, Tillman assessed, and she when she did speak is was with an odd cadence. She said she had two primary necessities . . .

Necessities? Paxon interrupted. Not objectives or goals?

No, sir. Necessities — self-preservation, and to learn and adapt to society.

Paxon paused, evaluating. A nut case.

Julie also had an open folder before her, joining the conversation. The psychiatric evaluation states she was ‘as if a schoolgirl,’ and from the clothes she was initially wearing, ‘a ragamuffin’ . . .

Though curious, Paxon didn’t look as if he was impressed with any of this thus far.

. . . ‘naïve, a girlish innocence, eager to learn, and thoroughly logical’.

Paxon waited for a few seconds. That’s it?

Er . . . no, sir. Julie turned a page, reading: The psychologist noted that her responses, although weak, were immediate, evasive and succinct; and possibly, ‘antisocial with a personality disorder, yet seemed harmless and not a danger to others’. Julie read.

Rather bizarre, wouldn’t you think, lieutenant? Paxon thought.

Yes, sir.

A nut case and not a danger to others. Is there something missing? Paxon twirled a finger in the air.

Besides her, sir? Julie inoffensively queried.

Admiral Paxon leered. Go on, lieutenant.

Julie consulted the evaluation once more. She noted Machine has ‘no concept of the human condition, or human feelings and emotions’.

The Admiral merely stared at Julie then shifted his eyes to his O&I wing captain, and without looking, sensed more questionable data was forthcoming on Jo/Josephine/JoAnn Machine, sliding his notepad closer, taking up a pencil.

An arcane nut case. Paxon construed. Let’s see, that fits ten-percent of the goddamn population.

From what I observed during Misner’s interrogation, Admiral, she didn’t seem so. Tillman said, sounding as if he was coming to Machine’s defense and, perhaps, disagreeing with some of the psychologist’s summations.

Paxon said nothing, jotting something down on his notepad.

She’s still classified as a military fugitive, Julie began, and . . .

One second, lieutenant. Paxon said, jotting down another note.

Tillman might have detected where Paxon was headed since he’d known the man for sometime and knew his spirited personality off-duty and, like himself, his need to know.

No human feelings, emotions. Paxon mumbled as he scribbled key words on his notepad. Alright, lieutenant, carry on. Do you think we can find this innocent, harmless fugitive? There was a change of tone in Paxon’s voice — perhaps slyly blasé.

Though certainly affected by this mysterious fugitive, Tillman knew Paxon’s spirited, often sly temperament even though the Admiral was playing it straight. To Julie, who had only been in the Admiral’s presence twice, he sounded sincere.

We don’t know where she is, sir. Julie responded.

Ah! Perfect. Paxon made another note.

Julie wasn’t sure what that could have meant, at least, for the moment, though felt a tinge of caution.

Tillman thought he’d, knowingly, add another link to Paxon’s skeptical chain. Or where she’s from or where’s she’s going.

Shit, Jim, even better. Paxon continued to jot on the notepad.

With that remark, Julie, who obviously wasn’t stupid, now knew that Paxon thought he was being diddled; she anxiously eyed her captain, perhaps beginning to think the worst.

Her fingerprints are almost amphibious. Tillman tossed into this pot of stew despite the truthfulness of his statement.

Given Paxon’s current approach to all this, Julie fleetingly wondered if that inexplicable tidbit of information was essential at that moment.

"Really? I wonder if this Machine woman is a spy and a fish?" Paxon offered up.

Tillman sort of chuckled and leaned forward to the table. Seriously, sir . . .

Yes, very. Paxon implored; he could hardly wait! You called this confab, captain, continue.

Tillman had hoped to bring the Admiral along slowly but he may have out-guessed his ultimate need for the ‘confad.’ Nonetheless, he plowed ahead, knowing what was still coming wasn’t going to thrill the Admiral; rather, it was going to possibly overwhelm him and conceivably lift him to a level of DefCon-2.

Of course, she’s not a fish and it’s unknown if she’s a spy, Admiral. Tillman began.

Paxon was glibly overjoyed. Well, shit, that’s good to know, Jim.

We’ve run Josephine, JoAnn et al. Machine through every database at our disposal. Tillman continued with all earnestness. She has no past, no history; she doesn’t even register; Jo Machine’s off the grid, every single one.

Paxon continued to jot without looking at either of them. I see; doesn’t exist. Is there somebody out there like that? No response came from either of them. We have a hint of her psychology, lieutenant, he addressed Julie, any clues regarding her mythology?

Awkward was off the chart! This isn’t fabrication or illusion, sir. Julie fumbled. It’s certainty. She . . .

Oh, just a curious wonder, lieutenant. Paxon smiled. Making copious notes is all.

Tillman wasn’t saying a word; this was his deputy’s follow-up task after all.

Julie eagerly consulted her folder, squirming slightly in her soft, cushioned burgundy leather chair; she knew what was still coming, too. Maybe a ten-mile hike in 110-degree heat with full backpack through snake-infested terrain was her equal to this ‘confab.’

On the other hand, Tillman finally spoke up, she could be the nicest person in the world. Tillman mused for the Admiral.

Paxon nodded at Tillman. Could be . . . Or a walking pile of ordnance, but . . . Paxon shrugged, darkly, exhaling. Is that it, Jim?

Tillman didn’t flinch. He sensed the Admiral wanted this meeting over with and he was going to finish this meeting even if Julie turned to stone in her chair.

Thirty-six hours ago, Tillman went on, someone named Jo Machine won over thirty thousand dollars on an electronic bingo game; she bought a car, a Chevy we understand, and registered it under the name of Joan Martin.

Joan. Paxon jazzed up in a facetious fashion and flipped a page on his notepad, notating, as Tillman filled him in, though his tolerance for this was continuing to wane. Julie could not only sense it, she could plainly see it on Paxon’s experienced, weathered face. She was frozen in her chair.

Okay. Paxon rested his pencil. If this innocent woman can’t be found by mankind, technology, or in licensed bingo parlors, why am I here?

She knew where to find me, sir.

Paxon smiled. He now knew the gist of this unscheduled meeting and switched to genuine interest. Oh?

She made contact. Tillman divulged and further explained that on the roof of that building in Afghanistan, she commandeered two guards then a sergeant in the data room, and managed to forge papers via computer and boarded a plane to Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany. That was the last we heard of her until she made contact. She wants her fugitive status removed and on her terms.

Does she now? . . . Damn arrogant and unsophisticated of her, don’t you think, lieutenant? The Admiral’s interest was short-lived.

Yes, sir, I couldn’t agree more, sir. A wise response!

Hell yeah; give her credit.

Considering her evaluation, sir . . .

He contacted you how? Paxon interrupted her, gazing earnestly at Tillman.

Tillman confessed, She managed to acquire my cellphone number. I’ll probably never know how, but she left me a number.

Paxon was stunned! His interest returned. Why the hell didn’t Tillman say so in the first place? This was a revelation no doubt for Paxon. Problem solved for the Admiral.

Fucking Eureka! Paxon heralded. Call her, trace, and pick the bitch up! That it?

Tillman looked a scant ill at ease, as the Admiral was ready to close his folder and tear off his notes.

It’s a fourteen digit number, sir; it can’t be traced.

The hits just kept on coming as Tillman parted the Admiral’s seas. Paxon, stiffly and slowly, sat back in his chair. Tillman could nearly see a dark cloud hovering over the Admiral’s thinning hairline. If only it was the next day. He’d twiddle his thumbs if his hands weren’t back on the notepad and folder. He looked like he’d had enough, checking the time on his watch — there had to be something more pressing and