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Source ISBN: 9780007100224

Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2016 ISBN: 9780007485413

Version: 2015-12-16

For Lisa and Dan

‘There are two secrets to the successful clandestine management of human affairs. One, never let on all you know.’

Becker, MJ13

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Epigraph

1. All Good Kings Must Come to an End

2. Foiled Again

3. Invasion

4. Revelations

5. ‘Mr Frosty’ is One of Them

6. Publication

7. Strange Harvest

8. Aurora Bored-Me-Senseless

9. If You Tolerate This Your CD Collection Will Be Next

10. Containment

11. Assault

12. The Jimmy Maxwell Show

13. Cabal

14. Mail

15. Rendezvous

16. Hypemeister Extraordinaire

17. Awakening

18. Briefing

19. Exposé

20. Rolling Along

21. It Came from the Desert

22. Treason

23. Deadly Toys

24. Documentation

25. Terminal Termination Blues

26. Indigestion

27. Semtex Boogie Woogie

28. Airborne

29. A Line in the Snow

30. Communications

31. Satan’s Little Helpers

32. Reception Committee

33. Reunions

34. Operation ‘Golden Yak’

35. On the Run

36. Grey Dawn

37. Studio

38. The Emperor’s Real Clothes

39. Evasions

40. ‘Golden Yak’ Goes In

41. Invitation

42. Your Days Are Numbered

43. Communion

44. The Awful Truth

45. Machu Picchu Revisited

46. Please Aim Here

47. East Grinstead A-Go-Go

48. High and Dry and Dead

49. Gatecrashers from Hell

50. Hangar 912

51. Frank Spills the Beans

52. Fly Me to the Moon

53. So Much Done to So Many, by Some Who Flew

54. Unhappy Landings

55. With Friends Like These

56. Initiation

57. Four Play

58. Penetration

59. Attackus Interruptus

60. Multiple Organisms

61. Blow Your Mind

62. Premature Detonation

63. Did the Earth Move?

64. On the Beach

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About the Author

By Matthew Thomas

About the Publisher

1. All Good Kings Must Come to an End

Present day, somewhere, South Pacific

Elvis knew his days were numbered.

Over the past few hectic weeks he’d noticed a number of disturbing trends – a sharp decline in his ongoing manifestation schedule and a steady increase in his already abundant food allowance. They’d upped the steroid dosage too; he was feeling younger than he had for years. Last Tuesday he’d caught himself gyrating his pelvis while pitch-forking a specially prepared ‘King’-sized sausage from the weekly beach barbie. He hadn’t even known he was doing it. Worse, he’d grabbed John Lennon’s guitar as he led the evening campfire singalong and told him to quit with that hippy shit and play somethin’ rockin’.

But the implications of what were behind these changes were less palatable that the triple cheese-burger with extra gherkins he’d polished off for breakfast. There was no escaping the conclusion that his time on The Island was coming to an end. He could tell by the way his strange guards watched him that the moment for one last final mission was at hand. And they wouldn’t be bothered about stepping on his blue suede shoes, not even ramming their steel toe-capped jack-boots down his throat for that matter – their dull dead dark eyes held no pity, and no understanding as far as he could tell. Elvis felt certain this would be a come-back tour without an encore. He wouldn’t be returning from this gig – a final deadly road-trip to end them all.

This knowledge stirred little emotion in his straining drug-drenched heart, apart perhaps from a sense of weary relief. There was only so much of The Island you could take without losing what was left of your sanity – and he’d lounged in this hellishly opulent five-star prison for the best part of thirty years. After the first decade the rejuvenation treatments and brain-washing began to take their toll. So a big part of him – which meant all of him, because all parts of him were big – would look forward to the onset of the warm smothering blackness he knew would accompany his final sortie.

He didn’t have to look forward for long. As the sun reached its zenith over the crystal-shimmering lagoon the King watched the black triangular craft, all sleek lines and eye-watering inhuman curves, skim towards him with unnatural speed. It didn’t so much glide over the waves as bully them into submission – splicing the whining air-molecules with a low-pitched electromagnetic hum. Then he saw others approach suddenly, right across the horizon, winking out of nothingness. He had seen many different types of such runabouts in his time – ridden in quite a few on his short bewildering trips back to civilization – but he’d never seen such a density of air-traffic as currently hovered over their lush tropical atoll. They were all there; the usual triangles and glowing orbs, plus the ones disguised to look like clouds – even some of the old steam-powered saucers that were crashed on purpose to mislead those Air Force suckers.

Leading the formation was the black triangle. It had his name on it, he knew. He felt it in his waters. And his waters, though frequent, were never wrong. He was as certain of this fact as he was that Jimmy and Janice should stay off the nose candy – those kids could play when they put their half-fried minds to it. But there was no time for idle speculation. Slowly, the craft set down at the edge of the shallow lapping waves and a black gangway glided across the water and onto the sand.

He barely had time to finish his drink. As was customary, few of the other inmates who were scattered along the stretch of bone-white sand paid much attention to the diminutive pilots. You kept your profile low as a limbo dancer while these guys were around. Twenty yards away a wider-than-he-was-tall former media mogul lolled on a double deckchair reading a newspaper, occasionally shaking his head with knowing contempt and letting out a subterranean chuckle – standards had obviously dropped since he’d taken his involuntary swan-dive off his yacht. But as the craft’s pilots marched past he buried his sunburnt face in his paper, seemingly enthralled with the small print. If only his former employees had done the same with their pension schemes.

All too soon the newcomers halted at Elvis’s spot in the sand and reached out their spindly three-fingered hands. The King didn’t wait for them to resort to the lethal force he knew they had at their disposal. With weary resignation he shoe-horned his enormous frame from his badly warped sun-lounger and stooped to kiss his quietly sobbing companion goodbye.

Norma might have seen better days, but her eyes still held some of their innocent, sultry charm. And now they were filling with tears. Elvis was touched. Involuntarily, his top lip curled back, and his beefy loins set off on a frightening frequency all their own.

‘Aha-haau. Don’t cry little chickadee. Say goodbye to mah rebel Jim for me. And tell the Princess I’ll save the last song for her.’

There was no time for more elaborate goodbyes, not even regrets that he’d turned down Norma’s last offer to ‘love him tender’ – at their age no amount of lubrication could prevent it becoming an all-too painful literal truth. She’d get over him just like she’d got over all the others.

Sadly, Elvis turned to follow his dead-eyed captors towards the craft.

At least he’d be free of the evil Warden who oversaw their stretch. If he closed his watery eyes he could see her contemptuous sneer – so different from that of the sweet innocent she’d been switched for in public life. It was a supreme irony that he trudged past the demure original right now, as she sat in her swimsuit thumbing through a copy of Horse and Hounds, blissfully unaware of the depraved machinations of the genetically modified doppelganger who had usurped her throne.

Just how the inhabitants of The Island fitted into the Warden’s schemes Elvis could only guess at, but it was unlikely they were going to be used for anything as mundane as entertaining the troops. Very little of what he did know made sense, but then he’d long suspected that was part of the plan.

The King was just glad he wouldn’t be around to see it happen. He only wished he could say the same for the rest of the poor deceived human race.

2. Foiled Again

Present day, central Nevada, USA

The unmarked military trucks raced through the starry night as if chased by all the demons of Hell. Huge off-road tyres churned the dusty trackway into a hurricane of debris as they tore through tumbleweed and over the mummified remains of ancient cacti. But on this crisp desert evening these trucks weren’t the quarry in some devilish game of cat and mouse – they were the hunters. In fact, if their trackers were correct, their prey lay smouldering just over the next rise.

In the back of the lead vehicle Captain Cyrus Freemantle, US Special Forces, briefed his elite team of Air Force Black Berets. ‘OK men, I want a nice clean dispersal, just like we practised. This is not a drill. We have ourselves a Case Red situation so trespassers will not be prosecuted – if you do your jobs they won’t live long enough to get to a court of law. Do I make myself clear?’

The curt nods from his squad told him all he needed to know. These men were hand-picked veterans, fanatically loyal to him personally; the sort who would, if it were in the country’s interest, gladly shoot their grandmothers – and enjoy it.

As one they removed safety catches from their machine pistols and lowered NBC warfare gas-masks – not strictly necessary but they scared the shit out of your enemy.

With a screech of brakes the trucks skidded to a halt atop the first ridgeline. Freemantle lifted the canvas awning and focused his image-intensifying goggles on the dried streambed beneath. The gully was clearly visible as a dark slash across his green, phosphorescent field of view. Within seconds, he’d located the target: a beacon of white heat amidst the encroaching darkness.

He tutted to himself. ‘For super-intelligent beings they seem real fond of crashing.’

With a resigned shake of his head, Freemantle refocused his night scope. Against all the odds, one of the little bug-eyed incompetents had survived the carnage. It had clambered out of the wreckage and was now jerking around like some inbred at a hoe-down. In doing so it was in no way aided by the large satchel it cradled in its fragile arms. The trail of faintly glowing green blood it left as it stumbled from cactus to cactus hinted that perhaps all was not as it should be. The creature might not have been as dead as its hapless co-pilots but it was pretty close.

‘Looks like we’ve got ourselves a live one, people. Move!’ But before Freemantle could turn back to his men he felt the blood freeze in his veins. Something else was moving in the valley, and moving fast. Instantly, the scope homed in on the intruder.

There was no denying he was human, a realization which for a fraction of a second made Freemantle panic. Then, almost instantaneously, professionalism kicked in and he started shouting again.

‘WE HAVE A HOSTILE WITHIN THE PERIMETER! Terminate with extreeeeeme prejudice! I want this bastard rattling like maracas when we slap him on the slab. Where the hell are the choppers? Johnson, get me Control on comms – now!’

As his troops sprang into action, Freemantle stayed glued to the viewfinder. Down in the gully some hippie freeloader was attempting to piss on the Captain’s parade, and Freemantle intended to pre-emptively yank shut his zipper.

But for now he had to content himself with watching proceedings as if on some sickly green video game. If their uninvited guest was allowed to escape, Freemantle was under no illusions as to the reality of the consequences. Tantalizingly beyond his reach the contest unfolded at breath-taking speed.

Adroitly, the troopers raced to take firing positions, as a hundred yards away the newcomer continued his headlong charge towards the UFO. Showing an unnerving talent for tactical movement he made full use of every twig of available cover, as if it were second nature to him. Finally, his way clear, he hurdled a line of low scrub and threw himself at their target. Freemantle’s gritty jawline hung open as he watched the stranger tackle the alien with the full weight of one wiry shoulder. No sooner had they gone down, they were off again, the survivor hefted upright in a fireman’s lift.

Momentarily, the kidnapper regained his breath; his hot face standing out clearly against the cool desert landscape. It was now that Freemantle got his second nasty shock of the evening – with a startled gasp the Captain recognized him.

The intruder seemed to pause for a second, spotting something else on the ground for the first time. Bending at the knee he lifted the large satchel the creature had been carrying and was off again, running a jinking course as the first bullets impacted around him. Diving for the dried streambed, he disappeared from view as a hail of fire flew over him.

‘Cut him off. He’s getting away!’ But by this stage it was far too late. In the confused darkness his troops set about riddling anything that moved with bullets. As most of the moving was being done by a platoon of overdrilled psychopaths attempting not to get shot, the results were depressingly familiar.

One by one empty magazines slipped from lifeless fingers until only a few of his men were left standing. Calmly, the communications technician informed Freemantle that air support was on its way, and that his boss was riding in the lead chopper. Silently, Freemantle reflected that today was turning into a very bad. They all started off as a less than satisfactory, because that’s how life went. You don’t expect miracles, you’re not disappointed when they unmiraculously fail to turn up. Occasionally, a day would rise to the dizzying heights of an OK, but don’t get too excited. Usually they stayed stable, and that’s how Cyrus liked it. But today was a very bad and heading for an I’m not going to talk about it which was worst of all.

‘What’s going on?’ came the Colonel’s gruff voice from the radio. ‘Thought we heard shooting. Hope you ain’t using coyotes for target practice again.’

Freemantle took a deep breath. ‘Sir, we have a security breach at the incident site. Request an immediate thermal scan of the terrain beyond our position. Whoever’s out there won’t get far.’

When it came, the Colonel’s reply was full of suppressed menace. ‘Better not, son, for your sake. We’ll get the infra-red scope on the sucker in no time flat.’

As Freemantle silently crossed all of his available fingers and toes, the helicopters thundered overhead.

Half a mile down-range the kidnapper halted. He had no time to reflect on his monumental good fortune. As he’d discovered in the jungles of South East Asia and the deserts of the Persian Gulf, you made your own luck in this business. The best way to manufacture such a slippery commodity was through lavish amounts of patience, meticulous planning and armaments. With regard to the first of those virtues he’d spent months awaiting an opportunity like this – camped out in this alternately scorching and freezing desert, with nothing but his binoculars and service rucksack for company as he scanned the vast empty skies. With regard to the second, he quickly dropped his unnatural load and peeled off his rucksack. Stuffed just inside the camouflaged canvas sack was twenty metres of catering grade aluminium Bacofoil. Working quickly, he swathed the semiconscious alien in the stuff. With regard to the third, well, he was fond of explosives and would use them if necessary. But for the moment he contented himself with a swift kick to the alien’s head, saying: ‘How’s this for a turnaround, you sneaky grey bastard? One of us abducting one of you for a change?’

Then he hastily stuffed the creature under a nearby thorn-bush and turned his attention to his own survival. Now came the tricky part. In practice he’d got it down to thirty seconds flat, but whether it was the excitement of doing it for real, or the thought of his former colleagues bearing down on him like a pack of hounds, he now managed it in half that time.

Soon the desert’s diverse fauna had a new addition: a six-foot silver caterpillar wriggling its way under a convenient tangle of tumbleweed. Until the first wave had passed him by all he could do was wait, lying perfectly still, his ears straining to count the number of rotor blades they’d sent to find him.

Twenty minutes later, aboard the unmarked Black-Ops helicopter gunship that hovered overhead like some diabolical nocturnal insect, Freemantle’s superior was in a state one step beyond apoplexy and immediately adjacent to an embolism. After failing to find so much as a hot-dog over the sort of distance even the fastest man could cover on foot, he had proceeded to administer to Captain Freemantle the sort of ear-bashing normally reserved for British heavyweight boxers.

As he listened, crippled by embarrassment and shame, Freemantle silently made himself a solemn oath. It was the sort of oath best made in deserted crypts at midnight, with candles made from boiled-down choir-boys and pentagrams of virgins’ blood daubed on the floor in case of misfire. He knew exactly who had got him into this career-threatening mess, he knew just how the renegade’s burnt-out fried egg of a brain worked, and as far as he was concerned this knowledge gave him a crucial edge. As the Colonel ranted on, Freemantle began to marinade in the vitriol of his planned revenge.

‘You’re gonna have to answer to some very influential people over this, Freemantle, do you hear me? Very influential. When it gets out you’ve mislaid a visitor, security agencies you ain’t even heard of are gonna be queuing up to mince your manhood! Freemantle, you there? … Freemaaaaantle!’

But the Captain had already embarked on a personal blitzkrieg all his own. Brandishing his combat knife, he went charging off into the gloom shrieking like a banshee with toothache.

A hundred metres to his rear, weighed down by a cargo never meant to walk this Earth, and discarding tinfoil like a born-again Christmas turkey, Frank was too busy running for his life in the opposite direction to care.

3. Invasion

Present day, somewhere far above North America

The vast alien mother ship slid silently through the interstellar void. Round about it the de rigueur invincible space armada jostled for position as it plunged towards the small defenceless disc of Earth.

Or perhaps not. From behind an insignificant, and conveniently placed, asteroid a handful of single-seat fighters swooped to the rescue. Crewed by pilots representing the full ethnic and sexual diversity of their home planet, this brave band of warriors charged to almost certain death. Sportingly, the aliens held back the myriad of wonder-weapons their ancient civilization was no doubt able to deploy, instead launching swarms of their own tiny fighters. These craft, bearing an uncanny resemblance to various Earth insects, were piloted by the most clumsy and ham-tentacled of their species. Those that made it out of the vast hangar doors without crashing engaged the Earthlings in a swarming battle of instant death. Even so, due to the sheer numbers of alien craft, the humans faced an uphill struggle. Today was no day to be without their hotshot ace pilot.

Aboard the alien Emperor’s personal star-barge Captain Troy Meteor, Hero of the Earth Defence Force and Olympic Low-G Fencing Champion, stood tied to an over-endowed and scantily clad cheerleader. It had been a tough break getting captured the way he had. Odds of 9000–1 were not usually a problem, but then Troy knew all about tough breaks, just like he knew all about ‘War is hell’, Officer’s Club banter and YMCA gymnasium showers.

The alien commander squatted in a vat of bubbling indigo goo atop an unholy dais. ‘So you see, our plans are quite simple,’ it croaked like a multi-hued perversion of a tobacco company’s research-lab beagle. ‘Even though our two races developed light-years apart, changes in the radiation signature of our sun mean we can obtain sustenance from one source and one source only.’

‘But why are you telling me all this?’ muttered Meteor darkly, trying hard to make it look like he was attempting to free his hands, but all the while touching-up the cheerleader’s bottom. ‘If I escape I’ll know every detail of your conniving scheme.’

Bringing forth his ceremonial gorging straw the Emperor cackled. ‘It matters not, my simian-based friend, for very soon, via your nasal cavity, I shall have sucked out what passes for your brain!’

Half way down aisle C, Dave yanked the lightweight plastic headphones from his aching ears and shook his head in stupefied disbelief. How was his fledgling science ever to be taken seriously when they continued to churn out this Troy Meteor shit? It was enough to make him weep. Beckoning a glassy-eyed stewardess, Dave ordered himself a stiff drink and made yet another effort to read the in-flight magazine.

But it was no use. The text that made up the thirty pages of glossy advertising copy was completely unreadable for anyone with a mental age higher than their shoe size. The words seemed to slip under Dave’s conscious brain only to be sucked into the subconscious box marked forget forever. With a weary sigh, he settled back in his economy seat and did what he always did at times like this. He thought of Kate.

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