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Again, 5 - Ripley King

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Again, 5 by Ripley King

Dark Fiction

The truth behind Roswell.

Humanity stands tall.

Another world joins the fight.

A prime example of the darkness within.

Two toys need their owner.

Stories and Cover Illustration Copyright © 2015 Ripley King. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locals, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over, and does not assume any responsibility for author or third party Web sites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the author is illegal. Please purchase only authorized editions. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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For those who like to turn the lights off at night.

Welcome To Machine

Neptune’s livid blue presence was to the left, and less than a moment later it was to the right. This one fact, once verified, demanded time, an enormous amount of it, 142.44 years for the giant to revolve around Sol in order for it to occupy its present location in space had passed, yet ship’s chronometers indicated no such passage of time.

The vibratory signature of a single captured gluon in its instantaneous decay matched that of the known universe. A visual replay of the event paralleled against other sensor readings revealed nothing. A communication burst demanding clarification was sent.

Earth was still in an optimal position to respond, but monitored frequencies were blank. Other possible communications, emanating from thousands of ground sources as well as commercial satellite transmissions were simply nonexistent. The impossibility of the situation demanded the probe dismiss current mission parameters and investigate.

The probe turned, adjusted speed for optimal structural integrity, and proceeded home.

Edgar Gross intended to procure a glass from the far cupboard as a more civilized approach to his booze, other than tipping the bottle’s bottom up to greet the ceiling. That’s when he turned and saw a large man’s huge fist fast growing in perspective as it neared his face. It struck with the force of a greedy Hollywood divorce lawyer.

Sometime later, Ed could hear his assailant systematically ransacking every drawer and cupboard in the kitchen.

You . . . are a slob, a gruff voice stated. My teenage daughter has more discipline. Ever hear of weekly trash pickup?

Ed tried to fondle his smooshed eye, his throbbing nose, but found both hands securely tied behind him. He chanced his one good eye open and noticed duct tape, swaddling his feet. Slowly drying down the front of his t-shirt, a whole lot of his own bright red blood.

The voice said, Where are the Intelliprobe files?

A nicely dressed gorilla in shades, sporting a crew cut, stepped up to where he sat on the floor.

In my head, Ed said. Which was true. The project was a bust. You know that, don’t you? Everyone else does.

‘Everyone else’ is dead, Crew cut disclosed, taking off the sunglasses. A baldy stepped into view. The sunglasses and suits matched.

The second floor, Baldy announced to Crew cut, looks like a makeshift lab with an artificial satellite center stage. Nothing on the first floor but rats and garbage.

Nothing up here, Crew cut said to Baldy. According to him it’s all in his head.

Is that version two of the Intelliprobe? Baldy asked him.

Not really, Ed thought. More like an exact duplicate of the project from hell. Right down to the brain that puked somewhere around Neptune. He had rolled the dice with his own money the second time around. Not sucking the government teat allowed for better parts, but nothing happened. It didn’t turn on. He likened the second floor to a grave. It needed a stone with an appropriate epitaph inscribed.

Fuck you, Ed spat.

Crew cut winked at Baldy. Whack him.

Edgar Gross once rode life like Slim Pickens did the H bomb in the Kubrick movie classic Dr. Strangelove, a yahooin’ an’ a swingin’ his hat. He had it all. A fellowship with The Turner Group, a cool hundred thou’ in his pocket each year, and his own lab with grunts to do the dirt work.

It’s not like he wanted to screw his life’s ambition into the soil. He needed the Intelliprobe project to work. And for what? Baldy whipped out a lethal looking semi-automatic and shot him in the chest. The end of the dart was feathered with short, red rubber tassels.

Roswell, New Mexico, 1947

Your report.

Sir! The craft is, for the most part, intact. A negligible amount of radiation is leaking from the aft compartments. Two squads as ordered are collecting all debris. We could use another squad.

Make do. Are the civilians out of the crash zone?

We still need the fire crew.

Debrief them as soon as possible. Continue.

Five humanoid beings were found in the wreckage. All female. Three dead, one critical, one is ambulatory and in considerably sound condition. She’s been trying to communicate, but we can’t understand her gestures.

Nonverbal communication? Bring her here and leave us alone.

One more thing, sir. All had on them small black boxes. We opened the boxes and found them empty. We’re not sure of their importance. I recommend guards be posted around the command tent.


Ten minutes later the alien female was escorted into his tent. She stood, shivering against the crisp night air.


Naked, like a child she was. Her bald head seemed much too large for her prepubescent frame. No secondary breast development, and no pubic hair. Was he dealing with a child?

She had two arms and two legs, but six fingers on each hand, and six toes on each foot. Her eyes were large, all black, and frightening.

She slowly raised her hands up to her eyes and carefully removed two dark rubbery membranes. Her large eyes softened, the color of burnished gold.

Please, she spoke, much to his amazement. Her high pitched child’s voice was sweet. I am no danger to you or your people.

In many of the scientific circles he waltzed through, the idea of little green men was, to them, a joke. Sit. I have a blanked to cover you. Would you like it? Yet the last laugh was his.

He placed the blanket