Escape: Omega Book 1 (Omega: Earth's Hero) (7 page)

“We’ve noticed distinct surges since yesterday afternoon, at approximately…” he seemed to be at a loss, glancing at his notes.

“Four fifteen, Dr. Stanhousen,” a young man in the entourage supplied.

“Yes, yes. At four fifteen, we noticed a small initial surge. At first, we considered it a systems malfunction, as it was only a slight fluctuation.”

“But something changed your mind?” Hendricks asked.

“Quite, general, quite. While we continued to monitor the project with the redundant systems, we took the main offline to calibrate and fine tune the monitoring hardware as well as take the opportunity to update code that had not been refreshed since our quarterly P.M.”

“P.M?” Hendricks asked.

“Yes, sir, Preventive maintenance. Every three months, we rotate through systems and perform needed reloads and corrections. We never leave the project unattended. With a backup of six systems, we’re able to perpetually attend to it as we go about maintaining the equipment.”

“We go through all that for something that has sat idle for years upon years?

Stanhousen looked perturbed at the question, but answered, “Yes, sir. That is our mission--to continually observe, record, and appraise the condition of the craft, no matter how large or how miniscule. To do that, we must be vigilant.”

Despite how tired he was, “Anvil” grinned. “Good answer, doctor, very good answer. Now, tell me what it was that made you decide your equipment hadn’t gone a little crazy.”

Stanhousen stopped then. They’d been walking a corridor with only minimal lighting. While Phantom Base had been constructed with at least a thought of comfort, this place, christened Hangar 99 in the late 1970s, had not. Still, the general was able to see the excitement on the scientist’s face. “General, let me tell you, without a doubt, we were thoroughly convinced by last night. Come, see for yourself.” 

Hangar 99, a little dugout in the desert, was similar to Adaven in that it was clandestine from the very beginning. Instead of being dug into the earth, however, it was cut into a mountain. Housed in an inconspicuous section of Arizona’s Black Mountains, Hangar 99 was as solidly built and defensible as anything Hendricks had ever seen. During the 70s, when extraterrestrial fever had gotten to an all-time high, the powers that be decided that the infamous Hangar 18 and its mysterious contents were lucky to have not yet been breached. To keep the secrets of the crash of ’47 hidden, work had begun on Hangar 99. Built quickly, and in total secrecy--yet another project hidden on the government’s black budget--the “boomer,” as the craft for some reason was called, was moved to this more secure location. In Anvil’s opinion, Hangar 18 at Wright-Patterson AFB just outside Dayton was one of the worst places to hide something like this. While it was sometimes best to keep something hidden right under the public’s nose, spacecraft weren’t something that he thought fell into that category.  

Since inception, the mission statement of Hangar 99 was simple: watch the little ship and see if anything happened. It was felt that all that could be learned from the technology had been and nothing more would ever come from it. NASA for all its expertise, its employees’ some of the brightest in the world, just couldn’t be tasked with overseeing this project, or the Omega Project that for matter. NASA was a public domain agency where it survived purely by being one of the most transparent agencies funded by Congress. Space exploration already walked around with a huge “Kick Me” sign on its back. No, better this remain a covert undertaking. The U.S. military and Exeter Labs were much better suited for the task of utter secrecy.    

Since inception, the mission statement of Hangar 99 was simple: watch the little ship and see if anything happened. It was felt that all that could be learned from the technology had been and nothing more would ever come from it.

Hendricks had seen it several times, and it made him uneasy each and every time. The first time he’d ever laid eyes on it, though, he reacted just like anyone else would have: he’d been awed. But the more he considered it, the more uncomfortable it made him.

Okay, there was life in outer space. That’s one questioned answered, but that only created more questions. Not the least of these was: Where were they from? Were they peaceful? Did they mean us harm? And when would they be back? 

The group of men stopped at a large steel door. “Gentlemen,” Stanhousen said to the three other scientists, “please excuse the general and me. We’ll need to speak privately.”  

There were unhappy murmurs, but Stanhousen was the superior to these men and his wish was honored. When they stepped away, Stanhousen said so only the general could hear, “Wait until you get a load of this.”

Stanhousen keyed the door and it whooshed open. Anvil’s tie did not feel loose enough anymore. He pulled at the knot a little more and stepped through, his eyes growing wide as he looked through the observation glass of the room that stood beyond. Forty feet down, in the actual hangar section of Hangar 99, sat the boomer. While it had lain still and silent for decades, it was certainly awake now.  

Hendricks cleared his throat, impressed and now more than a little uneasy. “I see what you mean, doctor.”

Stanhousen, completely out of character, slapped the general on the back. For the time being, Anvil decided to let it go. “Oh no, sir. You haven’t seen the half of it.”

Chapter 9

Fire. Explosions. Of glass. Of gunfire. Scorched flesh. A woman’s screams. The streets of New York City hundreds of feet below. He was falling. Falling faster and faster and faster yet.

Omega awoke with a start, screams dying as his eyes opened. Phantom screams, he realized. Tiny droplets of perspiration formed on his brow. He wiped them away with the back of his hand and sat up in bed. He breathed heavily. Dreams were something he never really considered. In the rare instances he had them, details faded quickly when he woke. Until lately, he had never had one terrifying enough to rouse him from sleep.

It wasn’t just today that bothered him. They’d started a little over two weeks ago. Until tonight, they’d been manageable. That no longer seemed to be the case.

He regretted the deaths, of course. He regretted the injuries to his brethren, not the least of all to his commander, Captain Black. Omega had the notion however, that something else was at play.

Bits and pieces of his previous dreams lit behind his eyes. Strange visions, almost like designs, etched in white light. Scratchy whisperings, ones he couldn’t quite discern, echoed inside his head. Each night, they progressively increased in both number and velocity, yet not clarity or volume. With the push of a button, the bedside lamp ignited.

Omega stood. There was no point in lying back down. There would be no sleep for a while tonight. His quarters were not large, yet he paced back and forth, forth and back. Dressed in an olive tee shirt and matching skivvies, he was neither hot nor cold. The sweat had dried and he breathed easier. Calmer, he took a seat at his desk.

He’d been told his memory was remarkable. He believed this to be true, but he possessed concerns about his ability to retain the remnants of his nocturnal visions. Placing the sharpened pencil lead to the rough surface of the paper, he began to sketch out the few details he could recall.

After a few moments, he had nothing but random lines, arbitrary curves, and growing frustration. Art history was a subject included in his generalized education. Nonetheless, he couldn’t place any significance in what he’d drafted.

It looked like the ramblings of a preschooler.

Abandoning the effort, Omega stood from the desk and shoved the chair forward in defeat. While he received the very best of combat training, firearm instruction, and survival testing, dealing with one’s own internal conundrums was something he had very little knowledge. What worried him even more so: he couldn’t begin to understand what was happening to him. For all his life, the lines had been clearly defined, the rules specifically outlined, and expectations perfectly communicated. Omega was left not knowing neither what was wrong with him nor in what manner to address it.

In a military base filled with people, Omega was completely and utterly alone.

Perhaps he could broach the subject with Dr. North. He banished the thought as quickly as it came. No matter how kind, how concerned she may appear to be, she was part of the organization, part of the chain. It was a structure that Omega usually respected and appreciated, but now found isolating and terrible.

Resigned, he paced once more for good measure, wadded up his sketch, tossed it into the trash bin, and lay back down on his bed. Switching the lamp off, he was again in darkness. He breathed in deeply, knowing that every move he’d made had been monitored and recorded. Tomorrow morning he may even have to answer why he’d felt the urge to wake, rise, and imitate, poorly, a sketch artist.

It didn’t matter all that much at the moment. He’d been through much worse.

Through his education at the hands of the United States military, Omega had learned much about everything, but everything about nothing. He understood all too well that despite his free will, he was subject to the whims of the war machine. An involuntary soldier, a fighter in battles chosen for him. A disposable hero. 

Omega closed his eyes and willed the visions and the voices to return. Before long, he was sleeping soundly and at peace, a peace that would not last.

Success.

The presence was pleased beyond telling. Finally the wall had been breached, the chasm scaled. The one called Omega had heard, if not understood. For now, hearing was enough. It was something to be built upon.

Contact, while long in coming, was as rewarding as the presence believed it would be. Language could be a barrier, but there were things beyond it, streams of consciousness that could not be ignored no matter in what tongue they were relayed.

Species were born with certain knowledge embedded in their atomic structure. This was a truth known throughout the universe. Simple, rudimentary, and basic, but there nonetheless.

The presence was more than able to transmit the entirety of its learning since the beginning, but such data would be overwhelming, even dangerous. The presence’s intent was to inform, to warn, not to harm.

Left to their own devices, the human savages were more than willing to cause injury for injury’s sake. That must not be allowed. Omega’s protection was now paramount to everything.

In the beginning, the council had prescribed secrecy among the races they visited. At least for those so far behind their supposed evolution.

The presence no longer cared about the wishes of the council. It was the same group of sentients that had left him marooned on this crude stone for far too long. It would crush them to dust given half the chance.

The warning, the presence hoped, had arrived timely.

Despite everything it had done and everything it could do, it was powerless to intervene. It would have to watch, and wait, and hope.

Those were things it had grown exceedingly tired of doing. Nonetheless, that’s exactly what had to be done.