The Aliens of Valtrit

I thank my wife, Sheryl, an English teacher, for making suggestions, correcting my grammar, and supporting me while I was writing, rewriting, and editing The Aliens of Valtrit.

Members of the Sci-Fi/Fantasy Critique Group of the California Writers' Club Tri-Valley Chapter helped me immensely, providing ideas to improve my book's story and how I told it. This group includes Patricia Boyle (now president of the chapter); Gary Kumfert; Shelley Riley (author of Casual Lies -- A Triple Crown Adventure and For Want of a Horse -- A Short Story Collection); Eloise Hamann (author of Inhabited); and Kris Rogers.

Beta readers who read my near-final manuscript include Lani Longshore (co-author with Ann Anastasio of the novel When Chenille is not Enough and leader of the chapter's Beta Readers Group); Roger Curtis; John Cahill; Eloise Hamann; Kris Rogers; Anita Haraughty; and Mike Mewhinney.

Lani Longshore provided me with a very detailed list of suggestions, which improved my novel quite a bit.

Roger Curtis, of Bristol, England, helped me to depict England properly and made suggestions to refine the dialogue of the British characters.

John Cahill made a very helpful suggestion to combine the UK's MI5 and MI6 to MI7.

Eloise Hamann made numerous, very helpful recommendations, as did Kris Rogers, who provided excellent suggestions. Anita Haraughty encouraged me and gave me ideas, as I wrote the book, chapter by chapter.

Mike Mewhinney located typographical and grammatical errors and also proposed many ways to tighten up my story and bring my characters into focus.

I am very grateful to all of the people who helped me. I hope I haven't omitted anyone. Of course, any errors are mine and mine alone. I hope my readers will enjoy this book.

Chapter 1 - The Oath of Secrecy

I, the yellow, thick Smog, drift through the city, ready to infiltrate another victim. Like a snake, I slither into the lungs of thousands -- no millions -- of victims. I am strong, powerful.

I am born of them, the furless primates who dominate this planet. For they made this world dry and hot by the burning of dark carbon to turn generators to make synthetic lightning -- and by the combustion of thick, black goop to power their horseless carriages and wagons.

I, the Smog, don't know the name of each and every complex chemical from which I'm made. Perhaps some of them are substances the hairless primates use to kill insects, and maybe others keep their homes from burning. Yet others enable electric vision screens to work. Bits of me come from artificial foods, too, and from plastic jugs, and other primate-made stuff.

I am confident that I can kill even the lowly animals and plants, not just the hairless primates.

These primates are so smart that they will be the root of their own destruction. They cannot avoid me for I am everywhere, and after I creep -- serpent-like -- into their lungs, I travel through their stream of red fluid and go everywhere inside them. I embed myself in the fat of the females' breasts and throughout their bodies, triggering them to mature too quickly. I cause their cells to divide too fast, out of control. Cancer strikes them. They die. I laugh. I am tough. I am the Smog of this planet, Valtrit.

* * *

His floor to ceiling windows looked out on downtown Center City's multistory buildings, which were partially obscured by thick, yellowish smog. His intercom buzzed, interrupting his reverie.

Savadge leaned toward the device and spoke into its brown, mesh speaker-microphone in his guttural native tongue. Yes, Eleanor?

Your daughter's here, and the witnesses are waiting.

Send her in alone. Savadge wore a black silk suit with a red tie and had a full beard with a waxed mustache.

As his hauntingly attractive twenty-two-year-old daughter entered his office, he said, Sit, Moira.

Ever since his wife's death from lung cancer seventeen years earlier, Savadge had struggled to raise his daughter. He often thought of Ella, his deceased wife. He had fallen deeply in love with her, and even now he couldn't get her out of his mind. He'd met many beautiful, witty women in the last fifteen years, but they were just sexy playthings. No one could replace Ella. He could never love another.

Savadge had hired a series of governesses to help raise Moira. But as hard as he tried, he could not get his daughter to connect with him. He had become more and more caustic and sad following Ella's death.

Moira felt his eyes as he stared at her. She sat stiffly in the fancy straight back chair next to his inlaid wood desk, where she always took a seat when he requested her presence. Her shiny black hair, a younger version of his, was haloed by window light.

Are you prepared to take the oath?

Moira's throat tightened, and she gulped. Yes, Father. She shifted in her wooden and leather chair. She just wanted to be done with it, leave the office to breathe easier, and be carefree away from the drudgery of working in the bank. She didn't really want to take over the family business, even though she was the only child and heiress to the planet-wide enterprise.

But one thing was certain, Moira thought. When she was finally in control, she would make drastic changes to give the populace of the planet economic freedom and democracy, just like her Debtor Rebel boyfriend, Joe Wainwright, always preached.

You may wonder why I've called you in separately before the ceremony, Savadge said.

Moira blinked, and her brain snapped from her inner thoughts back to reality.

Savadge took a sip of red wine, and set his long-stemmed crystal glass on the desk. Now that you've come of age, you need to prepare for your future role. You will be the first female to head this 200-year-old bank and control its resources.

Moira smoothed her hair.

Though the responsibilities may seem daunting, you'll be at ease with them by the time you take the reins, Savadge said. I want you to carry on with our traditions and methods of operation. So, I've decided to meet with you for an hour or so every other day to go over the finer points of running a global corporation. You must learn how this business really works.

Yes, Father.

You've taken accounting, banking, etc. at University and passed with outstanding marks. I'm proud of you for that. But there's more to this business.

Moira tried to hide her uneasiness, straightening her back and biting her lip.

What I'm going to tell you in this lesson are secrets that only a few people and I know about banking and government. You must not tell anybody about our true methods of operation. He tilted his head and stared at her.

Of course not, she said in almost a whisper, trying as she might to speak louder.

You may think the ceremony is ridiculous. Savadge tapped his fingers on his desktop repeatedly. He stared at his only child, who sat in front of him in one of her best dresses, obviously nervous. To be honest, I thought the ceremony was ludicrous before I took the oath thirty-five years ago.

Moira looked up from her manicured nails and breathed easier.

Savadge took a deep breath. I'm going to tell you a family secret to explain the ceremony's background. My Great-great-grandfather Emil Savadge was a highwayman. That was what people two hundred years ago called a highway robber.

Moira felt her eyes open wide, even though she fought to remain calm.

That's how our ancestors got the funds to start this bank, Savadge said. Emil Savadge not only robbed people, but he killed some of them.

Moira entwined her hands and set them on her lap.

The elder Savadge was silent for a moment, as if he were searching for words or a justification for how the bank had begun. The original, old money has grown immensely, because the bank made wise investments and made loans to legitimate businesses.

Moira forced herself to smile.

Speaking of loans, Moira, there's one important concept called fractional reserve that I'm sure they taught you in school. We loan out about twenty times more money than we keep in reserve in the bank. Originally, we printed paper notes that we used to lend to businesses and individuals. Now, we create money with a few computer key strokes each time we make a loan. People must pay us back with interest. Thirty-year house mortgages yield about four times the value of the original loan. My great-great-grandfather found that coining, printing, and loaning money was much more profitable than highway robbery and far safer to boot.

Moira nodded.

He required that his gang's members swear to the gods to safeguard the bank's secrets. The penalty for breaking the oath was death. It still is.

Moira shuddered and tried not to gasp.

Savadge opened a drawer, took out a large leather-bound volume with brittle pages, and dropped it with a thud on the desktop near Moira. Small particles of fragile, brown paper floated to the floor. This is the actual copy of The Book that my great-great-grandfather first used to give the oath of allegiance.

Moira moistened her lips with her tongue. She thought about her boyfriend, Joe Wainwright, and how she had given him and the Debtor demonstrators lots of money from her trust. She wasn't sure how to extricate herself from being a member of the tiny elite class. She could never tell her father why she had chosen a lowly Debtor class man as her friend and, yes, her lover.

She would just have to wait. Someday, she could change things, even if it were to take years before she would be in total control of the most powerful, and only legitimate, bank on the planet.

Savadge gazed at her liquid eyes. Are you ready?

Yes.

Savadge punched his intercom button. Eleanor, send in the witnesses.

The tall, varnished, office oak door creaked open. Moira saw her father's vice president, clean-shaven Bret Kole, enter the office first. He wore a blue silk suit; a stiff, starched white shirt; and a crimson tie. His eyes glistened, as he sent a friendly glance to her. Ever since she had begun to work as a bank teller, he had helped her, and taught her a lot.

Next, gray-haired Eleanor entered, her face set in a granite-like frown. She looked like she always appeared, stern.

Finally, Moira recognized Dr. Jacob Luken, her father's chief of advanced technology. He was also the director of the Bank of Valtrit's secret research center located in an old industrial park in the suburbs near an underground train stop. She thought that he looked like an overgrown mole, his pale skin outlining large, dull-blue eyes covered by bottle-thick eyeglass lenses in a cheap, tarnished wire frame.

Savadge stood and moved to the front of his desk. He scrutinized Moira. With his hand he motioned for her to stand next to him. Welcome, board members. Today, we'll administer the Bank Oath to Moira Savadge, who reached legal age two days ago. I've explained to her the reasons for the oath.

He turned to his daughter. Moira, after you swear allegiance to the bank, you'll become a junior, nonvoting member of the nine-member board. Later, you'll be awarded voting status. Place your left hand on The Book.

Moira felt her pulse again accelerate, and she gently set her hand on the worn, light-brown leather cover.

Her father cleared his throat. Repeat after me. I, Moira Savadge, do swear on our most holy of holy books that I will keep secret all of the bank's confidential information, or death do smite me.

Moira's throat quivered as she repeated the oath. She felt like she was having an out-of-body experience when she heard herself repeat, Or death do smite me. She wondered if the ritual was happening, or if her imagination had gone wild.

Her father abruptly interrupted her trance when he said, Thank you, board members, for serving as witnesses to this ceremony. Please treat Moira with respect. Someday, she will be your chief, the gods be willing.

Savadge caught Eleanor's attention. Inform the other board members about the ceremony, Eleanor.

Naturally, Mr. Savadge, she said. She closed the office door as she and the other two witnesses departed.

Savadge nodded and smiled at his daughter. Now that we're alone, you can complete your first lesson with me. Sit.

Moira exhaled and took a deep breath, trying to relax.

I want you to forget a big portion of what your professors taught you about business cycles, recessions, government, the populace, and their roles in causing havoc in the planet's economic system, Savadge said.

What do you mean?

The complex theories that economists promote are balderdash. Their concepts are a delightful fiction that we, the keepers of the money, encourage to confuse everyone but members of our inner circle. What's happening is simple. We bankers create money out of thin air and lend it to individuals, businesses, and governments. They pay this new money back to us with interest. These people are our slaves, and they don't even know it.

But, Father, don't we enable people to buy homes, start businesses, and spur on the planet's economy? Moira wanted to reinforce the fantasy she portrayed to her father that she didn't know what was really happening, that the vast majority of the people were under the jackboot of the bank.

Yes, we do spur on the economy, my dear. But in reality most of the population works for us, as do the politicians and government officials we pay off to keep the masses under control. If we didn't pull society's strings behind the scenes, chaos would result. Our role is to rule by creating and controlling money. But recently malcontents have been stirring up trouble, and we have information that they're preparing to stage demonstrations.

I've heard a few rumors, Father. I've seen some Debtor protests with people carrying signs. She hoped her father wasn't aware that a few times she had even marched with the protesters.

We've tried to keep news of the marches quiet, but it hasn't worked. Savadge stared out of the window into the dirty fog and scratched his mustache. A couple of days ago our security team caught a dozen of the dissidents. I'm glad you've stopped seeing that young man who we learned had ties to the malcontents.

Moira studied her hands and rubbed her knuckles. Yes, sir. She had a sneaking suspicion that her father knew she had lied and that she continued to secretly see Joe Wainwright.

Savadge reflected for a moment, and then met his daughter's eyes, which now focused on him. In time I'll give you details about our efforts to cool down the Debtors before they cause real trouble.

Moira shifted in her chair. Its wooden joints creaked. This is so different from the way I pictured it, she said, realizing what Wainwright had said was true. The bank had disrupted the planet's commerce and enslaved the populace by trapping them into a death spiral of never-ending debts.

The intercom buzzed. Savadge pushed its square talk button and said, Yes, Eleanor.

I know you prefer not to be interrupted, sir, but Mr. Kole insists he has to speak with you urgently.

Send him in. Savadge slapped the desktop lightly with his palm.

Kole opened the door and was careful to shut it quietly. Sir, I have something confidential. Could Moira return to her post for a few minutes?

No, Bret. She's on the board now. Savadge fixed his eyes on Kole and didn't blink.

Kole took a step toward Savadge and said, Sir, may I have a brief word with you outside, first?

Wait, Moira, Savadge said, his eyes flickering.

Moira glanced at the carpet.

The two men left the inner office, walked past Eleanor's desk and into the thickly carpeted hallway. Kole leaned next to Savadge's ear and whispered, Our informant inside the rebel group said the Debtors are ready to attack five banks.

I thought that kidnapping a dozen ringleaders would dissuade those scumbags.

It just made them mad as hell, Kole said.

Who took over their leadership?

Our man inside learned that a carpenter called George Oak is their new chief. He's among those who are printing their own scrip money. After we took the dirty dozen, the Debtors elected him.

Kill the bastard, and execute the twelve radicals. I want to see them dead as soon as possible.

We still have to find Oak and his printing presses, Kole said. Word is that the rebels will hide in the caves after they bomb the banks.

Does he have family?

A wife, Sonja, and a small son.

You know what to do, Savadge said.

Take them?

Yeah. He'll cooperate, if he wants them to stay alive, Savadge said.

The Grab Squad will do it.

This could delay our plans to establish the monarchy, Savadge said. Catch that son of a bitch, Oak, and make an example of him. We can portray him as a terrorist and pump up publicity about parliament mucking up the economy. It'll help when the Action Party puts the Monarchy Initiative on the ballot.

Don't worry. In a year you'll be the sovereign, Kole said.

Moira needs to learn the role of princess, Savadge said, unable to hide his pride.

Too bad her education about how banks and global politics really work didn't start earlier, Kole said. But I have a feeling she knows more about what's actually going on than she shows.

Maybe, Savadge said, but she must still hear the truth directly from me, and soon. The Monarchy Initiative has progressed far faster than any of us foresaw. Next week I'll tell her about the new kingdom we will form, but I'll hold off on the Debtor agitation details. She needs time to digest all this new information.

Sir, will our civil unrest force you to delay taking over the Water Planet's banking system?

I don't see why we should postpone our plans. Our weapons are superior to theirs, and they are separated into hundreds of nations. I'm ninety-nine percent sure we can take over in a quiet way, unbeknownst to all but a few of Earth's bankers. The English banker will make it easy.

What did you promise him?

He'll be the High Lord of Earth and beholden to the royal family of Valtrit, Savadge said.

Chapter 2 - The Gravitron Camera

August 3, 2061, MI7 Headquarters, Vauxhall Cross, London -- Twenty-five-year-old Gina Perelli had not been impressed with the first version of the experimental espionage camera. Its gravitron tube had not revealed hidden fingerprints or trace chemicals on paper or anything else. But a flash of hope hit her, as she unpacked an improved model of the electronic camera. The device smelled vaguely like a new car, but different.

Gina plugged it in and aimed its lens at The Guardian's late edition that she had tacked to the corkboard on the wall.

She felt cooped up in her laboratory and wished she were out in the field again. She enjoyed nothing more than arresting a criminal or a spy. Depressed, she felt like she was missing a big part of life. She wanted to have children someday, and her biological clock was running. She had fallen in love with Tom Argus, her therapist, a big no-no. But he had fallen for her, too, an even bigger transgression. Although he was at least fifteen years older than she was, she still hoped he’d ask her to marry him. His wife had died not long ago.

With a sigh, she mounted the camera on a tripod and began to adjust the lens. "Maybe this camera will at least detect fingerprints," she mumbled to herself in a slight Italian accent, which she was working hard to eliminate.

The moment she began to manipulate the camera's controls, the room lights flashed brighter and then popped off, plunging the lab into inky darkness.

I'll check the breakers, said Jon West, his tenor voice cutting through the blackness like a knife. He was Gina's MI7 short-term boss, who was in charge of the Advanced Technology Division.

He turned on a small penlight, and his blond head flashed into Gina's view from out of the obscurity. Good thing I carry a torch on my key ring, he said.

West found the gray, metal fuse box on the wall, opened its creaky door, and snapped the tripped circuit breaker to the on position. The room lights came on, blinding Gina for a second.

Thank you, Jon.

My delight, West said.

Gina bent to peer through the eyepiece of the prototype camera that MI7's London Imaging Branch had developed. The picture's vanished, she whispered. She turned a knob on the camera to increase its power.

What the hell! Gina said louder than she had intended. She pushed a strand of her long, raven-black hair behind her ear.

What's the difficulty? West asked. He set his cup of hot, sweetened tea on Gina's desk and strode toward her, his loafers squeaking on the waxed floor.

Weird, she said. This thing's acting like a telescope that can look through walls!

What do you see?

People, she said. The picture's extremely clear. Remarkable! Take a look whilst I try to slow my heartbeat. She pulled her head up from the black rubber cushion surrounding the small viewfinder.

He leaned close to the perky Italian, made contact with her shoulder, and peered into the camera's optics.

You need not brace yourself on me, she said, jerking away. She realized she had overreacted, as he hadn't intended to intrude on her personal space.

Apologies, West said, absentmindedly, as he zoomed the lens to a close-up of two people.

Gina switched on the large wall-mounted monitor to display the camera's live view. What she saw -- a handsome, tall man and a gorgeous young lady -- grabbed her attention.

Gina wondered if this couple had any children. If I become a mother, she thought, I'd have to quit my job. I do some dangerous things sometimes. I wouldn’t want my children to grow up like I did without both parents.

West zoomed out to a wider picture. The man and woman stood talking on the top landing of a metal, multistory staircase that looked like an apartment building's fire escape. It led halfway up the side of a mammoth, saucer-shaped mass, which was at least four hundred yards across. This object was supported by eight curved, massive metal pillars similar in shape to the legs of a fancy coffee table. On top of the huge disk was a large, black, flattened dome. It looked like a round loaf of bread that had been spray-painted black. The dome's twin was attached to the underside of the disk.

West zoomed in again to view a tighter shot of the man and woman. Like the eaves of a roof, the disk's sharp edge overhung the platform where the couple stood. An oversized door was directly behind the pair.

Evenly spaced windows were on both the upper and lower half-globes. Gina decided the strange structure must be a modern, neo-futuristic building, perhaps made of steel. Had a student of Norman Robert Foster's architecture designed it to be somewhat like London City Hall or the British Library of Political and Economic Science?

On both sides of the gargantuan, ebony edifice was a smattering of green trees, thriving on an immense, lush lawn under a vivid, deep blue sky. West zoomed to a medium close-up of the stunning woman. Behind the young lady Gina saw an hourglass-shaped symbol painted in red on the black wall beside the door. She guessed the icon could be a company emblem.

The Sci-Tech Branch spent a huge sum on the camera upgrade, West said. He pulled away from the viewfinder. Astounding. He took another look through the optics. I think I've seen that woman's picture before. How in hell can the camera do this?

Perhaps the Sci-Tech Branch wanted to surprise us, Gina said. But I'll wager that the power surge did something weird to the camera.

If I could identify the unusual structure or this woman, that could help us to determine what site the camera is seeing, West said, again looking through the eyepiece. Sweat formed on his forehead. Are you recording video?

On memory cube.

Grab a still pic of the lady. Run it through facial recognition.

Straightaway, Gina said. She sat down at her computer and opened an imaging program. She froze a video frame that showed the woman, who had a soft, classical face. Her straight, shoulder-length hair was golden blond. Her red lipstick was out of style, at least in London. She wore a green miniskirt with a pink blouse and appeared to be in her late twenties. The computer began to flip through a dizzying number of pictures of females.

Did any of the other cameras give you a hint that later versions could do this?

No, said Gina. This one's looking through the walls, and we're seeing things that must be miles away. But with the old gravitron models I'd get very smeary images, and I'd see ghost-like forms.

The computer search halted abruptly. The screen displayed the woman's video frame next to a second picture of her. Her hazel-green eyes in the newly located image seemed alive, staring out into the lab. The screen caption read, Unknown female. Link 1: Stolen diamonds, Hamilton Bank, Bermuda. Link 2: Dr. William Wilson, US citizen.

This is getting more peculiar by the second, West said. Print a screen shot. I'll take it to the Terrorism Branch. The woman could be involved in money laundering and stolen diamonds.

West slipped the photo into a manila envelope. Do a search to look for more about Dr. Wilson, and see if you can find a match for the futuristic structure.

Gina's fingers tapped at her keyboard. I've already begun to look for a pic of the building. Looks like a flying saucer.

Better keep that to yourself, West said. This woman's snapshot and all documents related to this inquiry are top secret. I'm going to find Director General Lambeth to inform him about the camera.

As West rushed through the doorway, Gina thought of her partner, Colin Green. He could use the new camera dozens of ways for surveillance when he, too, was returned to field duty.

She tucked her flannel shirt into her jeans, sat in a gray office chair, and wished her temporary assignment in the MI7 Imaging Laboratory were over so she could redeploy into the field as an intelligence agent.

Maybe Lambeth would spring her free after he found out about the camera. She could track down the blond woman and her male companion and maybe take down a terrorist cell. Unlike a few years ago, she now felt empowered and not scared. Having learned how to fight -- using her hands, knives, firearms, and whatever else was around -- gave her extreme confidence.

Chapter 3 - A View of Hell

West led MI7 Director General Lambeth along a dark hallway in the basement of the intelligence-gathering agency's headquarters at Vauxhall Cross, London. The budget cuts that had resulted in the consolidation of MI5 and MI6 into MI7 showed in the sparse lighting in the corridor and the outdated cypher lock that secured the light green door.

This is the lab, Director, West said, as the two men lingered in the corridor.

It was a large cloakroom three years ago, Lambeth said. If the camera shows promise, I'll give you the better workroom you requested in the last budget proposal. But I caution you; I'm a jaded old son of a bitch, and I've heard a hundred claims like yours.

Lambeth was sixty-nine years old, slim except for a slight beer belly. The top of his head was bald, and he kept his remaining pure white hair clipped short.

I'm sure the camera will astound you, West said. A new workshop would hasten development of the device. He paused and added, For her ingenuity working on the gravitron, I think Gina deserves a perk.

I'll see what I can do, said Lambeth.

She's sharp as a stiletto, Director. I'll miss her when she leaves on Monday.

Jon, if you're hinting she should be permanently assigned to your area, I'm sorry. She's too valuable an asset in the field. We don't have many operatives who belong to Mensa and can speak five languages fluently with little or no accent. Lambeth didn't tell West that Gina also reminded him of his deceased daughter.

I hope you can give me a replacement as first-rate as she is, West said.

It's a top priority, Jon.

West turned toward the laboratory's nondescript entrance. Typing a code on a keypad, he unlocked the door. The men stepped into the semi-dark room.

Gina, West said, thanks for preparing the demonstration. He gestured toward the large monitor attached to the lab's wall.

It was no trouble, Jon, said Gina in her slight Italian accent. She straightened from her position over the gravitron camera. She sensed that both men were looking at her figure. She brushed her black hair aside. Be aware that I'm not sure what we're seeing and where we're looking at the moment, although I can pan and zoom the camera, as you can see, she said in a neutral, business-like tone. Also, I've learned that altering the camera's gravity-probe-power changes the view to a different site. The scene we're seeing now doesn't include the massive disk and stairway structure we first saw, or the woman with Dr. Wilson.

The picture showed a desert with sparse vegetation and small mounds of yellow-brown sand. Is the scene live? Lambeth asked.

Yes, she said. I'll change the power to look at a different place. She adjusted a small, knurled knob on the camera. A brilliant color image of a dozen