58: Names and Addresses
October 30th, 2023
It was an otherwise cool night in rural California. Far off of the main highways, many miles from Los Angeles, was a secluded compound located within an otherwise unremarkable stretch of bushland. The compound was much like an elaborate manor estate, comprised of a lavish main house with a few smaller, subsidiary buildings close to it and tall concrete walls surrounding its perimeter. Beyond the walls was an olive grove, rows and rows of the plants slowly sprouting the popular fruits, the bulk of them intended for olive oil production. The walled compound was, at a glance, part of that olive grove. However, the olive oil company had their own headquarters at the other end of the grove itself. The walled compound was an addition, an anomaly to anyone who happened to be familiar with the place. It was an anomaly that had been built quietly, far from any real piece of civilisation, and it had seen a tremendous amount of money sunk into it. As for who had funded the construction, this was concealed information, something no ordinary member of the public would have been able to dig up easily.
The estate was an anomaly indeed, one that very few people even knew existed. At the late evening hour of half past nine, the compound's lights were switched on and they illuminated much of the open ground around it. The main gate was watched with surveillance cameras and the odd guard patrolled the grounds inside. Within the main building, a small meeting was taking place, specifically within its central living area. That room was adorned with wood-panelled walls and expensive furniture, with one sofa in particular currently occupied by a middle-aged man with a portly belly and greying hair. He wore a white shirt with suspenders, and he puffed heartily upon a cigar whilst he spoke with his associate, a slim sixty-something man with spectacles over his eyes, greying hair and a skinny, almost weaselly frame. This man was dressed in a grey suit, and he sipped from a glass of expensive whiskey, nodding eagerly as to what his associate was saying.
"I looked him in the eyes," the ageing politician said, his voice carrying a vague New England accent. "I looked him in the eyes and I told him that it wasn't my problem his dumb-ass had lost the fleet. That he should have been better prepared, that maybe cheaping out when he built that piece of shit space station might have been a bad idea. I put my finger to his chest, like this." He demonstrated with one finger pointing forth, as if tapping against an imaginary surface. "I put my finger there and I said to him, 'You best start looking for work, because after this mess you ain't going to have much to look forward to. Might I suggest applying for a job at Starbucks?" He laughed then, apparently finding this recounting of his last discussion with Thomas Banachek very amusing indeed. The Senator's associate, the slim man with glasses who had connections to the various multinational banks that controlled the world's supply of money, gave a smile and finished off his glass of obnoxiously expensive liquor.
"I think our friend Banachek will be fine," the Banker replied. "People have a tendency of failing upwards these days."
"You think so?" The Senator tapped out his cigar in an ashtray upon the table to his right. Behind him, the fireplace bristled with flames. Standing at one end of the room was an armed guard, with another at the opposite end. Both were dressed in unassuming civilian clothes, their hands clasped around submachine guns.
"He's useful," the Banker explained. He relaxed into the couch, retaining his smile as he pondered the many ways he might turn the latest series of unfortunate events into his favour. "A 'useful idiot', but useful nonetheless."
"What about the others?" The Senator no doubt referred to the other members of the 'committee', that of the Seven (now 'Six') whom were in the process of consolidating their resources in the wake of the recent upset. Atlantis was gone, as was the Old Man. A power vacuum had been left in the wake of the Old Man's death, one the Banker was keen to fill.
"I'll bring them in line," the Banker said, his voice laced with confidence. "And I'll see to it your membership is finalised."
"Oh, I knew getting in with you was a great idea, as soon as I laid eyes on you." The Senator's smile widened, and he practically beamed with happiness. "I thought to myself, 'There's a man who can get things done. There's a man who holds all the cards.'"
"I could have you put on the IOA board," the Banker suggested. "That way, we'll be able to keep a tighter grip on the stargate program. Granted, we may have to do something about the President's involvement. He supports the program more so than he should."
"Hell, why not get rid of the son of a bitch?" The Senator practically laughed as he said this. "The Vice President ain't worth a damn, everybody already hates that moron. Next election, I'll run for office and I'm sure, with your help, that we can harvest all the damn votes we need to win it, and with that dumbass Vice Pres in office I'll clean up in a landslide anyhow. Using computers for that shit just makes it a whole lot easier to manipulate."
The Banker considered the proposal, although he knew better than to assassinate any President. That was a last resort, and nearly every time it happened it only indicated to more people that something greater was afoot behind the scenes.
At that point, the lights suddenly switched off. The inside of the house was cast in darkness, with only the fireplace providing some ample, wavering illumination. Right away the Senator was up from his seat, eyes wide.
"What the hell is going on?"
One of the guards moved for the door at the far end of the room. The door itself had much of its top half comprised of a window, and as he approached the door the window shattered loudly. Blood spattered and the guard fell into a heap, with a pair of bloody holes shot through his chest. The cough of the suppressed gun was faint, but it was still audible enough to tell both men that they were not alone.
"Jesus Christ!" The Senator threw himself to the floor. The Banker did not follow him right away, and instead gestured for the other guard to investigate. The man obeyed, yet another faint crack sounded from somewhere at the other end of the room. The guard fell forwards, a bloody hole shot through his back. The Banker looked about the darkened room, trying to spot any sign of the intruder. How could they have made it past the perimeter guards? How could they have made it past the cameras? How could they have even gotten close to this place at all?
So many questions, and before any answers came the Banker was suddenly struck by an intense, agonising pain that exploded from his left kneecap. A bullet had torn through it, the noise of which he had barely even heard. Blood seeped down his trouser leg and he stumbled, falling against the couch, a pained yell escaping his mouth. Never in his life had he thought he might get shot, not when he had spent so much of that life with armed guards at his disposal everywhere he went.
The explanation as to how the intruder had entered the premises came in the form of a wavering, shimmering movement in the air a few metres away. The figure seemingly phased into existence from nothing, standing tall and broad-shouldered, covered in a sturdy grey jacket complete with a hood that kept their face shrouded in shadow.
"Who the hell are you?" The Senator, on his hands on knees, looked up at the intruder who had seemingly appeared from nowhere. In response, the stranger reached up and pulled down the hood, revealing the blue skin, violet-hued eyes and hairless scalp. The Senator's eyes widened in shock, as did those on the Banker.
"You aren't even from this planet!" The Senator blurted this out on impulse, recalling what he had heard of the 'Nomad' species from his briefings regarding the stargate program. The Nomad tilted his head slightly, regarding the politician with something akin to curiosity. The Banker remained quiet, unwilling to draw any further attention to himself. He cradled his ruined kneecap with both hands, trying to stem the flow of blood. It continued to trickle out, creating a slippery puddle on the floor underneath him.
"I swore to fight this evil wherever it made itself known," the Nomad declared, his voice firm. In his hand he grasped a suppressed 9mm pistol. At his waist he wore a Calsharan cloaking device. "You have chosen to side with the demons. I am here to put an end to their plans."
"What? What goddamn demons are you talking about?" The Senator climbed back into his sofa. The Nomad's attention went to the Banker, whose eyes widened as he raised the gun and aimed it his way.
"What, no, no, you don't understand!" The Banker's voice became pleading, almost grating. Enough for the Nomad to scrunch his face in a look of disgust.
"At least stand by what you have done," the Nomad stated. "Do not cower or attempt to shirk away from the consequences of your actions."
"I can offer you anything! Anything you want." The Banker shifted a little closer, unable to stand up with his ruined knee. Instead, he threw himself at the Nomad's feet, looking up at him desperately. "You want money? I have all the money you'll ever want!"
"I would never taint myself with your blood money," the Nomad said. He pointed the gun firmly at the Banker's head. "To align yourselves with the ancient enemy is unforgivable. You may enjoy the rewards in this life, but what will become of your soul when you finally die?"
The Banker must have noticed the intense glare in the Nomad's eyes, because he started to beg. All he had worked for, all he had believed in was about to be taken from him in the cruellest, yet most infuriatingly simplistic way imaginable. He had lived like a king and had been promised immortality. For this alien to snatch it from him, it brought on the kind of fury that almost drowned out his fear of his impending death. Almost.
"Wait—" The Banker did not finish, for the gun fired and part of his face disappeared into a bloody eruption. His body slumped to the floor abruptly, blood spilling out of the hole that had been blasted through his head. The Nomad took a step back, as to avoid getting blood on his boots. His face betrayed no emotion, no guilt over what he had done. Instead, he looked up and set his eyes firmly upon the ageing Senator.
"Look, I don't know anything about that asshole's freaky alien friends," the Senator said. He stood up, straightening himself as best he could. The Nomad looked upon him with some disdain, seeing little more than a corrupt official and not the leader the Senator no doubt saw himself as. What the Nomad saw was another corrupt Overseer, ready to sell himself out to a dangerous enemy at the expense of his own people.
"You can't just come in here and do this," the Senator added, and the fear seemed to fade from his voice. He put on a defiant front. For a moment there, the Nomad was almost impressed. "I am a United States Senator."
"I don't care." In an instant, the Nomad had aimed the gun and fired. The bullet hit the old Senator in the chest, blowing a chunk out of his heart before sending him falling back into his sofa. He landed sitting down, eyes closed, blood staining his shirt. At a glance, one might have thought he had fallen asleep. Of course, the presence of the blood would have indicated otherwise.
After a pause, the Nomad reactivated the cloaking device. Once again, he faded into the dark, leaving his handiwork where it was, although with what he had planned next, there would be little left here for investigators to find.
John waited in a car some distance down the road. He was alone, with only the open bushland around him, cast in the shadow of night and illuminated only somewhat by the full moon high above. He had been waiting here close to an hour now. Aithris had insisted on going in alone, which John had only approved since he knew it would be useless arguing with him. When that Nomad got an idea in his head, it was next to impossible to dissuade him from it.
Suddenly, Aithris was standing next to the passenger window. John almost jumped out of his seat at the way in which the Nomad had appeared, emerging from the darkness like some kind of phantom. Nonetheless, he unlocked the doors, allowing Aithris to climb inside. Despite the work he had done, he was clean, his clothes spotless and his gloved hands carrying not one trace of evidence as to the bloody task he had completed.
"Is it done?" John reached into a pocket, pulling out a small, crumpled piece of paper. He unfolded it, finding upon it a name and an address. The address was for the estate further down the road, and the name was that of a prominent international banker. One of the 'Seven', of which the Old Man had been a part of.
"Yes." Aithris leaned back into his seat. John tore up the piece of paper, before he scattered the pieces to the wind through the window by his side. They had gone off the books for this one, guided by the information McKay had dug out of the computers on Atlantis. Of the 'Seven', now only five remained. They all had their associates and co-conspirators, and to rid the world of them all would take years. So, they would cut the head off of the snake, so-to-speak. It was about all they could do, really.
"There is one other thing." Aithris reached into his pocket and pulled a small device, little more than a cylinder with a button on one end and a short antenna extending from it. Before John could comment, Aithris hit the button. The charges he had set about the compound, tucked away into various hiding spots, all detonated at once. The night was suddenly filled with the roar of the explosion, the concussive shockwave buffeting the trees by the roadside whilst the ground behind them lit up with the light of several powerful spouts of flame. The compound was almost entirely gone, the main house and those structures around it becoming enveloped with fire. Timber and brick and metal debris rained down all around. Flaming pieces landed in the neighbouring olive grove, setting some of the trees there alight.
John figured this as good a time as any to get moving. He started the engine, revving it up, before he shoved it into gear and sent them speeding down the lonely road. He sighted the burning estate in the rear-view mirror, black smoke pouring from the flames and pluming high over the landscape. Neither he nor Aithris said much for the entire drive, both simply too engrossed in their own thoughts to be in any mood for conversation. John had figured some time ago that if they were to have any chance in the fight to come, they would need to clean out their own house first. Tonight's activities were a start.
On the other side of the country, in Washington DC, Conrad Holt worked frantically. He could almost feel the walls closing in on him as he hurried about his office in the dead of the night, shredding documents and throwing those shredded remains into a metal bin. He was one of the few still working late in the NID headquarters building, although unlike the other staff still here, Holt did not intend on coming back in the next day. This was his final day in this office, which was actually a blessing really. He had always hated this place, so he would be glad to leave it far behind him. Better yet, he would be retiring. Once he was out of here, his next stop was the airport. After that, the Caribbean.
The headquarters had been spared during the attack days before, although one did not have to go far from it to find damage. Much of the inner city government district had been attacked. Nothing too serious, as the alien fighters had been shot down before they could get properly started, but Holt suspected it was more of a morale thing the enemy had intended, rather than an actual strategic victory. They were letting the humans of Earth know that they could strike any time, wherever they wanted across the entire planet. A message had been sent, and the people had received it loud and clear.
The metal bin was small, and Holt had filled it to the brim with shredded papers as well as the hard drive of his desktop computer. As soon as they were all inside, he pulled a set of matches from his jacket and lit them as one thick bundle. He dropped them into the bin, allowing the flames to gradually eat into the remains, a thin trail of smoke wisping forth. The smoke detectors around the office might pick it up, but he did not care. He would be out of here before that happened.
Satisfied with his handiwork, he picked up the phone, putting in a call to the secretary on duty:
"It's Holt. I need my car brought out around back."
With that done, he stormed out of the office and made his way for the elevator. The trip down to the ground floor was brief, and as soon as the doors were open he was walking hurriedly down the corridor, making his way for the building's rear exit, specifically the one nearest to the parking garage.
Holt seldom drove himself anywhere, he usually had a paid driver to do that for him. Emerging into the cool night air, he sighted his car, a sleek black sedan, coming to a halt by the narrow lane that ran behind the headquarters building. He moved towards it before he pulled open one of the rear doors and climbed inside. It was a specially made car, complete with heavily tinted windows, bulletproof glass and an armoured chassis. It was the kind of car they might drive the President around in.
He sat himself down on the backseat, mind sorting through his next steps. Retirement, certainly. He had already pulled out as much of his money as he could, doing so in cash as well as gold and silver. It was all waiting in a shipping container, ready to be sent off to his new home on some distant, tropical Caribbean Island. It seemed a desperate move, but he was a desperate man. With the Old Man dead, Holt needed to cut his ties to the organization if he was to save his own skin.
As soon as he closed the door, the car lurched forwards suddenly. He had to stop himself from being flung out of his seat, and he looked to the driver with indignation.
"Easy there, I don't want to get smashed up on the way to the airport…" He trailed off when he saw who was occupying the driver's seat, as well as the passenger's seat. Whilst the car settled into a steady pace, following the narrow lane out onto the main road, Holt found himself looking at two individuals he had not expected to see again.
Purple and Slim. The two 'mimetic' aliens he had sold weapons to several days ago. Purple was in the passenger seat, his narrow slit for an eye fixed firmly upon Holt, a silenced pistol clasped in one clawed hand. And then there was Slim, the somewhat smaller one of the pair, who was working the steering wheel like an expert. Apparently, this alien had been practicing in his spare time.
Holt could not believe it. Where the hell had these two come from? What the hell did they want with him? The gun pointed at him certainly indicated their intent. He could have sworn that Purple was smirking, in his own weird way with that odd, vertical mouth of his and the two small mandibles to either side of it. Holt looked about the car, seeing no way out: the doors at the back were locked, the windows were sturdy enough to stop bullets and he was defenceless. Thwarted by the damn child-lock on the rear doors.
He wanted to lash out, he really did. But these two would have just shot him on the spot. And he had no chance at flagging down help from the few pedestrians they passed as they went down a main road. The windows were tinted deep, essentially blocking all sight of those inside the vehicle. Surely there was a way out? Maybe these two could be reasoned with, maybe they wanted nothing more than some more guns? Some more explosives? And yet, all Holt had to do was look at them, even Slim who seemed to do his own weird smile at him through the rear-view mirror. They wanted nothing from him, but they did want him.
That was it, then. He slumped back in the chair, his expression turning into something dour. They had him, and they wanted payback. Selling them energy weapons that did not work had seemed like a good idea at the time. A means to screw with these would-be alien terrorists, not to mention trace their movements. Now, all Holt could think about was how utterly screwed he was. He could only wonder what had become of his actual driver.
Purple kept the gun trained on him. They would be taking him someplace quiet before they put a bullet in him. As for the alien, he found the human's discomfort amusing, not to mention satisfying. Right then and there, Purple detected a subtle change in Holt's demeanour: resignation. The fight had left him, replaced with a quiet acceptance. That suited Purple just fine.
END
Notes: And that's part three. I hope you enjoyed it. As for the next one, don't expect that for a long time to come. Given the sheer amount of what I have planned for part four, I may need to split it in half, but that's something that I'll need to determine while I'm writing it. I planned this as a five part series initially.
One major story arc, that is the 'conspiracy' story-line, ends here. Holt is as a good as dead, so don't expect him to return. I know I did some controversial things in this story, but that's just how I roll.
