Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 36

Five Days, Fifteen Hours, Eighteen Minutes

"I don't know about you, miss," Ebdon Finkle announced, his eyes fixed on the massive steel containment door that separated them from Frank Parker and the alien, "but I'm not liking this one bit."

Dr. Nina Welles opened her eyes at the sound of the old man's voice. She had been trying to catch a quick nap – all of them had been awake for far too long – but she was troubled by these events – by all that she had seen from Frank Parker's arrival to the death and suffering of any good person. She was so troubled that her mind leapt from image to image, keeping her awake. Still, she trusted that she needed her energy, and only sleep would give her the strength to continue.

"What do you mean, Mr. Finkle?" she offered, righting herself on the leather couch beside him. She blinked her eyes several times, forcing herself more fully awake, and she turned to face the man.

"Ebdon," he reminded her.

She smiled. "Of course."

"Frank," he replied succinctly.

"What about him?"

Finkle nodded at the door. "He's been in there for some time with that ... well ... with that alien of yours."

"Of mine?"

The old man met her gaxe with his own. "You work for the government, too. Don't you?"

She thought about his question before responding. "I do, but, where I'm assigned, I have very little to do with the BackStep Program and those in Washington who call the shots," she confessed. "Yes, I have been dispatched to several locations to contain the threat of temporal exposure, but I've never met the Mallathorn."

He poked his head in the direction of the door. "Here's your chance."

She wrinkled her brow in confusion.

"What say you and me just slip inside and say our 'hellos' just so we can find out what Matador is telling Frank."

Chuckling, she reached over and laid a hand on Ebdon's arm. "That's Mallathorn!"

"Malla what?"

"Mallathorn," she corrected. "The name of the alien species is Mallathorn, not Matador."

"Is that what I said?"

Sinking back into the couch a bit, she wondered about what it would be like to meet the alien. Of course, she had heard of him. Several members – friends much higher up in the command structure than she was – had actually held conference with the member from another world back after the events of September 11th. As she understood, that burst of temporal energy is what brought the creature here from across the stars, and, in the US government's bid to establish peaceful coexistence with the being, key personnel were pulled from all branches of service to meet with the 'ambassador,' as he had been called. Larnord had requested these representatives, as she recalled, in order to reach a far better conceptualization of how the government worked, what the various branches did, the goals each division served. At that time, she was on the fast track for promotion with the Centers for Disease Control, but she was far removed from the movers and shakers who would make the United States 'A List' for meeting with an emissary from an alien culture. However, not long after her boss had returned, she was promoted to the Temporal Threat Response Team – TTRT, or 'Treat,' as it was known around the offices. Now, recalling all of the events that happened so quickly after the Mallathorn's arrival, she couldn't help but wonder: was her selection based purely on merit ... was her promotion merely coincidence ... or was there something more? Could it possibly be that Larnord – an extraterrestrial presence schooled in the science of time travel – knew of what importance her service could be in the days following her promotion? Did her mention her by name, ordering her superiors to promote her, so that she could be here – in this very scenario on this very day in this very room – to help those most closely associated with Earth's time travel operations avert some major catastrophe? She had told herself long ago that she didn't believe in coincidence, and, were that the case, then it was possible ... but how? There were far too many variables, she decided, for any single being to calculate which moves would place her in the here and now, but she refused to force herself to believe that were the case. For now, she accepted that she was here, and she pushed any further notion as far from theoretical tinkering as she could.

"You're wondering about the nature of these events," she heard.

Nina and Ebdon turned to face David Jennings. With a grin, he sat in a chair next to their comfortable couch. In his lap, he held several pages of documents for review, but his attention had been redirected at the two of them.

"I beg your pardon?" she tried.

"Today," Jennings offered, still smiling. "You're both wondering how it could possibly be that you're here ... now ... with Mr. Parker and the Mallathorn."

Finkle shook his head. "Actually, I'm just sitting here wondering if the United States government spent every dime of this construction and there wasn't enough left over to buy any of us something to eat."

Laughing, Jennings waved a hand toward one of his colleagues, and the white-coated man disappeared through a side door, off on a mission to bring all of them some nourishment.

"You don't have to understand," the man offered the two of them. "I gave up on trying to understand a long time ago."

"Understand what?" Finkle asked. "That time is no constant? That events aren't fixed like a fence post stuck in the ground for everyone to see the same way?"

Nina was surprised to learn that Ebdon was sitting next to her having almost exactly all of the same thoughts that she was.

"You want to know why you're here," Jennings said. "Were you chosen, or was all of this – Mr. Parker's return, his invitation to meet with the Mallathorn – was all of this pure chance?"

"Ain't no such thing as chance," Ebdon told the young man.

"I'm glad you think so."

"I know so." The old man sniffed at the idea. "The fact of the matter is pretty simple ... well, once you reach my age, I think it is."

"What's that, Ebdon?"

He sat back on the couch, once again turning to stare at the massive steel door. "There's a saying about life being like a deck of cards. You know? You play the hand you're dealt. That kind of thing. If you believe that, then you have to know that there are constants. In every deck, there are four kings. Two of them are red. Two of them are black. One diamond, one heart, one spade, and one club. That's a constant. It never changes no matter how many decks of cards you might look at. But the fun of the game is the fact that the constants keep changing places and changing hands. Every time you deal a new hand, the cards get shuffled. Sure, the first time, you might get one king, and it helps you take whatever money has been put into the kitty. The second time? There's no guarantee that you'll have the exact same cards, and, statistically, it's nearly unthinkable." When he realized that the door wasn't opening any time soon, he turned back to the two of them. "Despite what that alien might tell you and the government, Mr. Jennings, there are constants. The fact of the matter is that they can all be shuffled into a new order every time you deal."

Jennings smiled. "Why, Mr. Finkle," he offered warmly, "you're saying exactly what the Mallathorn would say ... despite the metaphor."

Pursing his lips together, the old man nodded. "Yes," he agreed, "I thought I would ... but that doesn't make me an 'alien,' if you catch my drift."


The soldier stood completely still in the dim recess of the Pentagon's corridor. He listened to the soft clicks growing louder – tick, tack, tick – footsteps on the solid marble floor becoming more pronounced with each beat, and he knew that someone was approaching his position. Flattening his body to the wall, he waited. Concentrating on the steps, he closed his eyes. Tick. Whoever it was moved one step closer. Tick. Even closer still. Tick. Based on the sound, he guessed the person to be no more than ten feet away. Tick. Working off of statistical averages, he knew the average stride of an adult male was between four and six feet, and that meant that – with a single step – the approaching worker was now five feet away.

TICK.

Pulling up his rifle, he lunged from the darkness of the recess and stepped into the lit corridor. Using the butt of his weapon, he cracked the white-coated male across the left side of his skull, splitting the skin of the scalp under the layer of black hair, and forcing the head aside. The man went limp, his neck snapping violently, and he closed his eyes, slowly bending at the knees and waist, his legs slipping out from under him, and he crashed solidly to the floor, unconscious from the blow.

Glancing up the hallway, he found that the man – his victim – had been alone. There was no other activity, save his, in the light.

"Position secure," he assuredly announced into his neck microphone.

"Affirmative," Colonel Chamberlin said. "The light is green, people. Go for the nest. Repeat: go for the nest."


"You misunderstand me, Frank," the Mallathorn explained, glancing up into the chrononaut's dark eyes. "I'm not saying that I've made this reality for the sole purpose of destroying it. I've only co-opted this existence so that I could bring you to a better understanding of the greater good."

"You're playing with peoples' lives," Parker argued angrily. "Your own! Mine! The people who live in this reality! I refuse to believe that all of them – you included – have to die in order for other worlds – other realities – to live! I just can't believe it!"

"It isn't for you to believe, Frank," the alien said, the tentacles of his head bobbing as he spoke. "It simply ... is."

"Then I'll stop it."

"You can't."

"I'll find a way."

"There is no way," the Mallathorn insisted softly.

"I'll find one!"

"You'll waste all of your effort looking for something that which does not exist, Frank," it explained, its voice growing with concern. "I've given you this chance. I've granted you this opportunity. Don't waste it with an exercise in futility."

Disgusted, Parker held up his hands. "But you've re-arranged the constants!"

Tilting his head, Larnord made a decidedly human expression. Its nose crinkled, and he fixed his eyes on the man. "I do not understand."

"You said so yourself, Larry," Parker tried. He marched over to the nearest bookshelf. Reaching up, he pulled out a book – some title regarding Quantum Physics for the modern thinker – and he immediately switched it with another volume – a tome named 'The Rapture of Law.' "All you've done is taken the events – you call them events, and I'm calling them constants – and you've re-ordered them."

The alien took a step closer to where the chrononaut stood. "What are you saying, Frank?"

The man defiantly stuck his hands to his waist, suddenly aware that he stood there in front of the first acknowledged visitor from another world and Parker was only wearing scrubs as though he were little more than a hospital orderly.

"You said you've re-ordered this universe."

"Not the universe," the alien corrected, holding up a single spindly finger, "but the events of this reality."

"Well," Parker said, "I'm going to put them back."

"You can't."

"Sure, I can," he debated flatly. "If you can take them out of order, then I have to find a way to put them back. It'll have to work. I'll just figure to put A before B and B before C, and then this world – this reality – will have a chance to survive."

"Frank, the manipulation of temporal energy isn't as simple as that. You – of all Earthlings – should know that."

"I do," the man replied, "but I also know that there's a purpose behind every event. There's a thread that holds together every tapestry, and I swear to you, Larry: I'll find it."

"Frank, please," the Mallathorn insisted, "there are far more important tasks for a man of your talents ..."

"I'm telling you, Larry, that I'm going to find it!"


His rifle raised, Lieutenant Tyrone Adams crept forward.

He hated the fact that he had used brutal force against the scientist – where was the man heading anyway? – but he had a duty to perform. The Pentagon housed an alien – the Mallathorn – and, according to Colonel Chamberlin, the alien had been targeted for assassination. Why? Adams didn't know. It wasn't his job to know, to understand the complexity behind the orders issued. He, after all, was an American soldier. As such, he would follow the missives laid out for him by his commanding officer. He had served under Chamberlin for most of his years stateside. His stint in the first Desert Storm had brought him to the colonel's attention, and he found himself immediately re-assigned to the Pentagon – through some nods by the folks at the NSA – to serve various covert agendas of Dark Squadron.

Smirking at the term, Adams knew that Dark Squadron – an offshoot of FEMA – was only a rumor within the Washington elite. Years ago when he was a fresh recruit, his commanding officer had made mention to the fact that a top secret group of trained men and women served the Pentagon in such a unique capacity, but he dismissed the story as rubbish. He chalked it off as just another side effect of the 'Black Budget' concerns that came up from conspiracy nuts and Congressmen and women who believed that there were two governments in play within the United States. First, the conventional government included the three branches – executive, legislative, and judicial – and these were the folks who were intended to be the 'movie star' class of the nation's structure. These people were elected to their posts. They proudly served the constituents. Many of them became career politicians – a disgrace to the structure once implied by the country's forefathers – and that's what brought about the second government: the Dark Government ... or, as he had once heard them referred to, the 'Elders.' These men and women were the real ruling elite. They worked in concert with similar factions from principal governments all around the world. They operated from a hidden agenda. They kept a low profile – the hint of a shadow – and were rarely, if ever, spoken of in the news, within an investigative report, and certainly not around water coolers across these United States. These people knew how the world operated behind closed doors, and they selected their own through an exhaustive screening process. Their might – or their most nefarious deeds – were executed by the best of the military's best: Dark Squadron. These soldiers existed within every discipline, throughout every profession, around the globe. They were called upon and given orders only when needed. When these men and women weren't on active duty serving the Elders, then they were foreclosing a loan, they were performing routine surgery, or they were defending American interests abroad through the use of military might. No one in Tyrone Adams' family knew he was a member of Dark Squadron: if they did, they would've been eliminated for fear that someday, somehow, in some unforeseen way, that person would speak about the squad or the Elders ... and some secrets are best kept secret.

Chamberlin had been his commanding officer for long enough that Adams knew to never so much as second-guess an order to kill ... even when that order is directed at what he trusted was a supreme being from an alien race. So far as Adams was concerned, the alien had it coming, and Adams was personally pleased to be part of the team assembled to accomplish such a daunting challenge.

Focusing on his duty, he took another step forward, reaching up with a single finger and tripping off the safety of his assault rifle.

'Someone is about to die,' he told himself.


Ebdon, Nina, and Jennings were still debating about the nature of truth or coincidence when the lights in the chamber suddenly flickered out only to seconds later be replaced by a glow that bathed everything in sight under an even crimson.

"What in the hell ..." the old man tried, but, before he could finish the sentence, Jennings sprang into action. He rose from the chair and then crouched in front of it. With his fist, he rapped onto the arm, and the upholstered panel at the bottom of the chair fell away, revealing a bank of concealed weapons. Reaching inside, he pulled out a silver .9 millimeter, cocked the lever, and holstered it in his beltline. He grabbed two more pistols from the compartment, and then he snapped the trapdoor shut.

"What is it?" Nina asked, rising to stand next to him.

"The proximity sensors have been triggered," Jennings explained flatly.

"Which means what, exactly?" Ebdon asked, standing next to the two of them.

"We're in a highly secured area of the Pentagon," the blonde man said. "In order to protect the Mallathorn from possible harm or abduction, all of the personnel assigned to this project have been fitted with a micro transmitter surgically implanted into the base of the skull. It's state-of-the-art biotechnology not available in any public forum of any kind, so there's no way the frequency or the work can be duplicated. If someone without a transmitter breaks our scanning perimeter, then we're immediately alerted to the presence."

"So the alarm means ..."

"Someone is coming for the Mallathorn."

Wincing in pain, Parker raised his hands to his ears.

"Argh!" he spat, crouching a bit, covering his ears. "Larry! What is that? What's that sound?"

Immediately, the Mallathorn lifted off the ground – apparently by his own devices – and ... hovered.

"What?" Parker snapped. "You can travel through time and you can float in mid-air, too?"

"I'm sorry, Frank," the alien replied. "I should have warned you about my abilities."

"No, no," the chrononaut told the small creature. "Come to think of it, I'd rather not know ... but what the hell is that noise?"

Quickly, the Mallathorn raised one of his tentacles, and the cord whipped in the air. Over the squealing alarm, Parker barely made out the audible 'crack' of a circuit breaker being flipped telekinetically by the alien. To the man's relief, the alarm stopped.

"Holy Hell!" Parker tried, lowering his hands to his side. "When you build an alarm, you really build an alarm!"

"Our proximity has been breached."

"Breached?"

Parker stood upright. He glanced in the direction of the glass port that separated this massive room from the others, and he watched as a thick steel plate suddenly appeared. It slide out of the ceiling joints and lowered over the window, effectively sealing them of from anyone's view.

"Breached how?"

"I do not know," the Mallathorn answered.

"Breached by whom?"

"I do not know that, either."

"Then we've got to get out of here," Parker explained. "I have friends out there."

"They will be safe," the alien cautioned.

"Not if this place has been surrounded."

Its tentacles quivering as if from some display of emotion, the alien glanced over at him quickly. "I have a feeling that you may be right."

Jennings pushed Nina Welles and Ebdon Finkle toward the airlock.

"Here," he said, pointing toward the compression hallway that joined the outer chamber with the alien's subterranean hideout. "You'll be safe in here."

"How do we know that?" Nina asked.

"Because I'll seal it behind you," the blonde countered. "If someone has managed to break our perimeter, then they certainly are going to be heavily armed."

Instinctively, the man held up the other handguns he had pulled from the secret compartment under his chair. "Do you know how to use these?" he asked.

Ebdon took them both. He handed one to Nina, and then he pulled back the lever to ensure that a single bullet was loaded into the chamber.

"It's been a few years," the old man offered, "but I've always said most things are like riding a bike, if you know what I mean."

"Then ... Mr. Finkle, I'm holding you responsible for keeping this woman safe."

Protesting, Nina barked, "I can take care of myself!" She braced the pistol firmly in her hand and cocked the lever, as well. Flipping off the safety, she brought the .9 millimeter up to shoulder height. "But we're not going anywhere, David! We're going to stand with you, and we're going to help you send these intruders back to wherever they came from!"

The man smiled. "I do appreciate your offer, Nina, but this matter is not subject to debate." He pressed a button, and the massive steel door towered open. "I'll need you to step into the chamber, if you please."

"David, wait!"

"Now!"

With reasonable force, he pushed her into Ebdon, and the two visitors tumbled into the airlock.

As efficiently as she could, Nina righted herself – placing one hand on Ebdon's shoulder – and she started back toward the open doorway.

"Now, just a minute ..." she bellowed.

It was too late. Jennings smiled at the two of them, waving with his gun hand, as the steel structure swung at them, finally locking into place and sealing them inside the airlock, safe from what was about to happen.

END of Chapter 36