Quest for Destiny Chapter One
Quest for Destiny Chapter OnePrelude ~
On a late, peaceful evening within a diner at Sunset Beach, California, a mature woman read passages from a hardbound book between bites. Her crescent, aqua eyes regarded the waitress with interest while the younger puttered about, keeping busy. Bells within the corner tower—providing the name for the establishment, the Bell Tower Grill—toned softly eleven times after a brief rendition of Für Elise. Christmas lights framed the window of the booth, giving the femella a view of the nearly empty street. Her forest-green, ankle-length dress and black knitted shawl conveyed a heavier appearance to her modest stature.
She took time to savor the rare lamb chop and colorful sautéed strips of bell peppers over a bed of wild rice. After her eighth bite, she reached into a spacious, cluttered, rusty-red suede purse lying next to her on the booth’s vinyl seat, retrieving an ear piece from an inside pocket.
With one hand, she slipped the deep-gray, oval device on her left ear. The flattened egg-shaped device cloaking the ear like a smooth, padded muff wasn’t quite hidden under the butterscotch braid wrapped twice around the crown of her head. The braid was held in place by a trio of decorative black rods. Reaching back into her purse, taking hold of a squat, circular, dark-metallic instrument that fit comfortably in her hand, she heard the soft identifying tone in her ear.
Releasing the module, she pulled her hand from the purse, instructing softly, “Ivmarla. Please connect me with Dayton Logistics.”
“Yes, meerum,” came a pleasant, feminine voice in her ear, using an honorific expression from home others in the diner would relate to as madam.
After a couple rings, a man answered. “One Eighty-Fourth Logistics.”
“Hello. This is Alice Nicholas for Trayton DuRoss. He may be out at this late hour.” Her inflections had a foreign blend none of the local populace would trace.
After a series of barely audible clicks on a keyboard, the voice informed her, “He is out at this time, ma’am. I could pass a message.”
“That would be nice. Please, tell him I’m around for a few hours and would like to talk. He has my comm-number.”
“I’ll pass the message.”
“Thank you. Farewell.”
“Have a pleasant night.”
The woman touched the piece at her ear and the connection was severed.
A few bites later, the taller waitress came closer, asking, “How is everything?”
“Quite enjoyable. Thank you,” the mature woman told the slender, yet shapely femella, having loose, wavy, light-brown hair. She wore a red trimmed, knee-length, cream uniform dress.
“More tea?”
“Yes, please. That,” closing the book, pushing it to the edge, closer to the waitress, “and an autograph. I would also like some of your time to discuss this work.”
Pale hazel-brown eyes of the waitress looked at the dust cover titled Into the Night; When Abductees Stay Missing. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
“We haven’t met before.” Opening the book to the inside title page for her to sign, “I was hoping to talk about it.” Fingering the second author name, “You are Renée Hogan, are you not?”
“I am.” Pulling the pen from her apron pocket, “A few of my customers knew I was part of that, though you’re the first I didn’t know personally who placed me with it. Would you like it to you?”
“To Alison would be nice.”
Once done, “How did you know it was me?”
“I saw depictions within a group of archive journals.”
“I suppose I should get used to this. Max warned me.” Placing the pen back in her apron, “I’ll bring you another tea now.”
“I would like to talk about this book.”
“Sure. Let me check on the other customer and I’ll be back.”
“Take your time. I’ll finish this meal and we’ll share a couple slices of cobbler and milk – or whatever you would like. I saw there was some raspberry rhubarb.”
“It’s very good.”
“I’m sure it is.”
The mature woman continued her meal, still observing the waitress. She put the book in her purse, extracting the current December, 2006, issue of Newsweek – one of five similar periodicals she picked up earlier.
The other customer departed several minutes later and Alison finished the meal. There was little of the second cup of tea left when Renée returned with two saucers and glasses.
“On the house,” the waitress stated, arranging the spread and sitting across from the formal-looking woman.
“That’s not necessary.”
“I’ll be closing shortly. Cobblers, pies and pastries are prepared fresh each morning, so let’s eat.” Indicating the purse, “What did you think of the book?”
“It’s informative. You and Mister Yeager conducted a fair amount of research.”
“Max had written others. Have you met him?”
“Briefly. I doubt he would remember.”
“Knowing him, I’m sure he would,” Renée commented, glancing to the form in the green dress, the front barely clearing the table and full to the navel over a slightly chubby belly, showing a degree more cleft within the cowl neckline than Renée’s own palm’s width. The older woman was striking, lacking cosmetics to spoil her natural appeal. A striking, pleasant demeanor glowed on the femella’s oval face. “He knows more about visitors than I do. How long have you been interested in UFOs?”
Finishing a morsel, “A long time; ever since I was young.”
“Me, too.”
“You and Maxfield talked to Richard’s family?”
“His son and wife – and her sister. The wife and son moved to Canada to get away from their troubles.”
“I suppose it was hard on them.”
“It was. Patty started smoking again. She had quit, but losing her husband was too much for her. Jerry was taking it hard as well, though he seemed to be doing better when we last saw him.”
“Have you seen them recently?”
“We lost track. Not even Patty’s sister is in contact. They just got away from it all. I hope they’re okay and have a better life.”
“I hope so, too.”
“Why are you into this stuff?” the waitress asked, then nibbled another piece.
“I’m a historian. Throughout centuries, there had been many unexplained phenomena that influenced events. I’m researching those influences.”
“This isn’t history. It was only a couple years ago.”
“We’re making history all the time. What we do now influences each other and events.” The elder sipped her milk.
“Courses I took in sociology during my short time in college taught me how events influence people.”
“Why didn’t you pursue it further?”
“Researching visitors became overwhelming.”
“The two aren’t exclusive. How societies respond to visitors is important.”
“Some of my course studies helped, including biology. I wanted to know how visitors were changing us and why we’re so different from apes – especially us women.”
“Some answers are partially in this book.”
“Max and I often discuss the breeding program visitors seem to be conducting. A lot of us in the field think they’re shaping mankind for a destiny. Max and I agree that view has several flaws. They’re taking too long. We breed animals to our liking in a much shorter time.”
“That’s done with non-sentient beings absent of cultural biases and pressures.”
“Those biases were a big reason I majored in sociology, having a minor in biology. I wanted answers for why my sister and I were so dissimilar. It seems to go beyond culture and upbringing, since we were raised much the same. I love her dearly and live with her and her husband, but we see the world so differently. Sometimes I think those out there had something to do with it. I feel there’s more to why our population has so many distinctions. Some of it might be explained by isolated pockets evolving separately for a while, then mixing later, but there’s so many missing pieces. No other species has such diverse physiology and behavioral distinctions than we do. I was hoping to get answers from classes, but they didn’t seem to have them.”
“It’s not my field, though I know there are reasons to be found. Why did you stop pursuing those answers?”
“I still pursue them, though I’m more interested in the visitors.”
Alison expressed between bites, “It’s my understanding that factions beyond this world are partially the reason we’re so diverse. I’ve heard of other hidden groups imposing their own influences. Keep that in mind.”
“I will. You’re studying those hidden groups with the visitor phenomena?”
“I mainly focus on how both affect historical events. That’s what you do, as well,” Alison expressed, then sipped more of the chilled milk.
“There’s not many of us investigating sightings like this one. Fewer delve into historical or social effects. I read a lot about past events, but I wouldn’t call it history.”
“It’s true there are not many of us, but there doesn’t have to be. As for what you discovered in Oregon; you and Maxfield were trying to locate Richard?”
“Neither of us expect to find him. We hoped to understand what happened. Visitors rarely keep those they abduct and it was clear something went wrong with the craft and it crashed in the ocean. The FAA and Coast Guard, even Canada, acknowledged something may have occurred over the
north Pacific, even if nothing was found. There were no official aircraft disappearances that day. Of course, they won’t admit losing experimental aircraft. They won’t say it’s visitors either. There were some people on a yacht and cruise liner who saw the craft change course. It became erratic after leaving Oregon. Initially, it was heading west, then came back towards land before hitting the water. No one saw it splash, but we’re certain it did.”
“That’s the last it was seen?”
“Max and I are still keeping an ear out for new evidence, but nothing solid has come to us yet. Why are you interested? When it happened, there were a couple other people interested.”
“Who would they be? I don’t recall reading about anyone specific.”
“Most people we talk with don’t want to be mentioned and we’ll keep their confidentiality intact.” Standing, “One moment. It’s time to lock the door. Don’t go anywhere.”
The waitress went to the entry, latching it before sliding the sign to Sorry, Closed. She then went to a side wall and turned out most lights.
Returning with another two slices of cobbler, “I work up an appetite doing this job.”
Accepting the saucer, “Thank you. I could do with seconds.” Forking a piece, “Names weren’t mentioned, but you have details of reports involving the Air Force Base in Ohio.”
“There’s a lot going on at Wright-Patterson. Pieces of the Roswell crash were taken there. Max doesn’t think any of the one from Oregon got there, but others we put in the book probably did.”
“Have you been there?”
“I’ve been near the base, but not on it. I know they won’t show me anything I want to see.”
“Like what?” the woman asked, taking another nibble.
“Underground facilities. I have files of clippings going back to the Forties about the place. There are rumors you wouldn’t believe.”
“You may be surprised about what I would believe.”
“I suppose. You did read that book.”
There was a tone in Alison’s ear and the pleasant feminine voice informed her, “Meerum. Trayton DuRoss returned the call. He’s waiting for your response.”
Setting her left hand gently on Renée’s arm, holding it, the mature woman told the waitress, “One moment. I’m receiving a call.” She then touched the device at her ear with her free hand, saying, “Thank you, Ivmarla. Please have him wait a minute.”
“Yes, meerum.”
Releasing the younger, Alison extracted a flap-covered wallet from the matching suede purse, telling Renée, “I’m sorry. I have to take this. I didn’t expect him to call back until morning.”
“That’s fine,” Renée told her, as the formal woman slid a hundred dollar bill from the wallet, nudging it under the saucer having half the cobbler remaining.
Standing, Alison shouldered the purse, returning the wallet. Her extraordinary zaftig nature became more apparent as she leaned to the younger, kissing Renée’s cheek. “I’ll see you another time. Take care.”
Rising and following the customer to the lobby, “I have to let you out.”
“Thank you.”
As they drew closer to the entry, Alison stopped at a collection of photos stapled to the main wall. There were scores of pictures. The elder commented, “I was looking at these when I first came in.”
“They’re fun. They’re some of our customers over the years.”
“You’re with a lot of them.”
“A few. I’ve been here a while.”
Indicating a round faced brunette, Alison queried, “Marissa was here?”
The waitress noted the standing woman pictured between two tanned surfer-like men in colorful buttoned shirts. The chubby femella in a modest sweater was a blend of the two who viewed the image, having soft-looking, darker hair.
Renée told the other, “That’s Mary. She used to work here. I never heard her use that other name. You know her?”
“Somewhat.”
“She moved up to Oakland a few years ago. I don’t know where she is now. She met someone and left there a while back.”
“A lot of people disappeared,” Alison toned, going to the door. With a slight bow of her head, she expressed, “Well – I thank you again.”
Outside, strolling down the sidewalk, she heard the door relatch. Streetlamps provided ample light, as the woman spoke to the air, “Ivmarla. Please connect me with Trayton.”
“Yes, meerum,” the voice stated, then there was a tone.
“Hello, Trayton. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“That’s quite all right. This is a pleasant surprise.”
“You sound awake.”
“Peter and I had been listening to a radio mystery from the Nineteen Fifties.”
“That’s a lost art.”
“Not lost in this home. Are you coming to visit?”
“Not this trip. I’m calling to warn you. Sarita and Raanana are drawing close and will meet soon. You’ll need to take care of both when they come asking.”
“So it’s beginning.”
“There’s much we don’t know. Please find out what you can. I would appreciate it.”
“You have more resources.”
“It only seems that way. There’s too much confusion and I’m unable to contact most of those who may be involved.”
“They do keep to themselves. What can you tell me?”
“Only what’s in the files I already gave you. There may be a connection with what happened in Tennessee and the Oregon forest.”
“We read the files carefully. If there is a connection, it’s elusive.”
“A lot had been lost,” Alison remarked. “Those people may have answers.”
“We’ll keep a watch on them.”
“Thank you. Take care, Trayton.”
“You, too. When can we expect a visit?”
“That’s hard to say.”
“I suppose. Thanks for the heads up.”
The femella glanced to the sky, then realize what he meant. “Yes – heads up. No problem. Bye for now.”
“Bye-bye.”
Touching the earpiece with her left hand, the woman pulled it from the ear. Still strolling along the sidewalk, she dropped the device into one pocket of her purse, then felt within another for a small metallic sphere differing from the comm-device. Allowing it to identify her while approaching the corner, she pressed three of the couple dozen inscribed dimples. At the end of the block, still holding the buttons, the femella turned wide to her left, then circled to the right in a wide half circle as though going back towards where she came.
A flickering spectrum of soft psychedelic waves fluttered in her vision a few moments as the building next to her faded with the street and sidewalk. It was replaced by the interior of a powder-blue, semi-translucent tubular corridor curving down towards her right. Releasing the device, extracting her hand from the purse, she strolled down the sloped ramp – a ramp some nine paces across.
The ramp continued another three full circles of the seven loops that made up the corkscrew tube, suspended as a vertical cylinder. The tube itself was supported by cabling and wrapped around a central containment sphere having a bluish-silvery sheen. That sphere was held at the top and bottom by broad cylinder enclosures, all with thick protruding energy rods that passed between the ramp-tube to other apparatuses.
The femella exited at the end of the passage through a broad oval arch into a long, cobalt-blue receiving chamber having twenty-six monitor-computer alcoves along the wall to her right. None were occupied at the time. The darker floor, like most in the complex, felt good to the femella, having a compression much like the slate-colored leather shoes she wore, giving her the sensation of walking across a grassy field.
“Welcome home, Alsóna,” a taller, slender man greeted from her right. His black hair draped passed his shoulders and he spoke a language none she was talking to before would recognize.
“Thank you,” she responded, then glanced up to the raised observation-control chamber, higher towards her left, briefly waving to the crew on other side of eleven windows spanning the length of the straight room.
A venerable masle standing between consoles at one of the out-tilted windows touched a button on an overhead communication-board. His gray hair was pulled back in a tail and the wrinkled face possessed a trimmed mustache and goatee. His voice came over the speakers within the high ceiling.
“Differential residue has you returning early. Is everything all right?”
“I hope so,” the femella told him. “I achieved my goals before expected. It was still a long trip.”
“Is there anything we should record?”
“Not this trip. This is a matter of Epsilon Apollo Dynasty, unrelated to Zeta-Aurora.”
“If there’s nothing more, meerum, have a good morning.”
“Thank you. There is nothing more. Could you please arrange transport? I’m fatigued and would like to go home.”
“At once.” He then nodded to an operator.
From that chamber, she passed along a processing-reception area having nine, staggered, semicircle consoles. All were unattended, though each could service eight voyagers. Beyond there, through a broad corridor, Alsóna traversed under a wide oval arch into a rotunda having lift-shuttle alcoves on either side.
Stepping to the left, she placed her right hand on a glowing, goldish panel some twice the palm’s width and half again as tall, telling the wall, “To surface.”
A resonating tone was heard and a curved door rotated near her right within one of the eight alcoves. Stepping into the round room nearly twice her height across, the door closed. Leaning against one of the wooden panels—finely engraved to resemble artistic stonework—she waited as the lift comfortably accelerated her to the top, where it gently halted some half minute later. The smooth, golden display on the door announced Alsóna Nylsaan Authorized Departure, then opened.
The spacious lobby was quiet with a single man in a deep-gray uniform of fitted, long-sleeved shirt and slacks trimmed in silver. A high-peaked chevron alongside three pips was presented on the left, upright collar. He came to attention as Alsóna approached, his hand resting casually near the flat-black pistol held within a cradle holster. The barrel of the weapon resembled an oversized, elongated almond with staggered ridges. Slung over his left shoulder was a contoured, elongated rifle having similar flat-black texture and ridges as the sidearm.
“Good morning, Missus Nylsaan.”
“Good morning.”
“Your transport is eighty seconds out.”
“Thank you.”
Stepping beyond the lift lobby, into the antechamber, the woman passed through one of seven, glass-gold, automated, revolving doors that kept pace with her casual stride. Out in an extensive garden, Alsóna strolled a few dozen paces under a row of staggered, tinted glass coverings held up by fluted, pink-stone columns. The high cover failed to provide shelter from the light mist carried on the breeze.
The early morning felt good to Alsóna, with faint sunrays peeking from the horizon through mostly cloudy skies. The glow highlighted the meadow of green trees and flowering bushes stretching to the southeast. From under high clouds, a silvery-blue transport capsule descended. A bit longer than a dozen meters long, it had a flat bottom and wrapped with dark windows. Settling close to the ground, the capsule floated closer to the waiting woman, its nose towards her right.
The starboard mid-craft door within an oval ring opened, extending a short ramp. A pleasant masculine voice greeted her. “Missus Nylsaan. Are you ready to depart?”
Stepping on, “Quite ready. Thank you.” Inside—noting three passengers in conversation seated mid-craft port side, having swiveled their seats to face each other—she went to the front, settling in the right, aisle side, contoured seat of deep-blue fabric. The left closer seat was occupied by a tall, thin man of golden-brown complexion and long dark hair. The woman told the computer, “Transport destination Oskelee-Ninety-Six-Jeviskee-Three. Thank you.”
The pleasant masculine voice on the speaker nearest her replied while the capsule lifted smoothly into the sky, “Arrival time six fifty-one.”
Checking her dainty gold watch on her right wrist – the face hands and date having adjusted to local calendar-time – she noted aloud, “Twenty-two minute flight time.” To the man alongside her, reaching that hand out in a greeting, “Hello. I’m Alsóna.”
Taking it, kissing the back, “Leshovoe.” He was attired in a loose-fitting, sangria-red jumper shirt tied at the waist by a sash the color of mahogany. His trousers were a couple shades darker than the sash.
Swiveling the seat a bit, “Nice meeting you.”
“Likewise,” he responded, then casually glanced to the display on the arm of his seat. The man asked the woman, “Is this trip duty or pleasure?” He then pressed the endorsing hieroglyph, allowing comparison of social pursuits from each of their personal communal modules – Alsóna having done the same.
As the computer quickly correlated interest ratings, Alsóna told the man, “Duty is done. I’m heading home.” Perusing common interests, Alsóna remarked to the one doing the same, “You play Zhelkar?”
“When I can.”
Checking the rear of the cabin where four unoccupied seats next to an extendable table were situated under the back windows, “I keep dice in my purse. High score gifts the other when our first arrival bell chimes?”
“We have a game,” the man stated, standing, fanning a hand towards the back. “I have a long flight to look forward to. I would like a distraction that’s not taxing on my thoughts.”
“That’s why I keep the dice handy. Sometimes I have to let the mind release everything I deal with.”
“Same here.”
The pair passed the seven rows of seats, ignoring the westward trajectory. The craft skimmed under clumps of clouds towards a distant modular structure hovering under thicker overcast. That distant city was an extensive complex of uneven layers, having domes and towers anchored on top and below. Other transport capsules of varying forms gave a hive appearance to the structure some dozen miles across and a dozen times that away. Another floating city could be seen somewhat closer towards the southwest.
The woman reached in her purse, retrieving a leather pouch containing nine, pale-gray, marble, regular-dodecahedron dice having engraved number markings. There was also a complementary peg scoring plate. She settled in the starboard seat as a portion of the table extended smoothly.
Alsóna asked the man, having sat opposite her, “Where are you bound for?”
“I’m boarding a sky tram for Atlantica Launch Station, then lifting to Luna Tranolloer-Eighteen. They’re expanding three habitat domes for agriculture. My specialty is environmental botany.”
“That is a long trip. My sheffiree goes to Luna on occasion, as did my father before he went wild. They’re both engineers.” Seeing an inquisitive expression while handing her opponent the dice, “My father joined one of the
wilderness tribes before I was born. I was adopted within a metsee to help prevent a forced trim-culling and became a historian. That doesn’t give me reasons to visit Luna much, though I’ve been there a few times.”
The conversation and game progressed. The flight passed quickly, having one in-flight passenger exchange with another capsule, then a porting at a high tower on the hovering city. Fourteen hands of the game were played by the time a faint bell announced the arrival for Alsóna’s stop. The pleasant masculine voice announced near the femella, “Approaching destination for Missus Nylsaan.”
The capsule docked into a porting-tube at the high base of one of the staggered, inverted, pyramidal towers mounted under the hovering metsee sky city.
Kissing the hand again, the man told the woman, “Thank you for a pleasant diversion. You’re good at pulling my runs apart. When I get back, maybe our families could get together for some games.”
“It would be a pleasure. My schedule is chaotic, though you now have my comm-contact.”
With quick farewells, she stepped from the transport, letting the man go on his way with six who boarded. Alsóna strolled to a lift-shuttle lobby where eight persons in various flowing, colorful attire mingled and passed through with casual pleasantries. Smaller than where she surfaced, this lobby was embellished in maroon, having a butterfly motif. Once doors to a lift-shuttle opened and she entered, it whisked her to the floor near her residence.
A short stroll through part of the poly-floor, helix garden connecting local homes brought Alsóna to her spacious abode styled as a Roman villa. The butler—a short, stocky man—greeted her while lifting off the shawl, “Welcome home, meerum.”
“Thank you.”
Alsóna extracted the book from her purse, then set the purse into an open compartment of a sculpted, metallic, carousel shelving unit that turned for her. She strolled from the foyer into a broad lounging chamber.
Evenly spaced within the room were six octagon columns containing hidden structural tension cables hooked to gravity modules throughout the tower. Each column was façade in green granite tiling having audio speakers and oblong mood lighting closer to the sculpted tile ceiling, as well as two lower governing comm-panels. Assorted doors and passages on three walls led to other areas.
“How was your night?” the masle asked.
“Eventful. Is yev’sheffiree here?”
“He’s supposed to be home in a couple hours. There seemed to be a problem with an accelerator.”
“He’s been having issues with one lately. It’s been temperamental.”
A pair of long-haired, sister Birman cats with a long hair, rusty-colored raccoon came to her for attention on the back of a seat within the circular lounging area contained within a wooden henge-like curtain frame. Most of the canopy’s fuchsia curtains were drawn back. Scattered on the encircled seats between polished granite side tables were artistic throw pillows. A variety of sculptures, potted plants and wall art were displayed throughout the chamber.
“I wouldn’t know about temperamental accelerators, meerum,” the masle stated, watching the femella rubbed necks and scratched behind ears. “Would you like breakfast? Voveerlee is preparing lemon-berry prestoest and sausage slices. We could have something sent by venduk.”
“I ate out, thank you. I’m going to the vault, then to bed.”
“As you wish, meerum. Consort Zharine is in your chamber. I’ll keep the children quiet.”
“Send them in before they head to school.”
“As you wish.”
Alsóna went through a passage opposite tall bay-windows that gave a high stunning view of the sprawling landscape of forested hills and lakes. Domes and towers of varying shapes hung like stalactites from the sky city foundation reflecting the morning glow of the new day. Scattered across the landscape below, as islands on a green sea, were massive structures and walled cities linked with suspended rail lines.
Going to one of the doors within the family study, she placed her left hand on a side panel, facing a silvery bubble some half fist across. Her eyes open for recognition, the femella faintly hummed a tune at receptors. The door to her right swung in casually. Inside, Alsóna stepped to one of the many glass shelves backlit from walls and partitions. Shelving was cluttered with a great many assorted items, most of them books. She set the newly signed volume with others of similar size from assorted authors investigating off-worlders.
Stepping to the left, she considered another set of taller books. The femella stroked spines of eleven matching, well-bound, leather volumes containing assorted papers titled; Known Works of Physicist Sarita Rosenda Layla Walsh-Dunlap. The books were held vertically by a hand-carved, antique, stone ossuary and a two-part, black marble urn figurine in the shape of a domestic cat – both associated with the author.
Softly, Alsóna spoke to the volumes as though the author was nearby. “I wish I knew what you went through back then, so we could help during this early time. We just don’t know enough and there’s too much confusion. It’s unclear what happened to you and so little survived for us to gain understanding of your lives. Know that you’re watched over as much as we can and we’ll help those we’re able to.”
* * * * *
~ Part-I ~
The night was cold – not surprising for February in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Yvette—slender, of modest stature—walked with her friend and fellow second-year student. They both ignored overlapping, aging announcements stapled to a telephone pole, including one bragging about a Rave of the Century that occurred on New Year’s Day, 2007 – now weeks old.
“Thanks for helping me understand this experiment,” the thinner expressed, buffering the wind with the hood of her long, wool, cornflower-blue coat.
“We’re partners,” Sarita responded. Her light-brown ski jacket closely matching her complexion barely covered her broad hips. Snug jeans were not suited for the season, but that was what she wore and the pressure gave her assurances. “You’re helping me fill out lab reports so they make sense.” Both had packs and purses slung on outside shoulders.
“Reports are simple. These experiments are not and they’re driving me nuts. I wouldn’t be doing as well, if I had to do this with someone else in the class.” Yvette further complimented, “You’re better at the practical side than all of us combined.”
“You’re fine. You’re catching onto the laser control program. You just have to work on mirror alignments.”
“And tuning equipment. I thought I was good at science. I got decent grades in high school, but this course…. I don’t know if I’m going to pass it.”
“You’ll pass – and you are good at science.”
“Not like you.”
“This is about all I’m good at. This, and a little history. My reports are terrible.”
“Stop putting yourself down.”
“I’m only getting a B,” Sarita admitted. “I would do better, if not for those reports and essays. I have to get my points up, if I’m going to get into NASA.”
“You and me both.”
The two chatted while walking east from George R. Harrison building along Albany Street, a familiar route for both. The poorly lit road was across rail tracks from the heart of the campus and about as far from Charles River one could get and still be part of Massachusetts Institute of Technology. The area appeared more an industrial district than a key center of learning. Once upon a time, the area had been part of an industrial district.
Both women had parked in their usual lot, four blocks away. Though it was not student parking, Yvette’s mother had a friend who managed the
associated building and arranged permits for them. Parking there gave the two more freedom, allowing the pair to study late – as they did that evening.
Clearing the weathered redbrick building—having a newer extension of blue glass and cream stone, giving it a jagged horseshoe layout—they turned left into the driveway.
“Damn,” Yvette muttered, looking across the lot. “That light is still out.”
Sarita peered to the distant row of empty parking spaces. The lonely, decade old, powder-blue Honda hatchback of her friend sat near an island with two small barren trees and the darkened light pole. “Why did you park there?”
Walking passed the shoulder-high chain-link fence surrounding a grassy storm drainage ditch with its stone intake, Yvette told her, “It was one of the few places left.” Bushes and taller trees surrounding the lot obscured more distant streetlamps.
“I’ll walk with you.”
“It’s too cold,” Yvette stated. Hugging her friend, “Go to your car and get warm.” Releasing the other, “Besides, the moon is nearly full. There’s plenty of light.”
The heavier, slightly shorter student glanced into the clear eastern sky. The three-quarter moon – large and bright – hovered a few degrees above the bordering trees and distant roofs.
“Okay.”
“See you tomorrow for class.”
“Yeah. Fun. Literature.”
“At least I’m good at that,” the thinner remarked.
“That’s why I’m taking it now. I can get your help with it.”
“Glad to. After class, we’ll do something fun – something to distract us from the studies for a while.”
“For sure.”
Beyond the drainage ditch, the two separated, strolling to their respective vehicles. Sarita unlocked the door of her maturing, burgundy, compact Subaru, slipping inside. Laying the pack and purse on the right passenger seat, she relocked the door before starting the engine. Giving a half minute to let the oil circulate, she pulled forward across the open space in front of her. Normally, Sarita would exit onto Main at that end of the lot. Seeing that Yvette had not driven away yet, she circled around the island closer to her with its floodlight and two barren trees, orienting the nose towards her friend’s car.
Pulling across three rows of parking and over to the driver side of the hatchback, Sarita placed the gearshift to park and peered through her passenger window. Distant lights formed silhouettes. There was no movement in the other car. There was no Yvette.
Leaving the engine idling, Sarita got out and looked around. Stepping in front of her car, she expanded her view beyond the Honda. At the tree line a row away, she caught a glimpse of motion. Wind rustled bushes and trees swayed. There was more. Something was happening near the slope of the ground just within the trees. Sarita’s heart raced as she realized what the motion meant.
One thought rippled through her mind while stumbling to her driver door. He’s raping her.
Turning the engine off, removing her keys from the ignition, the woman fumbled with the mace canister cap. Her hands shook while the memory of her past overlapped the present. The man of her past forced Sarita face down on her own bed, holding wrists together near the simple, blonde-wood headboard. He seemed practiced and confident as he pulled her deep-blue elastic pants down, groping the fullness before undoing his belt.
In the present, the panicked woman ran to the trees, trying to shake away the past while pain of her own memory flowed to the moment that man invaded her backside. In front of Sarita at the trees, another man laid over her friend. His long dark hair in the scant light obscured Yvette’s face. Dark trousers and suede coat made him hard to see. Yvette’s blank eyes stared up into the trees. It was difficult to distinguish much in the shadows.
“Get off her,” Sarita cried out in a shaky voice.
Without a word, the man slowly turned his head to view the woman standing some three paces away. Locks of unkempt hair hung around his narrow face. Eyes focusing on Sarita glistened in the meager light had a silvery-redden glow.
Sarita’s voice cracked, “I’ve got mace. Get off her.”
The man rose slowly, stepping closer. His stocky, tall stature was menacing.
Good, she thought, realizing he didn’t need to pull up or fastened his garment. He didn’t get far.
“Mace, huh,” the voice toned, resonating his displeasure. There was a slight southern quality. “That won’t help you.”
“Get away,” the terrified femella exclaimed, taking two steps back.
Still slow and methodical, the stocky man approached Sarita. Retreating a couple more steps, the woman stumbled. She fell back, landing with her head hanging over the curb. Rolling into the gutter, she scrambled to rise. A strong hand took hold at the base of her thick, black, braided hair.
“I wasn’t this hungry,” the man muttered, “but what the hell.”
Turning her back into the tree line, he gave a shove. Sarita landed across her friend, who remained motionless. Still clutching the mace, Sarita raised it to the silhouette of the man’s head, pressing the button. The scream was
nothing she thought a grown man would make. It didn’t sound human. It sounded more like her cat back home when she stepped on its tail.
Still making out the shape of the man through the glitter of panic in her gaze, she held the spray above his chest and shoulders. The shape thrashed back several steps, letting out another cat-like wail. The canister stopped flowing, but she kept holding it as though it did.
“Damn you, bitch,” the man cursed, wiping his face. Moving close again, “I’m going to tear you apart”
“Sire,” another voice was heard calling from beyond the trees at the road. “I heard him over here.”
“Help,” Sarita yelled, her voice cracking more. “Help! God. Please help!”
The man above her looked momentarily through the shadows of the trees and bushes, then ran into the lot, quickly crossing it.
Rustling told Sarita she was being converged upon by several persons. The first arrived beyond her feet at the right. Sarita brought the empty canister up to him. “I got mace.”
“It’s all right,” a masculine, calming voice told her, having a foreign accent she might have placed in calmer times. “I’m not going to do anything to you.”
Another man approached near the first, while a third arrived more from behind. A fourth came into view, remaining further back from the first pair. The last differed from the others, having short white hair, striking in the near darkness.
Frantically, Sarita shifted, whipping her fist around at all four. “I have mace. Get back”
“I’ve heard,” the second remarked, his voice was much like the first. They all wore dark attire. Turning to the one on the far side, a taller man, the second instructed, “Go get him.” There was controlled anger in the tone.
“At once, sire,” the taller responded, his accent tracing to the British Isles.
As the third arrival darted into the lot and disappeared, Sarita eyed the others. None of the men could be seen clearly enough to tell much about them.
“We won’t harm you,” the man addressed as sire explained, “though she needs help.”
“What?”
“The one you’re on. She won’t live long, if we don’t do something about the bleeding.”
“Bleeding?”
“Lady,” the masle stated firmly to bring the femella from her panicked shock, releasing some of his own frustration. “If something isn’t done soon, she won’t live.”
Looking at her friend closer, the ample woman still couldn’t discern much within the shadows. She did make out a glistening sheen around Yvette’s left shoulder, a sheen that told Sarita her friend was in trouble. “Oh, my God,” the woman exclaimed, dropping her keys and pressing both hands to her friend’s shoulder and neck.
A sympathetic, firm grip pulled her back, helping her to stand. “That won’t help.”
The other closer man knelt to the woman on the ground. He quickly pulled the coat the rest of the way open, popping off what buttons remained. He then tore the seam of the cream-colored blouse away from the collar and sleeve, opening the fabric before pushing the bra strap down the arm to fully reveal the wound. Sarita heard a guttural sound and the man leaned closer. It seemed he spat a misty spray into the gash with a faint hiss. Sarita lurched forward in response.
“Relax,” the man called sire told her, still holding the shoulder. “He knows how to handle this.”
She attempted to see what the stranger was doing with his face at the wound and hands pressing flesh together. Sarita wanted to run. She would have, if it didn’t mean leaving her friend. Realizing there was something she could do, the femella twisted from the hand, scrambling to her car. The driver door was still open. Leaning over to her purse, she pulled out the cell phone. Standing to look towards the building for its address, she began dialing.
Only two numbers were pressed by the time a firm hand cupped the phone, shutting it. The one called sire asked, “What are you doing?” The masle gently took the phone from Sarita’s trembling hands.
Startled, the femella shifted a couple steps away, telling him, “Calling nine-one-one. Yvette needs a doctor.”
“No, she doesn’t. She needs time – not a doctor.”
“She’s bleeding.”
“It’s almost stopped.”
“How?”
“That doesn’t matter.” Scanning the lot, noting they were not observed, he commented, “It may have been simpler to let her pass onto the next life, but there would be more questions. We don’t need others looking into this matter.”
“Someone has to.”
“That would make the situation worse.”
Sarita could tell the man was wondering what to do with her. Under the circumstances, she wasn’t comfortable with giving suggestions – not with the
look he presented her and the surroundings. They stood in silence a few seconds, then the tall, white-haired masle came from the trees where the wounded student laid.
“Sire.”
“Yes?”
“Is Yvette okay?” Sarita asked the taller. Terror of the past and present was shifting to tears, her emotions welling in her eyes.
“She should be fine in a few days.” Turning to the other man. “Sire. May I speak with you over here?”
“Sure,” he told him. Tossing the phone to the far floor of Sarita’s car, shutting the door, the man instructed the woman, “Stay put.”
The man then stepped with the other masle a few paces away. Sarita watched the two in the faint, yellowish glow of distant lamps and moonlight, the panicked glitter now fading. The smaller, autocratic man had darker complexion, reflecting his Middle-Eastern heritage. Sarita realized that was the source of his accent, now that the pounding of her blood had eased. She could barely hear the whispers.
“The woman will live,” the white-haired man stated. “Did you recognize her?”
“Should I have?” the smaller queried, looking into the patch of woods.
“Gulzar is protecting her and sanitizing the area. I didn’t recognize her at first, but she smelled familiar. She’s the second born to Mistress Fontaine.”
Sire looked to Sarita, recalling the name used. “Yvette Fontaine?”
“I’m certain of it.”
Looking around. “Damn. What is she doing here?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s taking Barry so long?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Go help him.”
The taller man said nothing as he darted in the direction of the other man, seeming an Olympic sprinter.
Sire stared at Sarita. She felt as though he pushed her to the car – the gaze of his deep-brown eyes compelling her back as he contemplated what was learned. She bumped against cold metal and glass, realizing it was a reaction to his intimidating gaze that pressed at her. That same gaze held her at the car. Neither said anything. She also realized this man, nor those with him, wore coats. They were each attired as though stepping from an upscale club. This one wore a silver ring on his left small finger.
A while later, the two masles returned holding the stocky assailant between them. Sire didn’t move as the other men walked the captive to him. Piercing eyes shifted to the restrained man, digging deep. Sarita couldn’t see
the face of the captive, but he had to be supported, so not to drop fully to the asphalt.
The autocratic stranger asked the supported masle, “What are you doing here?”
“Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
“I cannot fathom a reason why you or your sister would return here. Did I not make it clear what would happen, if you did so?”
“You did, Myer. You did indeed.”
“And yet, you’re here.”
“I am.”
“Again I ask; what are you doing in my territory?”
“Playing.”
“Playing? I don’t think so. There’s something more to this.”
“Fine,” the assailant taunted. “Hunting, then.”
The motion was savage. The smaller man lashed his right hand across the captive’s face, more as an animal swiping with fingers bent, sharp dark nails curled in. Sarita screamed from the sudden motion, as the captive gave that high-pitched wail again.
“You were not just hunting,” the smaller masle snapped. “If that wasn’t Yvette Fontaine, I may have believed your story. But, it is her. I now recognize the smell of her family. What are you trying to do?”
“Sire,” Barry addressed softly, motioning his head to the woman behind him.
“She’s coming with us anyway, though you’re correct. We need to do this elsewhere.” Latching his left hand to the captive’s throat, the autocratic masle spoke to the other men. “Place Yvette in the back of her car – gently.” The pair went to do so. To the woman in front of him, “What’s your name?”
“Sar… Sa… Sarita”
“Sarita. I’m Myer. We need to take Yvette to my home and care for her. You’re coming with us.”
“We’re not going anywhere with you.”
“Where would you go otherwise?”
“To the hos…. Yvette needs to go to the hospital. She needs a doctor.”
“She’ll be fine in a couple days. A hospital won’t help.”
“But—.”
“Please trust us. This situation is out of hand and Yvette needs to be protected.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m not expecting you to. You may never comprehend this night.” The man sighed, still releasing frustration. “I’m asking – though it is just a courtesy. I’m not giving you a choice.”
The woman looked to the man standing in Myer’s grip, now turned a bit to the side. His cheek dribbled blood from four gashes, seeming black against the light complexion. The captive didn’t struggle. That told her something, though not clear what. Her mind was still foggy and panic lurked close to the surface. Sarita did take something from what she felt: Her life was in the balance.
Seeing that conclusion, Myer assured her, “We will do you no harm, though you need to come with us.”
“I… I—.”
“Say nothing for now. Please open the door to your car and set the seat forward.”
Hesitating a couple seconds, she did so. Myer backed the assailant to the Subaru, pressing him into the rear seat. Barry drew close, handing Sarita her keys while the other two cautiously set Yvette into the back seat of the other vehicle.
Ensuring the captive was not going to the other side and escape, Myer told Barry, “Follow us to my home.” Addressing the white-haired man, “Jeremy. You’re driving this car.” The autocratic one then told Sarita, “Give him the keys and get in the other side – in front.” With that, he crawled into the back, shoving the captive over.
After the plump student got into the passenger side – having moved her pack and purse to her feet, obviously protecting them – Myer told the femella, “Place your phone into one of your bags. When we get to my home, leave your belongings on the floor. No one will disturb them.”
Sarita did so before buckling the seatbelt. The white-haired man adjusted the other seat back, then the mirrors. Still dazed, Sarita became a passenger in her own car with a stranger at the wheel. That masle started the engine, placed the shift to drive, then led the way from the lot. Sarita could only sit and wonder how what happened to her friend related to dreams and aspirations that guided her since she could remember.