I Am Gregory

By W.J. Cherf

Frankly, I’m a blunt guy.
Some even call me a curmudgeon.
Whatever the hell that is.

In my world, the twenty-fourth century, things rarely happen like they’re supposed to. Like running into devious booby-traps or predatory alien parasites. Here, for better or worse, global government is a fact, lunar mining a reality, alien contact and conflict a commonplace, and where brokered certified mercenaries fill the societal role of “extraordinary facilitators.”

I, Ian Gregory, am a former United Earth Force Marine master sergeant and certified second-class mercenary. On my honorable discharge, I took a flyer with a corporate outfit and succeeded hugely. First, I got a gene splice, then gained the ability to mind speak. Those abilities catapulted me into a series of adventures that included navigating a Super Raptor interceptor. I finally ended up with a promotion as a U.N.-Geneva ambassador—to an alien planet. Yeah, things rarely happen like they’re supposed to.

This volume is the second of a new sci-fi fiction series. For those not familiar with my others, peek inside and find others that include time travel, paranormal archaeology, and age-old rivalries between occult societies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: W.J. Cherf
• Release date: Aug 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215621233

W.J. Cherf

W.J. Cherf has always wanted to write a book without footnotes, to tell a fascinating tale that is so real that his avid readers are left puzzled over what was real and what was Memorex. To craft such a tale takes wit, a love of science fiction, and above all a deep reverence for ancient history and archaeology. All of these qualities are stitched together beautifully in his books, because Cherf has been there, dug that. He’s even seen the sun rise from atop the Great Pyramid.Reviews have been generous:“Bow Tie: Two Thumbs Up”“Imagine a dinner party thrown by Tom Clancy, where he sits EE “Doc” Smith next to HG Wells”“Amazing story, fascinating detail, a fabulous read”“Cherf has done a wonderful job combining facts from Egyptian history and a fictional story to create a compelling trilogy of intrigue and espionage”“What an enjoyable experience reading this series!”With a BA in Anthropology, MA in Egyptian Archaeology, and Ph.D. in Ancient History, Cherf remains current as an elected officer of Denver’s Egyptian Studies Society and is a member of a national service organization called SERTOMA, SERvice TO MANkind, that is devoted to hearing disabilities. Living with his beloved wife Sue, they keep Foxbat 1 out in the garage. They enjoy golf, road racing (that’s where Foxbat comes in), and cheering for the Cubs and Chicago Bears.

Book preview

Dear Sweet Sue:

Another one! (I heard you scream.)

Here is another science fiction story full of imagination.

I feel like I’m on a roll.

As always, this one is for you.

CHAPTER ONE

The depth of the dark sea threatened to consume him. Bubbles twinkled like so many diamonds as they passed by his dive helmet’s lamp. While the mixed gas breather functioned, Ian Gregory wondered if his lungs could handle the external pressure. While he knew where the wreck was, its condition, and depth remained the big unknowns. Hence the concern. The water was cold, but manageable, as he wore only a dark dive skin on his torso. His bare white legs, in comparison, seemed to glow in this stygian realm. Easily disoriented, the only thing that told him where the surface was, were his ever-rising bubbles.

He studied his dive gauge and confirmed his air supply was good. He knew his goal was near, the wreck within reach. Then, out of the gloom his head lamp confirmed the emergence of shadowy details. Ruined structures began to appear several more meters ahead.

But his instincts stopped him dead in the water. His hair turned to absolute wire as he hovered like a jelly fish over the wreck.

Not today, Greg.

Something is terribly wrong here.

Besides, that Nazi gold is not going anywhere.

Live to fight another day.

Just back off.

Maybe take a daylight dive.

Trusting his sixth sense without question, he began his ascent as he pumped air into the buoyancy compensator, then let some out to maintain a consistent rise up, while slowly blowing out air from his lungs.

This is no place for oxygen narcosis.

It seemed like forever before he broke the surface. When he did, night had fallen on that dark sea. Only a sliver of moon brightened the surface’s imperfections. Then he felt it. The crunching concussion of a massive explosion directly below him as he fractionally rose from its concussion.

Right again, old boy!

Now sprint your ass away like a porpoise!

Kick like a son-of-a-bitch!

Of late, like during the last ten years or so, underwater mines included nasty chemical surprises that sterilized the blast zone with powerful and caustic acids. The result was that any diver and their gear caught nearby were seriously affected, not to mention all the sea life. That was the reason for his quick swim to get as far away as possible from the rising bubbles of that explosion. Gregory had far too many exposed areas to chance some nasty acid burns and blisters.

Clear of the explosion’s nasty plumb of bubbles and its wafting chorine reek, the diver’s return swim to his inflatable went uneventfully. Stripping off his gear, he quickly stowed it, and slipped into a dry one-piece assault suit. Exiting the area as quickly as his electric motor could propel him, and the hydroplanes could make the inflatable skim above the water. The seasoned mercenary didn’t need his sixth sense to tell him that he had been set up. This entire contract had been fishy from the start. No pun intended. And now this.

Frickin’ bastards!

He found his general landing area by the stars, shoreline, and grudgingly, with the global positioning device on his wrist. This rocky peninsula of the Greek Peloponnesus was exceptionally cruel, and throughout the ages, had claimed countless hulls. Its wave-action and fickle currents didn’t help either.

Drawing up between some large boulders, Gregory got out, and dragged the surface craft ashore. There in the rough and gravely sand, he quickly deflated it, folded, rolled it up, and stuffed it into its carbon fiber bag. He then collapsed the motor, just do, in its compartment. Carrying both this on his broad and well-muscled shoulders freed his hands. His suppressed automatic weapon held at the ready, the merc fully expected the worse at this point.

The path up from his make-shift landing, likely a goat path in these parts, was as winding and narrow as it was treacherous in the dark. Fortunately, its limestone surface had been worn by the passage of many hooves and as a consequence showed nicely against the surrounding black rock. Again, Gregory’s instincts stopped him just before topping the shoreline’s grass-covered ridge. Silently taking off his burden, he placed it aside among the rocks. The merc then crawled forward like a skink to sneak a peek over the edge. It was good that he had.

Not one hundred meters, both to his right and left, stood dark and armed threats. From his low vantage point, they silhouetted nicely against the starry sky. By the look of them and their postures, he could tell they were wearing night goggles. Tiny antennae whips extending from them hinted at a shared tactical communication network. And just as clearly, they were scanning down into the waves, for something, or someone.

Not today, assholes.

After carefully sighting in with his night scope, Gregory began pulling the trigger. Two coughing double-taps quietly flew from his automatic rifle and both sentries fell into the coastal rocks.

Time to vanish and fight another day.

But boy, am I pissed!

Came all this way for nothing.

My mission boss back at base is going to get a piece of my mind!

CHAPTER TWO

Allow me to clear the air and make some things crystal clear from the very start. First off, I am a pretty blunt guy. Some even call me a curmudgeon, whatever the hell that means. Just kidding. Whenever you’re a seasoned and certified, Second-Class Mercenary, and a splice to boot, it happens. Get used to it. I’ve seen my fair share.

In the last third of the twenty-first century, Earth slowly learned to enjoy a single, global government, the United Nations relocated to Geneva, because the then United States, in disgust, kicked their asses out of New York City. And that valuable footprint on Manhattan Island overlooking the East River is now a pretty green parkland full of trees.

Nowadays, in the twenty-fourth century, Geneva is no longer a city of the sovereign and independent nation of Switzerland, but rather the United Cantons of Switzerland, or UCS. While each cultural member of the U.N. possesses their own regional police force or territorial guard, they traded away the financial and administrative burden of a formal military force, much to their short-term budgetary joy. How short-sighted. In their place, the United Earth Force was formed by the U.N. to keep the general peace and to protect the planet. Why? Because extraterrestrials had become a reality, much to the utter shock of many. These off-worlders even had been granted ambassadorial chairs in the U.N., who in return promised us all sorts of good advice and helpful cooperation.

What bunk.

So, here’s my thinking.

In my view, the Pleiadeans were basically the good guys. These tiny beings, also referred to as the grays because of their overall skin tone, were the first ones who made contact with the administration of the old United States, way back in the 1940s. Several crashes of their scout craft caused this. We respectfully returned their remains and living survivors. We did not their ships, which over the next seventy or so years were thoroughly reverse engineered by several private aerospace corporations, in cooperation with the military and government administrations of the times. In the process, we learned all about anti-gravity bubbles, inertial suppression, quantum AI navigational computing, how to beat Einstein’s faster-than-light speed limit, computer keyboards, Velcro fasteners, microchips, reflective fiber-optic wiring, and Teflon. This entire relationship remained a fiercely held U.S. secret, that is until 2177.

Then came The U.N. Intra-Galactic Accord of 2177. Like all such diplomatic firsts, its title turned out to be an empty balloon. In that year, the Sagittarians made their presence known in rather spectacular fashion, by landing in Geneva. As a consequence of that official contact, one that no governmental agency could possibly ignore or suppress, the intra-galactic civilizations of the Pleiadeans and Sagittarians were both celebrated with much fanfare at United Nations-Geneva. This exaggerated welcoming gush resulted in the signing of a document of mutual recognition and cooperation. For the Pleiadeans, they were a known commodity. We enjoyed a mutual and beneficial relationship, albeit for a long time in total secrecy, that is, until the Accord. Our subsequent military confrontations with the Sagittarians, initially a totally unknown commodity, I might add, caused the Pleiadean diplomatic mission to leave our planet, as they didn’t want to be involved in the coming shit storm. Frankly, I don’t blame them one bit.

Sagittarius 43. Why 43? Because that’s how many planets and planetoids our deep space telescopes identified. Upon closer inspection, numbers 1-42 were deemed uninhabitable, and they were right.

What can I say about the Sagittarians themselves?

How can I say this without being too offensive?

I’ll just pause here for a moment, while I gather my collective diplomatic wits.

Physically, these folks have two arms, two legs, a head, and are bipeds. While we evolved from apes, they did from some sort of lizard. Their ears, eyes, and nose slots have flaps that seal, all valuable features for a desert race with lots of blowing wind. Their tan skin is pebbly, much like the hide impressions on some of our dinosaur fossils. Plus, their skin can change color, to a greater or lesser degree, depending upon which regional variant you are talking to. And that skin sheds quite a lot. As for communication, they lack mouth parts or a voice box. For them, a variety of hissing or breathing sounds suffice for primitive aural communications. In the main, Sagittarians are largely mind speakers, or telepaths, who possess highly organized and compartmentalized minds. And this cerebral ability is the primary source of their ego, because if you cannot converse with them in this manner, they immediately log you as an inferior, lower life form, devoid of discipline and logic.

Just ducky for diplomatic relations, huh?

On top of that, the Sagittarians, from the very start, had designs on our planet’s and satellite’s many natural resources. This became very apparent when their corporate delegations spread out and contacted many of our strategic mining concerns. This all came to a head when one such delegation approached the corporate director of GENEMEDCO with certain unilateral demands. That’s the outfit I work for by the way. When this director refused their demands, a member of their corporate delegation attempted to assassinate him. As if that wasn’t enough, then, in broad daylight no less, the Sagittarians sunk a rusting ship in Jakarta’s main harbor, in another assassination attempt. Just like that. Fortunately, both incidents were recorded on vids that went viral across the planet. The Sagittarians, feeling disrespected and humiliated by the sudden exposure of their actions by our global media, abandoned practically overnight their U.N. ambassadorial post, repudiated their status regarding The Accord of 2177, and evacuated some sixty-odd corporate delegates from Earth and the moon.

In my view, good riddance.

But just like on the vids, there’s more to this story. The Sagittarians, lusting for our resources, decided, in their infinite wisdom, to return to Earth and take them by force with no less than six assault cruisers. Their initial target was the mining operation on the dark side of the moon, which just so happens to be protected by Dark Side, United Earth Force, Base 1. That near space engagement was a Pyrrhic victory for Earth. While all six of the Sagittarian assault cruisers were destroyed, one half of the Falcon One Flight that had engaged, was as well. These represented losses that could not be sustained. But the real kicker to this drama was that the U.N. secretary-general had been in the Sagittarian’s pocket. So, when their assault group arrived, that official assassinated the Pleiadean ambassador, who had originally come to his office warning of an impending Sagittarian attack. Then the coward committed suicide. At that moment in time, no one else could authorize the Falcon One Flight to defend itself or Dark Side for that matter. Fortunately, good old fashion Terran common sense took over.

Act Two to this insanity arrived two years later, when a second plundering raid was attempted by the Sagittarians. Like a much-bloodied and dazed boxer, they returned to take the moon’s mining operation and destroy the Dark Side, UEF, Base 1. Once again, they failed. But in a brilliant flash of diplomatic mercy, we towed back to the edge of their space frontier what was left of the listing and battered assault cruiser and its crew. This last humiliation really stung the Sagittarians, clearly a very proud and stubborn race.

Now, back to the Pleiadeans. With age comes wisdom, and over the years I have learned a lot about the grays and their interest in us. Frankly, it’s not so pretty. While their many crashes we took full advantage of, the real question was, why were they here in the first place? After nosing around and speaking with those in the know, it turns out that the Pleiadeans were harvesting our DNA, while figuring out how our physiology and reproductive systems worked. Hence, all those gruesome abductions over the many years. Apparently, they possessed the technology to make a quantum evolutionary step, as they considered their current bodily form obsolete, care-worn, and no longer advantageous in some way. So, while the Sagittarians coveted our natural resources, the Pleiadeans were doing the very same with our biology, directly, and from our living brothers and sisters. Yet, unlike the Sagittarians, the Pleiadeans did cease all their harvesting with the Accord of 2177. Call me cold and without feelings, but I suspect they had already got what they wanted and the Accord was just a convenient excuse to break off their covert activities.

That’s all I have to say about that matter. Which, in hindsight, is more than plenty.

CHAPTER THREE

Why the history lesson? Because from 2177 onward, we