Sula777

By W. H. Beswick

They called themselves Baliians. They said they came in peace. They offered to help clean up our world and bring peace. You would think, considering our history, that we would have doubts. Maybe it was because they came from another world, we wanted to believe. Sadly it was all lies, but by the time we realized this, it was too late. They only made one mistake. She is named Sula777

• Language: English
• Publisher: W. H. Beswick
• Release date: Mar 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005102630

W. H. Beswick

Lives in Corvallis Oregon

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

THE FATE OF A WORLD

Security Chief Trulak studied the small mole on his slender wrist for the hundredth time and decided to go down to Sick Bay1. He flexed and twisted his long, thin fingers, thinking his skin color was now too pale. He needed to get out in the sun and regain his old golden tone. Trulak was tall for his kind; most barely broke five feet. The officer was a good inch past six feet. His frame was more muscular than most of his fellow shipmates. Most Blaiians were thin, but many had developed large bellies on the long voyage. Trulak gazed out the viewport and studied the blue planet below with its large bodies of water and lush landscapes.

A preliminary study revealed dozens of beaches; the same studies have shown significant pollution in all areas.

These fools are killing themselves and don't even realize it, Trulak thought, leaning back and imagining himself on a hot white sandy beach. The security chief's attention was pulled away from his imagined vacation to the beach by raised voices.

The system is not perfect because we are not perfect, so we can't create a perfect system. We will be sitting on a power keg2.

It was Loo again. He looked over at the tall female standing by her chair. She was wearing the traditional robes. Her long, silver-blue hair was pinned up into a loose bun. A few loose strands had fallen and dangled around her face, giving her a wild, sexy look. She wore silver framed glasses that she didn't need - feeble attempts to make the High Council3 take her more seriously.

The High Council sat in chairs on one side of a circular room. The chairs sat on a dozen tiers. There were twenty council members on the bottom tier. On the top tier was one chair. This was where Zon Frelong4 sat. The supreme ruler of the council, The Zon, ruled with an iron fist, and few dared oppose him. Like Trulak, he was a tall alien but not quite as muscular. His bluish hair was cut close to his head, except for the back, which fell to the middle of his back.

It was a waste of time. Like himself, almost everyone on the High Council had decided to proceed with the plan. Like him, the fifty council members wanted to get off the ships.

They had been in space for three years. They would be in space for another two if they continued their original flight plan. Trulak thought this ship and the twenty smaller ships had only a few years in them. It had been put together so fast to escape their dying world that it was already falling apart. He considered it their destiny to come to this planet. Their ship had broken down just behind its moon. The current debate is about how to deal with the Earth's inhabitants. Earth's original plan had been to ask the Earthlings for help in exchange for sharing some of their technology. The debate was about what technology they would share when Wolflake suggested an alternate plan. This changed not only the topic of the debates but also the tone. What had been a friendly professional discussion was now a heated difference of opinion.

Trulak had not entered the debate because he liked the plan very much. It was a dangerous plan, a bold plan. He liked the subtlety of it. They could not use force; they had brought few weapons. The ship only had one primary weapon, which had never been tested. No, it was time to get off this ship, and Wolflake had offered a way off. Trulak had noticed there was one empty chair on the High Council. It belongs to Toha Argus6 of the Zalu Clan7. He was not surprised since Toha and his fellow warriors hated this plan. It had no honor in it. They prefer to conquer the Earth with only fifty-thousand warriors. Of course, Trulak had no idea exactly how many weapons they had brought. This meant when the Zalu made their demands, and they would make demands, the High Council would have to agree to them.

I can see that I am wasting my words, Loo sighed, taking off her glasses dramatically. I oppose this plan, but I am of the Higher Clan. Whatever is decided here, I will support.

Clever, Trulak thought as he watched Loo slump down into her chair. Loo had given support for the plan but made sure if the plan failed, she would not be the one blamed. The security chief smiled, thinking he might go by her cabin and offer a shoulder to cry on, finally get her into bed. Loo was one of the few females he hadn't seduced. That was another reason to get off this ship. It turned out that some Earth women were quite beautiful.

All members will now vote on the Wolflack plan? Zon Frelong asked.

The members of the High Council carried two gems that, when raised, would shine like beacons. Green was a vote for, and red was a vote against. Trulak smiled when the room was bathed in a green light.

The fate of Earth has been decided just like that.

This translation is in question since we have so few records of the Clans and their actual names, so the writer has made a guess at the correct words.

1. The actual word

is Keeda Hra 

2. The actual Blaiin word is translated as squatting in a dangerous place: Mado tri de la a dunder baco. Close translation: Squatting on a dangerous place.

3. The actual term is PEAKA DONIS, literal translation of RULING SECT

4. Zon is the Blaiian word for Lord, or perhaps Chancellor.

5. The author is using Earth time measurements. Actual Blaiian breaks into a 36-hour day with over 75 smaller time divisions.

6. Toha translated means War Lord or Chief. Argus appears to be his last name.

7. The Zalu Clan were the warriors of Blaiian society. It should be noted that they are the only Blaiia who use the word clan. Their appearance is quite different. The Zalu had bluish-sliver skin and black hair.

CHAPTER 2

THE KILLER

––––––––

The habits always got the targets into the sights of the killer's weapon. Today, that weapon was an Mk13 Mod 7, the favored weapon of Marine snipers, equipped with a night vision scope, which the killer really didn't need. The killer could see the target clearly enough; even the tiny ducks on his tie were visible. The weapon was trained on the older man with white hair pacing around the penthouse of one the better hotels in Washington, DC. The target enjoyed staying in five-star hotels and always got the penthouse. That was one habit that helped the killer find him. His habit of pacing while he talked on the phone was another one. The target kept pacing, unaware the barrel of a rifle was trained on him through that big glass patio door.

The killer could adjust for this but waited. The sniper was wearing a black jumpsuit with a matching baseball cap. A white earplug's wire ran down to the radio clipped to the side of the suit. The killer was listening to the heated conversation between the target and the agency.

What do you mean you lost the asset? The asset didn’t arrive in Houston. So the target is still alive.

Yes, sir.

Then what the hell is going on?

The killer smiled as the target walked out onto the balcony and looked up at the stars. It was one of those rare nights in Washington when you could see them. The man suddenly froze and whirled around as if he realized what was happening.

Jesus, I am the target! Get over here!

Too late, the killer said and pulled the trigger. The killer watched the man's head explode and enjoyed the thrill of the kill. Even before the body had hit the floor, the killer was disassembling the rifle and putting it into its black case. Once the weapon was secure, the killer picked up the brass casing and trotted across the rooftop. The killer took the stairwell down to the tenth floor and then got into an elevator. The whole time, the killer was listening to the chatter over the radio. The target's people were racing to his rescue. When the elevator doors opened, the killer slowly walked across the lobby, and several people whispered and watched the killer walk out a side door. The killer slowly walked down the adjacent alley and paused inside a doorway. Three black SUVs with tinted windows roared into the parking lot and skidded to a stop. All the doors swung open, and men in black started to climb out. The killer smiled and pulled out a small remote, watching the men bring out their weapons, and pressed the button.

All three cars exploded into giant fireballs, engulfing all the men except for the one who was flung across the lot, landing at the killer's feet. He was a ten-year veteran of a Black Ops group very few people knew about, including the President. He felt several bones break and knew he was done, but his training kicked in. He rolled onto his back and fumbled for his backup piece. He used his other hand to wipe the blood from his eyes and saw the killer standing over him.

You fucking psycho, he spat, what the hell have you done? Psycho? I am not the one who targeted Allison Watson. She is a threat.

How is a sixteen-year-old cheerleader a threat to national security? the killer said, squatting down, amused that the dying man was still trying to get his Glock out. Our boss was using me to clean up someone else's mess. Maybe some congressman has been banging sweet Allison and decided she was a threat to him...not the nation.

What do you care? All the people you have killed, and you balk at this? The agent gasped as he managed to get the pistol out of his ankle holster.

I don’t kill kids, the assassin said, pulling a gold pen out and watching the Glock come up. At the last second, the killer smacked the weapon from his hand and thrust the pen right into the man’s heart. The look of surprise made the killer smile. The smile vanished when the man slumped back. The murderer pulled out the pen and used the agent’s tie to wipe off his own blood. The sound of distant sirens prompted the killer to take the agent’s Glock, stand up, and walk back into the hotel.

Very few people noticed the executioner walk back into the hotel; they were too busy watching the three burning wrecks. Just another guest slipping into the elevator without one head turning. The killer took the elevator to the third floor and walked to a room by the stairwell. An older man, staring out the window, whirled around when the killer stepped into the room. He didn't pull his weapon but glanced down at the briefcase on the bed. What the hell is going on?

I am changing jobs, the assassin said, grabbing the old man's hand and wrapping it around the Glock. The pistol was pressed under the man's chin. The trigger was pulled. The killer let the man fall with the weapon in his hand.

In less than two minutes, the killer stripped out of the black jumpsuit, pulled off the cap, and stopped by the mirror for a quick check for any traces of smoke or soot; the cap and jumpsuit were stuffed in a large suitcase and were out of the room, leaving the rifle case on the bed. The jumpsuit and cap were stuffed into a large bag. The killer took the elevator to the lobby; everyone watched the show outside. The killer walked out the front door this time and toward a black limo.

The limo driver was watching the fire trucks zoom into the alley. He noticed his ride and quickly opened the back door. "Your bags are in the trunk, and your plane is on time.

Do you want that bag in the trunk?"

Thank you, the killer said but stopped when the air was filled with a loud humming sound. The driver looked up and gasped. The killer was surprised but only raised an eyebrow. They both watched the skies, the driver in complete awe but the killer with cool interest, thinking, this can't be good.

CHAPTER 3

THE DELTA

––––––––

Walter Harrison sat up in a cold sweat. Once again, his sheets were soaked, yet he didn't move. His heart was pounding like a jackhammer. He had been back in the jungle again on a mission that had gone horribly wrong. His B-team was dead; his A-team would have been dead if not for the help from an unexpected source. He pushed the memories back down into a dark place.

Better forgotten.

The huge man rolled out of his king-sized bed and ran his hands over his bald head. He looked around the nicely furnished room, which was filled with pastel colors and fluffy pillows. Everything about it screamed, not him. The room definitely had a woman's touch. His wife had decorated the whole house. Walter didn't care what he slept on or the color of the walls. He was a man who had spent most of his life in the military, wearing and living in Army green. The last few years, it had been black because that was what Delta Force wore. It was his last time out with Delta that gave him nightmares and cold sweats. He didn't get them as much when his wife and boys were around, just when they were away. His family was back in Florida visiting the grandparents. He was supposed to go, but his wife's car had broken down, so he decided to stay behind and get it running. If he could get a broken-down Humvee running under fire, he could get a 1966 VW bug running. It had been her grandfather's and then her father's. Now, it was hers.

It turned out to be a simple fix: some new plugs, and it purred like a kitten. Well, it was not like a kitten, but it was running. It was time to accept the fact that his wife needed a new car—well, a newer one.

That was not a conversation he looked forward to.

Walt looked over at the clock and saw it was only four AM. He barely slept three hours. He was debating whether to try to go back to sleep or just jump into the bug and join his family down south. A bump downstairs made Walt jump up and cock his ear. His training kicked in, and there was another bump and hushed voices.

Invaders.

Walt crouched and crept to the doorway, listening and smelling. There were more whispers and the scent of body odor, cheap cologne, and cigarettes. The ex-soldier waited.

There were two...no, three.

Walt slipped out of the bedroom and climbed the staircase. The intruders were all in the front room. He knew they would eventually come upstairs. He could wait and take them up here, but they would trash the downstairs, and he would have to clean up the mess.

He never was one to wait.

The colossal man moved down the stairs, reaching the bottom step, and waited. He spotted two figures in the den, fumbling with his big screen. He listened; the third was in the kitchen, going through drawers, looking for the family silver.

As if he could afford real silver.

Walter moved on all fours to the back of the sofa and then drove around. He now had a clear view of the thieves. They were just kids, kids he knew. They were the punks who hung out in the park. It explained why they were here. They thought the house was empty.

There was no need to get the police involved. Just make the punks leave, and he could return to his nightmares.

I think you should leave, Walter said, standing up and taking a defensive stance.

The two kids whirled around. They couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Both wore black jeans and sweatshirts with the hoods pulled up. The two punks pulled out small knives and clicked them open.

Walt could smell their fear and could see the small blades were shaking. He turned his body to give him a better position. Boys, this doesn't have to happen. You came here for some easy money, but it's not happening. Now you ready to commit murder? Think about this: you are already screwed. You aren't wearing gloves.

We are not the ones screwed, old man, one snarled and lunged at the big vet, thrusting the knife as he did.

Walter acted reflexively, waiting until the knife was about to cut. He pivoted, grabbed the wrist, and snapped it. The kid screamed in agony, dropping the knife and cradling his arm. The second boy was moving in. Walter thrust his hand forward, slamming the palm of his hand into the kid's face. Walter cursed.

Too hard.

The kid dropped to the floor. Walt was afraid for a moment he had killed the punk, but the kid grabbed his nose and began to sob like a baby.

The kitchen door swung open. Walter smelled it before he saw it. GUN.

Walter dropped down as the third thief brought up a pistol and fired. He felt the bullets whiz by his head and heard a loud gasp of pain behind him but kept moving. He could see the shooter was trying to get a bead on him. Walter could now see the gun was a 44 Magnum and too big for the kid. He charged and slammed into the shooter with his whole body. They flew through the swinging kitchen door, landing on the white and red tiled floor. The punk brought the huge pistol up toward his head. It was cocked and ready. Walter had no choice. He grabbed the kid's head and snapped his neck. The kid and gun dropped to the floor.

Both harmless.

Walter pushed himself up and looked down at the stupid kid. He reached up and touched his neck. His fingertips came back bloody. It was just a scratch, but it still hurt.

Why did you bring a gun, fool? Walter said and moved back out into the den. He glanced down at the now-dead kid with the broken nose and then looked over at the third body. The magnum shell had gone through one kid and right into the other. Damn.

His second thought was being black. This could be a problem.

An hour later, Walter watched the cops pull up, and two uniformed officers climbed out. He raised his hands over his head with his fingers spread wide. I would think three dead bodies would merit a quicker response.

Not today, sir. It has been crazy all day; people are freaking out. Because of that thing in Washington?

Yeah. Everyone thinks it is the end of the world. Might not be a bad thing.

CHAPTER 4

THE DRIVER

––––––––

Penny Page sat behind the wheel of her white 2020 Ford. It was dull enough to blend in, just another working slob's car—that was just for show. The car could actually hit a hundred in three seconds. With the new tires and upgrades, it could turn on a dime without flipping. Penny had made all the modifications herself and test-drove it to make sure that it not only performed as expected but also knew who her master was.

Penny wore a white blouse, black jeans, and a leather jacket with the collar up. Oversized black sunglasses covered her eyes, just like the mask of a superhero... superheroine. She gripped the wheel with leather driving gloves, looking ahead but taking in everything around her, especially the bank. The driver turned to the bank when shots rang out.

This is going bad, Penny muttered, watching the streets for any signs of trouble - like cops. She had a bad feeling about this job from day one. Fat Eddie set it up, promising her big bucks. The moment she met her clients, Penny knew this was a bad idea. She should have backed out there but was thinking of the money. These guys were punks. Worse, they had a crazy look in their eyes. The same crazy look her old man had. He was locked away in a padded room somewhere upstate, just where he belonged.

Suddenly, the bank doors were shattered by bullets. Everyone on the street jumped back.

A woman screamed, and a baby cried.

Penny watched as her four employers charged out of the bank, lugging big blue plastic bags. The woman by the ATM screamed again. The gang leader laughed and used his Uzi to stop her screams.

That's it, Penny said, shifting gears and slamming the pedal down. The white Ford tore away from the curb, leaving her clients behind. She ducked down when bullets rocketed through the rear window. The young driver made a hard right to avoid another gun blast.

Keeping one hand on the wheel, Penny touched the phone attached to her ear. 911.

Yes, I want to report a bank robbery at Fifth and Ocean. The bad guys are armed and dangerous. I suggest you get there quickly; they just lost their ride.

Pardon me?

They are on foot, you dumb bitch! Come get them.

Penny clicked off and made another right. She slowed down and looked for a good spot. A few blocks later, she pulled into the space in front of a giant toy store. Penny jumped out, tossed the pay-as-you-go phone in the back, and fed the meter to the max. Four hours, plenty of time before anyone noticed the car. It might not be towed for days. Either way, the car couldn't be traced to her. The young woman pulled off her gloves, ignoring the glances several men were giving her.

Yeah, yeah, my jeans are tight, and I got a great ass, Penny thought, smiling. Guys and some women were constantly checking out her ass. It kept them from looking at her face. Telling the cops the woman had a great ass wasn't much help. She walked around the corner and waited for the bus.

Later that night, Fat Eddie walked out to his car, swearing under his breath. His office was in the back room of a strip club. One of a dozen he owned. The clubs were just a front for his real job and gave him access to some serious ass. Fat Eddie was a planner; he set up robberies and the occasional hit, hired the talent, oversaw the job, and collected the lion's share of the profits.

Today's job should have given enough to buy another club, but it all went to hell. It was supposed to be a quick in and out. They get the money, come back, count the take, and then party with sweet Penny, shoot her with some nice smack, and then she was his. She was supposed to be shaking those world-class tits for his clients right now. But instead, the morons had shot up the bank and killed three people, including some lady just passing the bank. Then Penny panicked and left his guys standing on the curb. Luckily, the assholes had tried to shoot it out with the cops and landed in the morgue. Unlucky, one of the bodies was the nephew of a buddy, who would be pissed at him for the job going bad. He had already dealt with him, his body stuffed into the trunk of his Cadillac.

Good riddance to the dumb assholes.

But the cops would eventually come sniffing around. Just one last loose end.

Now, he had to deal with little Miss Penny Page. He would do much more before he stuffed her into the trunk and took her to the desert.

A lot more.

Penny watched Fat Eddie waddle out to his car. He stood a little over five feet and weighed over three hundred pounds, earning the nickname. He wore extra large Hawaiian shirts and baggy shorts to cover his mass, but it didn't work. He was born with an ugly face, which he tried to hide with a bushy beard and long hair. That didn't work either. She had watched Fat Eddie stuff something wrapped in plastic into the trunk of his big Cadillac.

Gee, what do you think that is?

Penny knew Fat Eddie would come after her. Hence, the double-barrel shotgun was loaded with quarters. It was one of the few useful things her psycho dad taught her. The driver glanced at the club to make sure she was alone with Fat Eddie. With another glance at the empty street, Penny stepped out of the shadows and brought up the shotgun.

What the hell? Fat Eddie said when he spotted the bitch standing by some large bushes. What the hell do you think you are going to do with that? You ain't no murderer. You drive cars.

This ain’t murder. This is self-defense, said Penny and