No Bigger than a Bread Box

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter One:

 

“When we remember that we are all mad, the mysteries of life disappear and life stands explained.”

 –Mark Twain—

 

 

Above the Earth, many hundreds of miles up, the US space station orbited. It wasn’t very big, but it was white and reflected the sun from the distance. Marked with Roman numerals and rectangular flags with stars and stripes, clean and new since the previous June when it had been sent up, the letters U S A were still nicely printed on it and the residents were snug inside, eating freeze-dried ice cream in celebration of one of their nation’s holidays. One of the men spoke in a low voice to the three others in the cabin.

“…And she heard a thump, scrape, thump, thump, sc—r—ape.” His fingers scratched on the metal behind him as he said this. “She panicked when she heard that and tried to start the engine, but of course she couldn’t. She kept hearing the thump, sc—r—ape, all through the night, and she stayed inside the car all night, shaking in fear of the clawed man.” He paused to let the story sink in. “The next morning a forest ranger knocked on the window of the passenger side, startling her awake. Happy to see the ranger, she jumped out of the car, begging him to tell her what happened to her boyfriend. The ranger only turned and pointed above her car roof. She turned and saw her boyfriend dangling by a rope from the pine tree above the car, his feet hitting the roof with a thump, and they scraped across as he swung, blown by the wind.”

One of the other men rolled his eyes. “I heard that one at Scout Camp. Find something new, Jacobs.”

Jacobs smirked and shrugged. “Well, you didn’t say it had be original. It’s one of you guys’ turn now.”

A thinking mumble passed among the others in the cabin and settled with a thickset man with thin lips and a block-shaped face.

“I have a real ghost story if you want one,” he said.

The others snorted. Jacobs nodded. “You’ve been dying to tell that dead cat story, Zighler—go ahead.”

Zighler frowned a little. “That was a real story. It really happened.” He sat back. “But that’s not my story. This one is about a date I went on with a bunch of friends out near this graveyard in Idaho. You see there was this man, an outlaw that was cornered in the hills of—”

“Is this the one about you and those guys that went grave hopping out near Styx Crick?” a sandy-haired, young-looking guy said with a rather rude laugh.

He shut up quickly after a growl from Zighler. “Don’t call it Styx Crick. It was Cedar Creek and no, it isn’t that story. This was years later when I was at college. We were just near where my old girlfriend lived and…” frowning, “Hey, you’re messing up my story. I have to tell you about this outlaw. He was famous in seven states for stage coach robbing and horse thieving, and he was at last cornered out in these hills near—”

Something thumped against the wall of the station.

Scowling now, Zighler snapped, “Knock it off, Jacobs.” He turned and continued with dramatic emphasis, “As I was saying, these hills…”

Something thumped the wall again and scraped against it, metal against metal. Zighler glared at Jacobs, but Jacobs was lifting up his hands innocently.

“I didn’t do it. I think there is something outside,” he said.

Zighler scowled. “I was quiet while you told your story, you—”

“Shhht!” the other man said, raising his head and listening. “It’s not coming from inside. Can you hear that?”

Zighler turned to glare at him too, but all three lifted up their hands to make sure they were not the ones making the noise.

“You hear a lot of funny things in space,” the blond young one said with a faint quiver to his voice.

Zighler glared at him. But the sound thumped and scraped again, sounding a little like a TV antenna bent and scraping on the roof by the wind.

“It stopped,” Jacobs said. “Boone, go look out the porthole and see if you can see anything outside.”

The young blond nodded and floated toward the right tunnel. He pressed his face against the glass.

“Can’t see anything at this angle,” he replied.

“I’m going out,” the fourth man said at last.

Zighler turned to look, his dark looks vanishing. He followed his shipmate out toward the airlock. His shipmate quickly pulled on a spacesuit. The others followed him to the airlock except for Boone, who still was trying to catch a glimpse out of the porthole. Once Zighler rechecked all the seals in his suit, the man stepped into the airlock cautiously.

“Be careful, Mike,” Zighler said right before he closed the door and sealed it. “Make sure your safety line is hooked well.”

They waited at the radio, listening to Mike’s breathing carefully. Mike said little until he made his way to the other side. He let out a gasp.

<< What in heaven’s name is that? >>

“What is it, Hiller?” Boone asked through the radio.

<< I’m not sure. It’s almost like it’s not here—at least not visibly. I can’t exactly see it. Too dark, >> Mike Hiller replied. << It seems to be hooked onto our satellite dish. It looks broken, whatever it is. >>

“Is it safe?” Jacobs asked, also peering out the front window.

There was silence for a while.

<< It doesn’t seem to be dangerous. >> He paused. << I’m bringing it in. >>

They could hear his grunts and moans for about five minutes as he dislodged it. After three more, he managed to return to the airlock with the thing he found.

After opening the lock and taking his helmet off, Mike handed the object inside. Boone grabbed it first, staring at it.

“Holy….” he gasped. “What is that? It doesn’t reflect light.”

It was a machine no bigger than a breadbox, had several moving parts with a solid center, blacker than black, and that was all they could tell about it.

A knock rapped lightly on the door, and FBI Agent Sicamore looked up from his desk. His pale blue eyes were wearily scanning his files for something to help him. He had been running his fingers through his dark hair, tired from an arduous weekend in Washington D.C.—a failed trip that was meant to help their branch of the FBI in handling two presumed dangerous ‘extra-terrestrials’ who had had slipped into American society. Now the FBI operation had to start from scratch, including change locations as their security had been compromised by said ‘E.T’s from Mars.

Yep. Mars.

They had the proof.

Thing was, these extra-terrestrials were basically human—which they also had biological proof of. And therefore, they were even more dangerous.

“Enter,” Agent Sicamore said.

The man who usually ran their darkroom, a room their operation used to survey Martian activity in space, stuck his head in the door. With an anxious grin on his face, he stepped completely into the room. He carefully closed the door before speaking. Without even addressing Sicamore, the man sat in the open chair and stooped across the desk toward the agent with a whisper. “We have a new discovery I want you to see.”

Sicamore lifted his eyes up apprehensively. He glanced around for a second to make sure their alien adversary’s nasty spy network had not also bugged his new office. Since that one boy had broken into their last building with very little effort and had escaped the building security just as easily just after threatening him, he had been uneasy about their security. They believed they had moles in their midst, though they had yet to find them. Frisking the desk, under and across, he gestured for the other man to do the same with a wave.

After a thorough check, they were assured the room was clear.

Stooping closely again, the man addressed Sicamore. “I have this to show you. We got it in from NASA today.”

He pointed to a digital printout of a file with an image added into it. Agent Sicamore’s eyes widened on the image as his colleague traced something on the image with his finger.

“See that? It was etched on it. You know where this thing came from? They found it scraping outside the space station Halloween night, hooked onto the dish on the port side,” he said.

Sicamore gasped. “Has anyone else seen this?”

The man barely shook his head. “Only those at NASA on the shuttle and at the station. They are bringing it down to earth today. A few techs at NASA will handle it before packing it for shipment. The Bureau should get it on the twelfth.”

Agent Sicamore angled his head in a side look at him, asking, “When did you hear of this?”

The man from the dark room smiled. “While you were in D.C.. I figured you were too occupied to disturb you then, so I decided to save it for you as a surprise.”

Agent Sicamore smiled. “Good. Tell no one else about this. I don’t want this leaking out. I don’t want That Boy getting it before we do.”

His colleague nodded and headed for the door.

“We may win this yet,” Sicamore muttered to himself, feeling that tightness in his chest unclench. “We may win this yet.”

That Boy (as Agent Sicamore had started to call Jeff Streigle) was sitting in English class that November Monday morning, resisting the urge to poke the sleepy-eyed Zormna Clendar in the side (They were the two E.T.s the FBI were spying on). It was against the rules for anyone to sleep in Mr. Humphries’ class, and the fiery-haired, five-foot-tall junior with exasperatingly green eyes and porcelain skin was nodding from exhaustion after enduring yet another lecture from Mr. McLenna about how they would not tolerate her sassy behavior in their house. She kept wishing they’d just let her become an emancipated minor and get it over with, but they also preferred to keep her under their eye.

 “Mr. Streigle, would you stand and read this paper?” Mr. Humphries said, giving Jeff a jolt.

Jeff stood up, taking the essay. He brushed his midnight-black hair out of his eyes, to look at his writing. As he prepared to read, his classmates stares at scar that ran across his pale right cheek and the broken part of his nose, wondering what he would say. They had just started reading The Canterbury Tales last week after finishing Macbeth, and they had been made to write about the Nun’s Priest’s Tale and that chicken, Chanticleer. As usually, the entire class had been asked to write about something, this time about what they were proud of. Jeff shook the paper out and looked at the title. He smirked.  

Clearing his throat he said, “Pride is a dangerous thing. I was once very proud about my grades when I was a kid. Some things came easy to me, and I didn’t have to work as hard as my classmates, so I didn’t work as hard. The really big kids at school noticed and started to pick on me—and back then I wasn’t very big. I used to…”

Zormna looked up from her desk and smirked drowsily. She had actually heard this story before. It was one of the few true ones Jeff told, as most of what came out of his mouth were lies—or rather part of his alibi. She was glad Jeff quit poking her in the head. It had been starting to give her a headache, and she didn’t relish losing her temper in the middle of class just to tell him to stop it.

As he read, Jeff glanced down at Zormna and smiled. For the most part, things were going ok. His job to protect Zormna Clendar from those who wanted her dead had become a lot easier since Halloween—because he had blackmailed Agent Sicamore, who was connected to the people who had killed Zormna’s great aunt. Because of that, he figured they would not have to worry about the FBI for another week, at least. He wasn’t naïve enough to think their troubles were over, after all. Besides, it always seemed to take about that long for something else to come up to put a wrench in things. However, for him, a week’s peace was precious.

And who was Zormna Clendar that the FBI would want to harm her? Frankly, the FBI really didn’t know who she was. They only had guesses. Just like they only had guesses about him. No solid proof. Only speculation from stolen moments and bad information. After all, their DNA was human. They could not actually be called aliens. Martian was the word the FBI would use, and such a crude sounding word too. Arrassian was so much more elegant. And truer. But it wasn’t like Jeff was going to tell them that. Nor would he let them know why he was protecting Zormna. It really was none of their business anyway.

 

Another week had started, leading to mid-November. Pennington was getting cold, and Jeff had begun to dress warmer. He encouraged Zormna to do the same, as it usually snowed in Pennington and snowed heavily after Thanksgiving. And though she was not usually one to take his advice, Zormna was starting to listen to him more. Fact was, Zormna had never seen snow before in her life. Not in real life, anyway. The first time she had experienced rain, it had upset her considerably to the point that it took a while to convince her that it was a good thing. It came from spending her entire life underground on their home world. It was amusing watching her experience life like a new child, but it was his duty to help her blend in as much as possible, so he had to prepare her. People stared, after all, when a professed Irishwoman reacted as if she had never experienced weather before.

Jeff peered out his window that Thursday morning. The sky was cloudy gray. The clouds did not speak of snow, though the entire town was waiting for it. Jeff smiled and stepped back from the window. He glanced about his bedroom, which was remarkably clean for a seventeen-year-old boy. His musical instruments were lined up along the wall under various posters of bands and music artists he had come to like while living on Earth. Among them was a banjo, a lute, and a balalaika. His cello leaned against the opposite wall in its case. He had gotten rather good at all of them. Whatever spare cash he had, he always saved up for a new one to try out. It was in his genes, though. He came from a long line of musicians.

 There were a few clothing items strewn across the floor: a pair of shoes, a black jacket, and jeans from the day before. He did this on purpose, just in case someone actually did search the room for ‘alien artifacts’. He never could be too careful about the FBI breaking in for whatever reason. But he had always been rather clean. Of course, that was because he never really had much. So, he meticulously took care of what little he had. Yet, in Pennington he had plenty.

Picking up his jacket, he draped it over the back of a black metal chair positioned behind a thin plywood desk. A laptop sat on the desk next to a cheap printer. It was the one he used for school assignments. Opening his chest of drawers, he pulled out another pair of jeans and grabbed a T-shirt. He would wear his jacket like always, so he didn’t worry about the cold when it came to it. Jeff ran his fingers though his mop of midnight black hair, scratching his scalp tiredly while he opened his bedroom door to the hall, bumping into his pretended older brother, Alex, with a yawning apology. Alex mumbled, “No problem,” back and continued on his way to the kitchen for breakfast.

Alex really didn’t look a thing like Jeff except they were both pale and had similar cynical smirks. Blond-haired and light blue eyed, one year graduated from high school, Alex worked these days. He put in hours at an automobile garage and then manned the radios for the Arrassian rebellion in his spare time.

The ‘brothers’ lived with an ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle’ to get away from an abusive father—or so they said and so was written on a paper kept by their so-called social worker who ‘kept tabs on their well-being’. That was their alibi of course. In actuality, hardly anyone in that household was related to one another, excluding ‘Uncle Orren’ who was really married to ‘Aunt Mary’. Two other men also lived with them and Jeff’s so-called aunt and uncle. A redhead and a blond who appeared about in their mid-twenties, though it really was not certain to outsiders their true age. They both pretended to go to the local community college, posing as boarders in their house. And as far as Jeff knew, the FBI only suspected that their boarders were also from the same place Jeff and Zormna were. But as for Uncle Orren and Aunt Mary and Alex, the FBI clearly believed that Jeff was just using those ‘poor, unsuspecting American citizens’. That was fine with Jeff, because at least it kept his best friend Al safe. The household actually contained the main leaders of the rebellion of Arras, give or take one or two of them.

As Jeff passed on to the bathroom, his fathomless blue eyes trailed to their Spartan living room. He sighed. Their living space had always annoyed him. Chemically clean and spotless and surprisingly unlived-in for a household of six, it was ‘Aunt Mary’s’ fault. They didn’t have much in the house because they did not need much. But she was so anal retentive when it came to neatness that they never left anything out, and their friends complained his home smelled like a doctor’s office. Jeff kept trying to explain to her that the house had to have a more lived-in look, but she never took such criticism well. He had even suggested that Zormna loan a few frilly things from her great aunt’s place to add to the décor, but Aunt Mary was violently against it. Perhaps she even felt a little affronted at the idea that her taste in house decoration wasn’t good enough. But since the house was just supposed to be a hideout from the People’s Military of Arras, he didn’t pursue the issue.

The problem was the FBI besides. Eventually the FBI would figure out that the entire household was not from this world. The fact that they had discovered that Jeff wasn’t from Chicago as he had claimed had been a complete accident—and all Alea Zormna Clendar’s fault. Zormna had not meant to let the FBI know that Jeff was a Martian, but it sort of came out anyway. After all, they already knew what she was through an unfortunate sequence of events during her first months in Pennington. And once Jeff vowed to be her protector, he had to guard her from the FBI early on at camp that last summer. It just all spilled out… mostly because of that terrible habit Zormna had using Jeff’s real name—Jafarr—when she was riled up or nervous. And since then, she could not take it back. They knew.

However, Jeff didn’t hold it against her. Not anymore at least. As he turned on the shower knob, he thought it over. The FBI would have found out where he was from sooner or later by watching him shadow her. And though he hated the government’s interference, he had to admire their efficiency. They knew how to do their job.

As he let the warm water run over him in the shower, Jeff let his thoughts wander. Such luxuries would only last while on Earth. And such quiet peace was only temporary.

Once clean, Jeff immediately went into routine, dressing after his shower, running a thick comb through his hair to straighten out the slight tangles in his long mop of bangs. He smiled a little as he looked in the mirror, checking the nicks from his quick shave. He hadn’t quite the need for much of a shave yet, which was fine by him—but occasionally a new whisker appeared that he didn’t like. His face was fine. Things were fine.

A chill ran down his neck and back. He braced against the edge of the sink and stared at his reflection. Why was he convincing himself things were fine? If he had not been of half seer caste blood, he would have ignored that feeling and gone on without another thought, but he couldn’t. He knew by then that wariness was better than compete cool confidence, though the other looked better. Still, shaking it off, Jeff walked out of the bathroom and returned to his bedroom for his jacket. It would be a cold day, and he did not have time to contemplate foreboding premonitions.

“This should finish the Canterbury Tales for this week. Tomorrow we will start our section on poetry.”

A moan spasmed through the classroom. Every Junior and Senior sunk lower in their seats. Mr. Humphries maintained his mild smile as he watched the effect. He was a formidable middle-aged man who wore shirts with brown ties on most days, and his bearing alone kept the class in line.

“I know. I know. You’ll just miss reading more of these wonderful stories, but I told you I only wanted to give you a taste,” he said.

The class still moaned. Brian Henderson sadly rolled his brown eyes at Jeff and Adam Arbor, knowing full well that Mr. Humphries was teasing. Their English teacher knew that his students would rather not do any of it. Everybody wanted an easy A.

The English teacher continued. “However, our bit on poetry will also be a taste. We will cover that in the next few weeks, after which we will begin reading some Victorian literature.”

The class moaned again. That meant they would have to read something by Charles Dickens—and they all knew Mr. Humphries was a great fan of Dickens, just as much as he was a fan of Shakespeare. Zormna groaned inside, yet for slightly different reason. She was tired of playing the student. They would probably read Great Expectations and Oliver Twist and have to write papers about their future careers, something she’d rather not invent. All her aspirations had been ripped out from under her when she was practically banished to that American suburb by the head of the military where she had once been the equivalent of a captain. Now she was reduced to being a teenager nobody.

She glanced at Jeff. His expression remained amused at their teacher’s comments. Of course, he would be thinking like that, she realized. School was a game to him. And he enjoyed the quiet life on Earth. She was still trying to get used to it.

“Now, let me see, I think I have a few papers I’d like read today.” Mr. Humphries fingered through the stack in his hands, reading the headings. “Yes. Miss Henderson.” Their teacher lifted out a paper.

Joy gave a squeak of surprise. Brian’s younger sister, a healthy tan girl with brown hair cut in a fashionable bob, looked kind of cute when she reacted. Up until now, she never had to read anything in class. Usually, her friends got more attention.

“Please read your paper about fools and rewards,” he said.

It was a paper in response to the tale about a man, his adulterous wife, and her lover. Joy stood up and took her paper from her teacher’s hands. She trembled, peeking sideways at Zormna for support. Zormna gave her a half grin, trying to hide her relief (for the sake of Joy) that she had not been chosen to read. Most people took Zormna’s looks as devious though. Luckily, Joy was one of those people who assumed the best of a person first.

Joy drew in a breath. “I…”

A brisk rap hit the door. Immediately, without the usual polite hesitation that came with entering a busy classroom, Vice-Principal Vicksler and two police officers stepped into the room.

Joy’s open yet now silent mouth dropped open even more. She waited, staring at the men. She then looked at Mr. Humphries.

Mr. Vicksler had come in first and peered across the filled desks. Then he turned to Mr. Humphries. “Sorry for the intrusion, Mr. Humphries, but is Jafarr Leonard Streigle here?”

Mr. Humphries blinked for a second. He peered back at the police officers who politely stayed near the door, then looked at the vice principal.

“What’s this about?” Mr. Humphries asked, glancing warily across the room to his class. Jeff quizzically gazed up from his desk at the police himself with no fear or apprehension, but certainly not entirely without guilt. He knew he hadn’t done anything illegal—if that didn’t count breaking into an FBI installation two weeks previous. But they couldn’t be there at the school for that, could they?

Mr. Vicksler glanced over the class again with apology toward the teacher. “I’m sorry, but these gentlemen have come for him.”

Jeff rose from his seat—not quickly, but rather painfully, gripping the wood top and closing his eyes. He opened his eyes resignedly. “I’m here.”

Losing what little color she had, Zormna stared up at him, pursing her lips and begging him with her eyes for an explanation.

With a quick glance to her that mentally told her to keep quiet, Jeff called out, “What is it you want?”

Mr. Vicksler frowned but bade him to come forward with his hand.

The entire class gaped at the well-known wrestler as he shrugged then stepped through the aisle to the front of the class. His friend, Brian Henderson, kept staring at him, though peeking at Zormna who struggled within her seat to stay still, as if resisting an urge to pounce on Mr. Vicksler for taking Jeff away from her. Everyone gaped, though Adam Arbor seemed extra horrified when the police pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Shocked, Joy remained standing with her paper in her hands until Jeff passed to the front of the row. Then she collapsed into her seat, still clutching her paper.

Kindly going up to him, Mr. Humphries rested his hand on Jeff’s back and whispered something in his student’s ear. Jeff nodded and looked back at Zormna as the police started to cuff him. “Hey, Zormna,” he sounded rather calm as the policemen bound his other arm. “Get my books, will ya?”

Zormna blinked and nodded, still struggling within her seat not to take action.

Everyone watched as Jeff allowed the two policemen to steer him to the door without a bit of resistance. Mr. Vicksler followed them into the hall and moved to shut the door.

No longer able to sit still, Zormna shot up and hurdled over her chair, running through the class’s desks to the doorway. Bracing herself on the doorjamb next to the vice principal, she called after them, “I’ll call my lawyer for you!”

They could hear Jeff yell back a “Thanks” and then, “Don’t I have a right to know what I’m being arrested for? Aren’t you supposed to be telling me?”

Shaken, Zormna slumped against the door jamb, frowning. Once Jeff was out of sight, Zormna turned to go back to Jeff’s seat, gathering up his books. She put them all on her desk.

Mr. Humphries and the entire class stared at her, enough to make the blonde blush and march back to her own seat. Once she sat, she wrung her hands, staring into the space in front of her, thinking hard.

“What did he do?” Brian hissed over to her, as Mr. Humphries tried to get Joy to read from her paper again.

Zormna shrugged, genuinely lost for words. “I haven’t a clue.”

 

The Right to Remain Silent

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two:

 

Speech is as silver, but silence is golden—anon—

 

 

 

Traveling to the police station was not as eventful as being dragged out of his high school in front of his entire English class. It was bad enough that Mr. Humphries had believed he needed to see a school counselor for all the revealing facts he had learned earlier that year, but now Jeff wondered what reaction the teacher would have at him being arrested in his own classroom. Undoubtedly the teacher would assume it was gang related.

At the police station, they took his fingerprints, staining his fingertips in black ink while following all the regular procedures. The only things they had not done was tell him what he had been accused of or read him his rights—a clear infraction of human rights and one Jeff protested up until they shoved him in a large cell and locked him in with a bunch of rough-looking men. There, he stopped silent and glared through the bars at the departing policemen.

Turning around and gazing into the cell after a few minutes, Jeff visually took in the characters they had left him with. Some were drunks taken off the street to sober up. Others were rough-looking men with muscles and tattoos on their knuckles that spelled things out like demon and spike who were probably in for theft or gang fighting. A few were men in suits, looking the guiltiest of all. They were sitting and staring at the floor to avoid being pounced on by the men with the tattoos on their knuckles. If it were not for Jeff’s own visible scars, he probably would have looked completely out of place in that prison. As it was, he merely grimaced and leaned back against the bars, wondering what brought him into this cage. He ignored the rest in the cell.

The police did not keep him there for long though. After ten minutes, two police officers returned and unlocked the door, calling out his name. “Streigle.”

Jeff stepped forward. They took him across the room to the telephone on the far wall so he could make his one phone call. They had stripped him of his cell phone and pocketknife upon entering. Both had been placed in a zip lock bag. Standing there for a second and then glancing back at the ‘tank’ as it was called, Jeff smirked at the officer with him. He shrugged to himself and dialed a number.

He waited.

“Hello?” Jeff said, leaning near the phone.

A policeman watched him with a stern sober expression, his arms folded across his chest.

Listening to the response on the other side of the phone, Jeff nodded seriously and then said in a long quick stream of words, “Yes, I’d like to order two Chicago specials—extra cheese and sausage—and a liter of root beer.”

They threw him back into the tank.

Slamming the door shut, the policeman shook his head at Jeff and left without a word, hooking his keys onto his pants with a huff. Watching him, Jeff sighed, shrugged, and leaned again on the bars of the huge cell, waiting once more for Zormna to come and claim him with her lawyer as promised. However, he wondered how long that would take, scratching his head then running his hands through his hair. Glancing at the occupants of the cell, Jeff folded his arms and settled his back more comfortably against the bars. There he stayed, closing his eyes as if meditating. Little did they know that he had actually called home (and not a pizza place) and he had given the code phrase for: “I’m in trouble. You might need to evacuate.” He had been waiting for the FBI to interfere. He just didn’t know it would happen this soon.  

It was Agent Simms who claimed him first. The man had actually been waiting and watching Jeff through a guardroom security camera for a while, grinding his teeth. He seemed particularly grave when he finally greeted the boy. Jeff merely rolled his eyes at the sight of the FBI agent.

“I thought it was you people. What am I in here for?” Jeff asked as Agent Simms (who was accompanied by two policemen) let him out of the cell. The drunks grunted at Jeff as he was let out, and the men with the tattoos eyed Jeff with more suspicion, watching him go.

Agent Simms’s lips drew together in a tight line as he glared at Jeff. “Come with me.”

“Hold it.” Jeff pulled back, taking in the surly expression on this familiar agent he had frequently seen watching Zormna but had yet to speak to. “I’ve played your game. However, I do have a right to know what I have been accused of.”

The federal agent looked at him squarely. “You are only suspect at this point.”

“Only a suspect or the only suspect,” Jeff asked, allowing the policemen to push him down the hall without any form of resistance. “And for what? You guys haven’t said anything about what I supposedly did. I have that right.”

Agent Simms growled, narrowing his eyes at him.

“Down, Bessie.” Jeff leaned away with a half smirk.

They took him to a room down the hall and opened the door. He was resigned to endure the nonsense they were throwing at him. They had already tromped on his right to know what he was accused of. It seemed only fitting that they would break more laws, possibly harming him. Escape might end up being his only alternative. Pushing him into the room, they gave him an extra shove towards a table. The fluorescent lights above were not all functioning. The far ones were flickering out, leaving a bit of the room in shadow. Blinking to get focus, Jeff sat down in the chair he saw directly in front of him.

Lifting his eyes across the interrogation room mildly, letting out a breath of air as he contemplated the space, and more still, to calculate a possible escape. However, as his eyes perused the room he saw that it was indeed a mere police interrogation room, like all those he had seen in movies. It was small. The walls were a plain pasty green by what he could see from the functioning florescent light. It had the usual observation mirror that didn’t reflect well and was obviously meant for people to see through rather than for people on the inside to see themselves. As his eyes focused at the other end of the room, his expression changed from resignation to annoyance. He had not noticed Agent Sicamore sitting at the other end of the table, waiting in silence for Jeff to see him. Jeff nodded at the sight of him and leaned back into his chair. He shook his head and let out a breath.

“I see.” Jeff stopped shaking his head. “What is it now, Sicamore? Is this stint supposed to scare me? What am I here for?”

Agent Sicamore’s expression was unreadable. He just looked at Jeff with piercing eyes. The two police officers left the room. Agent Simms followed them, but not after giving Sicamore a hard warning glance. They locked the door behind them.

Jeff broke into a small laugh of disbelief, glancing at the door after the three men who had long exited the room. “What is this?”

Agent Sicamore said nothing.

With an exasperated sigh, Jeff shook his head again and leaned on his elbow, waiting.

They sat in that room without a word said across the table for nearly fifteen minutes. Jeff had begun to drum his fingers in boredom, and Agent Sicamore took out a cigarette to smoke, waiting while watching the boy. At first, Jeff just glanced around the room, waiting to see if Agent Sicamore would do anything. But the agent did not say anything at all until Jeff started to wave away the smoke with his hand and beg for a window to be opened. By that time the smoke was indeed thick in the room, and Sicamore had finished his fourth cigarette.

Agent Sicamore cracked a smile. “You’ve had enough?”

Jeff cocked his head at an angle and looked at him funny, coughing with his hand over his mouth. “You know—you actually have to go through the whole legal process and get a conviction before you are allowed to gas me to death.”

Glowering, Agent Sicamore slammed his fist against the table. “Do you think this is funny?”

Jeff coughed again, blinking at the shaking table, still slouching. The inside his mouth tasted awful. “Lung cancer sure doesn’t—cough—seem funny.”

The frown on the agent’s face deepened. “This is all a game to you, isn’t it? Playing with human lives….”

Jeff sat up. “What is this about? I was having a nice peaceful week for once until you spoiled it with your smoke. What do you mean by ‘playing games with lives’?”

Inspecting the newly forming glare on Jeff’s face, especially the confusion in the boy’s deep eyes, Agent Sicamore muttered, “You spent all this week in Pennington.”

It was not a question, nor was it a statement exactly. It was a puzzle that was said out loud so it could be understood better. Scenarios were clearing going through the FBI agent’s brain, trying to solve the conundrum he would not share with Jeff. Jeff looked at the agent cockeyed and rolled his eyes again like any teenager. “Yeah…” He then shook his head. “What do you think I’ve been doing?”

Sharply, Agent Sicamore snarled. “You have ruined a very serious investigation of mine, and you ask me that?”

Jeff smirked a little and almost innocently blinked at Sicamore. “So, what is this then? Is this a catch-me-before-any-more-milk-is-spilt—or is this just harassment?”

Sicamore’s glare deepened, creasing his eyes into hollows that were already apparent, probably from exhaustion.  “You would just love to shut us down permanently, wouldn’t you?”

Jeff’s smirk vanished. Now understanding what that implied, standing up sharply and clenching his cuffed hands, he flushed violently. “Now that’s going a bit far. I have done nothing to you to let you accuse me of… of… of….” He paled—well, paler than his already white skin could go anyway. Jeff was turning a sallow shade of green after his angry shade of red. The words stuck in his dry, nicotine-stung throat. “I haven’t done anything!” He flung up his cuffed together hands in exasperation, standing up and separating himself from the table and Sicamore.

 Sicamore remained unconvinced.

But then, Jeff had threatened the man and his parents a few weeks ago—as Agent Sicamore was also of ‘Martian’ blood. It was his precious secret which the FBI agent didn’t want the rest of the Bureau to find out about. Not yet, anyway. And because of that, it was Jeff’s trump card against him.

Frowning, Jeff tried to fold his arms—though the cuffs prevented him. He stood against the wall as far away from Agent Sicamore as possible.

“Sit,” Agent Sicamore said, blowing out another cloud of smoke.

Jeff glared at him. Trouble with the government wasn’t a new thing to him. He had been in prison before. Just not on this planet. Yet somehow this was worse. It was worse than getting beaten in the Arrassian prison ISIC by the People’s Military because he knew what they stood for and why they had arrested and beaten him. That abuse had felt honorable, like a hero’s brand. But this? He could feel the hate from Agent James Sicamore, understanding the nonverbal accusation that had been made. Clearly the FBI had no proof—yet Jeff understood very well that he was the prime suspect for something awful. Something that very much smelled like murder. Of course, he had no clue what had happened because he was truly and completely, honestly innocent. It would have been an entirely different thing if he were guilty of something such as purposely opposing a corrupt regime. But he wasn’t. And that realization pounded into his mind, giving him a headache worse than Mr. Sicamore’s cigarette smoke.

After three hours in the room with Agent Sicamore, Agent Simms took Jeff from the interrogation room. Jeff was hacking and coughing and gasping for air all the way from the room and down the halls while escorted back to the tank. He glowered when they shoved him inside. But once he was in the human cage, he turned around and drew a deep breath, clenching his teeth and fists, still coughing.

He punched the metal bars.

The drunks jumped, startled from the noise. The guilty men in suits scooted farther from where Jeff was standing, and the men with tattoos clenched and unclenched their fists, getting ready to fight in self-defense if necessary. Jeff ignored them and barked out for the police to hear, “You still didn’t tell me what I’m in here for!”

Jeff was let out that afternoon. Whatever charges had been made, if there were any at all, were dropped. No one ever did say what he had been taken in for. He was only told that the FBI would be keeping a closer eye on him from then on. Jeff rolled his eyes at that, muttering, “What’s new?” 

When they police took him to the front of the station to set him free, Jeff saw that his Uncle Orren—accompanied by Zormna and her lawyer, Mr. Earnheart—was there at the front desk, bellowing up a storm for his release. His ‘uncle’s demands to know the price of bail as well as the charges made against his ‘nephew’ was like music. Apparently, no one had come to the house. The FBI were still only after him.

A frazzled-looking police captain kept referring to the FBI, calling it ‘their operation’, and claiming no legal liability for what was going on.

Zormna’s high-pitched banshee-like shrieks echoed in the halls also. Her protests on his behalf practically melted his heart. A year ago, that never would have happened. Her green eyes glanced over his way expectantly as if she felt him approaching. Her worried expression eased considerably when her gaze rested on him. She sprinted from his uncle’s side to him at once.

“Are you all right? They didn’t hurt you, did they?” She grabbed a hold of Jeff’s shirt sleeves, lifting at the cuffs and feeling him over to check for blood, bruises, or any other prime evidence of police brutality. She seemed almost eager for it. His heart beat a little faster. Her concern was kind of cute. Normally Zormna was aloof about him.

Jeff rolled his eyes and shook his head to show it was no big deal. “I might have lung cancer now, but otherwise I’m fine.”

She peered at him for a second, not comprehending his remark, but she did not have time to answer. Uncle Orren strode over and grabbed Jeff’s arm in a firm grip. “What have you done? Do you know why they took you here?”

Shaking his head, exchanging glances with his ‘uncle’, Jeff said, “They didn’t tell me a thing, and personally, I don’t want to stay here another minute. Can we go?”

His uncle nodded and pulled Jeff forward towards the doors.

Jeff lifted his cuffed wrists. “Can I go without these, please?”

Almost laughing, but catching himself, Uncle Orren turned his gaze on the police officer who had brought Jeff, waving his hands over the handcuffs for their removal. The cop nodded and sighed, taking out his keys.

 Zormna took one glance down that hall from Jeff and narrowed her eyes at the individuals standing there that were staring back at them, as if she knew they had been watching the entire time. She saw Agent Simms waiting with Agent Hayworth at a door where Agent Sicamore emerged. She pulled back and scowled at them both, clenching her teeth but saying nothing.

As soon as the handcuffs were off his wrists, Jeff tugged on Zormna’s arm, urging her towards the doors of the precinct. He hissed in her ear, “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

After that, he did not say a word, except to loudly complain about Agent Sicamore’s smoking problem, as they went down the steps of the Pennington Police Department then out into the cold parking lot where his uncle’s car was parked. Jeff kept up the act, griping all the way home until they stepped out of the car. Mr. Earnheart, Zormna’s lawyer, had followed them to their house at the edge of town, talking with Zormna the entire time. He was mostly giving her legal advice while nodding towards Jeff and his uncle. When he climbed out of his nice car, he continued to ask her, “Are you sure you don’t want to press charges? This can be put under police harassment.”

Zormna shook her head, halting on the front stoop of Jeff’s home. “Not this time. Perhaps the next time, if it happens again.”

Mr. Earnheart nodded. Yet he peered at Jeff with a distrusting air, which he hid poorly. “Well, you take care of yourself. Call me if you need me, and think about what I said.”

Her lawyer turned and walked down the steps back to his car, peeking back and shaking his head.

As Zormna came inside the house and closed the door, Uncle Orren walked right into the kitchen and filled a glass of water. He came back out and handed it to Jeff. Jeff took it gratefully, gulping it down. Watching him pensively, Zormna sat on the arm of the couch, folding her arms across her chest. Jeff finished off the tall glass and gasped again for air, falling into the couch, feeling too exhausted to talk. He wrinkled his nose and sniffed his sleeve.

“Scrapes, I’m never going to get rid of that smell.” He groaned, pulling off his jacket.

Uncle Orren took back the glass, cradling it in his hands while waiting. “What did he say?”

Watching with care, Zormna gazed at Jeff who was still sitting, disgusted at the reek that stuck to him and his hair.

Jeff looked up. “Sicamore? Nothing. That’s the problem.” He stood up. “He did, however, nearly accuse me of…” Jeff shuddered. “… of… of…” He shook out his jacket and closed his eyes. “He thought I was some sort of…” Jeff shook his head. “Something must have happened. Someone on their side must have gotten hurt, because that is the first time I have ever been nearly accused of murder.”

“Murder?” Zormna blinked to get that idea out of her mind. “But… you’re kidding, right?”

Thinking, Uncle Orren screwed up his mouth and nodded to himself. “Well, you did threaten his family two weeks ago.”

Jeff shook his head once more. “Not with killing anybody, just removal. There’s a difference.”

His elder smiled painfully. “They are more likely to think the worst of a threat, Jafarr.”

A lot seemed to be on Zormna’s mind as she remained silent, watching and thinking.

“They probably are just letting you know that you are still in a precarious position, regardless of your implied connections,” Uncle Orren surmised out loud.

Jeff shook his head again. “No.” He paused, pursing his lips. “No, this doesn’t feel like that. It feels like something already happened. The way Agent Simms growled at me…. The way Agent Sicamore actually fumed inside like he was on fire. Something is up.”

“What do you mean, something is up?” Zormna eyed him carefully, hearing him and what he did not say. “They’re up to something, or did something happen?”

He looked to her with a nod. “I think something happened. Something extremely wrong.” He placed his jacket on the couch as if it were wounded.

Yet Uncle Orren blinked with incredulity. He caught himself from laughing in surprise and set the empty glass down on the end table. “What do you mean?”

Jeff shrugged. “I think we need to call M.” He then sighed heavily. “I also think we need to get me a new cell phone. I believe the feds tampered with it when they took it away from me.” He lifted his small black burn phone from out of his pocket and handed it to his pretended uncle.

Uncle Orren nodded. “Call M. Use my phone.” He paused. “Actually, call his pager. I think they are watching for suspicious activity, and it would be better if he called us.”

Jeff nodded. He turned to Zormna with a faint smirk. “Ready to stay over for an all-nighter?”

Reading his intentions, as all-nighters had to be with surveillance in computer-hacking, one of Jeff’s expertise, Zormna shook her head. “Not this time. The McLennas will probably be in a hissy fit if I do not come home tonight. Ever since my birthday, they have just been vicious.”

His expression shifted. He stiffened as he quietly nodded to himself. But in front of Uncle Orren, he tried to erase any expression of concern from his face as he might overreact. The birthday party had been a ploy to convince the McLennas that Zormna wasn’t a threat—as they had changed the date. But apparently the McLennas had seen through it. He realized that they should have celebrated it months away rather than just barely weeks from the real date. Zormna was, after all, born on a prophesied day in a special month.

Not wanting to alert Jeff’s pretended uncle also, Zormna tried to smile, but it came out in painful cracks. She simply excused herself and went to the front door to go, taking a hold of the doorknob. To him, her behavior would be interpreted as cold and soldier-like.

Following her, drawing a hopeful breath, Jeff said as she twisted the doorknob, “You know that offer to move in with us still stands.”

Lurching to a halt, she turned back as a real, blushing smile erupted on her face. “No thanks. I do have my reputation to uphold.”

Jeff shrugged. He watched her go, standing in the doorway as she left his home.

And she did go. Out and down the street, back to the home she had been staying at since last spring. She was living with that local family. And though it had started off well enough, these days, she could not get through a day without an argument with the McLenna parents. They loathed her, but they were stuck with her. Their own original legal arrangements had backfired

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 02.09.2017
ISBN: 978-3-7554-7919-2

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