The Origin of F.O.R.C.E.

1962

“Thomas Blunt, march yourself to the kitchen and eat your breakfast. It’s getting cold,” Diane Hoffman Blunt yelled up the stairs.

Walking back into the kitchen of their home in Baltimore, she grumbled good-naturedly, “Just like his father. Never on time for anything.”

Lowering the newspaper, Jim smiled and replied, “Looks an awful lot like his mother to be claiming he takes after me.”

“Humph,” was the only response.

“Paper says the polio vaccine is being given at the city rec building today, and all the elementary schools are scheduled to go there,” Jim said.

At that moment, a 7-year old boy loped into the room, plopped down in one of the chairs and took inventory of the plate of food. Young Thomas Blunt had a mop of sandy-brown hair and a square jawline almost identical to his father’s. He wore honey-colored horn-rimmed glasses to correct nearsightedness, and they slid down the bridge of his nose on a regular basis. When he peered over the top of the glasses, he looked just like his mother.

Wrinkling his nose, Tom complained, “Not eggs again. Mom!”

“Eggs are good for you. Besides, you’re going to be standing in line for a long time today so you need to eat.”

“What for?” he asked as he absently stirred his scrambled eggs with a disgusted look.

“Polio vaccine,” Jim answered with a smile, folding his newspaper and tossing it on the table. “Today you get your medicine in a sugar cube.”

“No shot?” Tom asked as he munched on a piece of bacon.

“No shot,” his mother said with a grin.

After watching Tom cross the street and begin his regular walk to Hugh Hancock Elementary School, Jim and Diane got in their car for the 20-minute drive to her sublevel 4 lab under the Johns Hopkins Hospital Admin building.

Jim had been promoted to Bird Colonel in 1961, and the left chest of his uniform was covered with many ribbons attesting to his personal, campaign and service awards. Some gray hairs were beginning to show at his temples, but when asked about them, he always joked they were blonde.

Diane seemed to defy age. Jim was prejudiced, of course, but he believed she was getting prettier as the years passed. She still styled her blonde hair in a topknot of swooping curls, but in the last couple of years she’d taken to allowing longer curls to hang loose in a soft frame around her face. Today she was wearing smoldering pink lipstick and a matching nail color.

As they maneuvered through the morning rush hour traffic, Diane commented, “The fluoridation of the public water supplies is beginning to peak. I’m still amazed how quickly the National Security Council reacted after your demonstration of the effects of the live virus in 1951.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Jim smiled. “I’ll never forget the look on Secretary of State Bob Lovett’s face when he demanded a demonstration of the virus’ effects on me. I took his lucky horseshoe off the top of his office door and pulled it straight right in front of his eyes.”

“Oh, I think you wowed them the most when you blindfolded yourself and beat President Truman at chess,” she smiled, “in only eleven moves.”

Chuckling, he continued, “Whatsit made the biggest impression. When he first pulled his sombrero off his head, I thought the Secret Service men guarding the President were going to shoot him outright. Lucky for them when he took control of their minds, he only made them lower their weapons and salute him.”

Hesitating a moment, he quipped, “I have no idea where he got that kind of sense of humor.”

“Well, I think he’s been spending too much time with a smartass whose name I won’t mention but whose initials are Jim Blunt,” Diane snickered. “Anyway, I think President Truman’s advisors wrote the National Public Health policy establishing fluoridation of all water supplies less than a week after our meeting. I’d say they were highly motivated.”

Twisting around in her seat, Diane said, “It amazes me how people accept policies adopted by the federal government. Do you realize in less than ten years after the health policy on fluoridation was promulgated, over 60% of the population is drinking fluoridated water? All in the guise of reducing tooth decay. It’s almost unbelievable.”

“I know what you mean,” he agreed.

In a more serious tone, Jim said, “We were fortunate General Eisenhower was on the Council. After he was elected President, General Collier was given free rein to fund special projects with the pharmaceutical companies. When the time came to manufacture the polio vaccine, piggy-backing the dormant recombinant DNA virus onto the vaccine wasn’t even questioned by the companies’ executives.

Hesitating a moment to veer around a slow-moving vehicle, he asked, “What’s the latest on the distribution of the polio vaccine?”

“It is being shipped and administered on a worldwide basis. It’s my estimate by the end of 1970 at least 90% of Earth’s population will have received the initial dose and at least one booster.”

“What’s the fluoride concentration level that activates your dormant virus?” he asked.

“When I was designing the virus, I reviewed several university studies indicating the level of fluoride needed to help prevent tooth decay was between 0.7 and 1.2 mg per liter of water. Problem is some groundwater in volcanic and mountainous areas contains natural levels as high as 50 mg per Liter.”

Pausing a second while she pushed a strand of hair away from her eyes, she continued, “I also had to take into consideration many dentists use fluoride in high concentrations. I finally decided on 100 mg per liter as the activation level. I think most premature activations will be avoided with a concentration that high.”

Staring thoughtfully at the rush hour traffic, Jim asked, “You’re sure Tom didn’t inherit my active DNA changes? I know he hasn’t shown any telepathic abilities or abnormal strength, but I worry about him suddenly showing signs of uniques.”

“Sweetheart, in order for the uniques to be passed on genetically without the need for ingestion of the dormant virus, both parents must have been treated with the virus. You are active, but when Tom was conceived, I hadn’t been dosed with the virus. I even tested his DNA after he was born, and there was no trace of the uniques in his genetic makeup.”

Smiling, she said, “Tom will live a normal childhood. He’s getting his first dose of the dormant virus today. By the time he’s ten years old, he’ll have had at least one booster. If and when the time comes, he’ll go active with the fluoride high dose treatment just like everyone else.”

Stopping at a red light, Jim reached across the seat and squeezed her hand. “I truly hope he never has to go active.”

“Me too.”

1974

Thomas James Blunt got out of the backseat of his Dad’s 1972 Buick Wildcat Sedan and stared at the imposing entrance to the West Point Military Academy Chapel. It was check-in day for new cadets, and his mother and father had joined him for the trip from Baltimore to the Academy where he was to spend the next 4-years studying military strategy, electrical engineering and computer sciences. He’d considered chemistry and life sciences as majors because of his mother’s background, but both his parents convinced him the best courses of study for a bright future in the military were based in electrical engineering and computers. He had no idea why they were so insistent about those specific areas of study, but they never steered him wrong so he followed their advice.

Tom stood almost 6 feet three inches tall and was a slender 160 pounds of bone and muscle. He had been a star distance runner on his high school track team and was in excellent physical shape. His hair was sandy-brown in color, close-cropped in military fashion. His nearsightedness was corrected with glasses in thin, wire frames. Tom always hated how his old horn-rimmed glasses had slipped down his nose, and he had insisted the wire frames be curved around the back of his ears to keep them in place.

His application to West Point had been accepted immediately. Tom suspected the written recommendation of General Matt Collier was instrumental in his acceptance to the Academy. Little did he know President Gerald Ford had personally called the Commandant of Cadets and unofficially requested Tom’s acceptance. Although he didn’t know it yet, the continued preparations for the defense of Earth from invasion by the Chrysallamans was paramount, and Tom was to become an important cog in the defense machine.

As he stood on the sidewalk, saying his goodbyes to his parents, a tall, dark-haired cadet walked up and saluted his Dad. The cadet was a Firstie, which is what West Point calls its seniors. He had large, expressive, blue eyes like his father and black hair like his mother.

Pulling Tom’s suitcase from the car trunk, his Dad looked at the tall cadet and said, “Good to see you, Doug. How long’s it been? Five years?”

“Yes, Sir,” Doug Jenson replied and then tipping his hat to Tom’s mother, said with a broad smile, “I see Mrs. Blunt hasn’t changed at all.”

“Douglas Jenson, you outlandish sweet talker! You sure know how to flatter a woman,” she smiled, grabbing the cadet in a bear hug.

Jim waited for the hugging to end. “Son, I would like to introduce you to Douglas Patrick Jenson, First Captain of A Company. Doug is the son of some friends of ours, Tom and Lucy Jenson.”

Tom was not versed in West Point cadet protocol, so he didn’t know how to react when meeting a First Captain. Hesitating, he extended his hand to Doug and was relieved when the older cadet grabbed it and shook warmly.

Grinning at Tom, Doug said, “Until you graduate from this Academy, this will be the last time you get a handshake from me unless we meet outside the walls of this institution after I graduate. So let me be brief because I won’t be able to show you any favoritism after this meeting.”

Adopting a serious look, First Captain Jenson said, “During your plebe year, I will keep an eye on you. I’ll do my best to make your transition from civilian life to the military regimen of this Academy as painless as possible. Understood?”

Tom nodded his head, wondering how so many people seemed to know his Mom and Dad. Little did he realize how vital his parents had been and were to be to the ultimate defense of humanity.

Saying his goodbyes and watching his father lead his crying mother to the car and drive away, Tom picked up his bags and followed Doug into the cavernous Chapel of West Point Military Academy.

1977

A soft chime and a mild electric shock awakened Hisspat Zeck from the dreamless unconsciousness induced by his stasis pod. Toggling the release lever, he pushed the hinged cover of his pod up, blinking his eyes to adjust to the soft light in the stasis chamber. Ringing the wall of the circular room were 29 other stasis pods, only 23 of them occupied by his remaining crew. The five empty pods should have been filled by the crew of the scout ship, UurBereck, but they were dead, killed on planet HG-281 by the accursed bipedal beings who called themselves Humans.

Flipping the toggles which would begin the awakening process for his crew, Zeck walked to the control room and consulted his data screen. True to their programming, the computers had navigated the VrrSilliac Xur to within one planetary orbit’s distance from the Chrysallaman home planet, Chrysalis. Keying instructions into his terminal, Zeck called up an external camera view. It appeared nothing had changed on Chrysalis in the 60 years and six months since his expedition had departed on its mission to explore the colonization target labeled planet HG-281.

A blinking yellow light on his uplink panel attracted his attention. Pushing the pulsing light, he activated the telepathic communication channel.

A clear and concise voice within his mind said, “Commander of the VrrSilliac Xur, respond immediately, or you will be fired upon. Repeat. Commander of the mother ship, VrrSilliac Xur, respond immediately, or you will be fired upon.”

Gathering his thoughts, Zeck replied, “This is Hisspat Zeck, Commander of the mother ship, VrrSilliac Xur, entry code HSS zero nine eight. Requesting permission to land.”

A moment later came the reply, “Permission granted. The Glorious Emperor, His Majesty Terr Horcunt demands you attend him directly with your report.”

“Understood.”

If it was possible for a 6 foot 5 inch tall, dark green lizard to turn a ghastly shade of light ash and noticeably wither with age, then Zeck did a great impression. Settling back in his flight chair, Hisspat contemplated his swift and painful death. With morbid curiosity, he wondered how many seconds he would live once the Emperor heard for the first time in the recorded history of the illustrious Chrysallaman Empire, one of its scouting missions had suffered destruction and death at the hands of an ignorant tribe of savages. Shuddering as he imagined his severed head rolling across the tiles of the Emperor’s throne room, Hisspat vomited a little bile into his mouth, cringing at the bitter taste it left on his tongue.

Within two hours, the mother ship, VrrSilliac Xur was cradled in its berth on the tarmac of the vast spaceport located on the outskirts of Trissalic, the largest city on the planet, Chrysalis. As he exited his ship, armed guards surrounded and escorted him toward a waiting vehicle. Fear clutched his heart as Hisspat wondered what was happening. He’d commanded two survey expeditions before the ill-fated voyage to HG-281. Never had he been taken to the Emperor upon returning to base, and an armed guard for escort had never been part of the protocol. Something was very wrong.

He was marched to the palatial, gold-bricked building in the center of Trissalic housing the royal family. The throne room of His Majesty, Terr Horcunt, was 300 paces long and 150 paces wide. Heavy double doors of diamond glass, each a 5 feet wide and 15 feet tall, opened upon a high gallery topped with an arched ceiling. The floor was tiled with a black stone polished to a sheen so perfect that as you walked across it, a mirror-like reflection of yourself appeared to walk with you. At the far end of the room was a high dais made of alternating layers of polished white and black stone. At the apex of the dais was a throne made of intricately faceted diamond glass. Spot lights aimed at the throne made it sparkle in a dazzling display of beautiful rainbow colors.

Sitting on the throne was His Majesty, Emperor Terr Horcunt. Horcunt was an aging Chrysallaman at least 95 years old. His green skin was mottled with age spots and every inch of his exposed skin was wrinkled. His once, coal black eyes showed the large, gray, cloudy swirls of cataracts. When Zeck had departed on his expedition to HG-281, Horcunt had been just 34 years old, in vigorous health and haughty with royal power. Now he was wasted by the crippling weight of long years sitting on the diamond throne juggling the politics and responsibilities of high office.

His Majesty may have been an old man who didn’t have many years of life left in him, but his mind was powerful and his keen thoughts cut into Zeck like a hot knife.

“Report your findings about planet HG-281, Commander Zeck.”

Hisspat had made up his mind to die proudly, head held high. He wouldn’t grovel before the Emperor like an Earth Human begging for his life. Still he couldn’t help feeling a cutter ray was aimed at his neck by one or more of the guards, ready to slice his head off. He decided to begin his report with the good news.

“Your Majesty, I bring great news of a planet ideally suited for colonization. The world called Earth has an abundant supply of water, a moderate temperature and sufficient natural resources to sustain millions of Chrysallamans. There is a primitive, indigenous species of bipedal animals who call themselves Humans infesting the planet. These Humans are an additional food supply, and I brought back samples of a scrumptious meaty paste made from some of them we captured. I believe you will thoroughly enjoy it.”

Pausing a moment to let his report settle in the Emperor’s mind, he continued, “The Humans have no real capability to defend their planet from the technological or physical superiorities of the Chrysallamans. Humans are physically weak and have no ability to shield themselves from our mind control. They have only Level One atomic capability and no spaceflight vehicles. It is my belief a small fleet of 20 mother ships with attendant scouts would be able to conquer the entire planet within 30 days. Do you have any questions?”

“As a matter of fact I do.”

With the angry look of a parent catching its child telling a lie, the Emperor said, “I’m advised one of your scout craft was destroyed and its crew slaughtered by these technologically and physically inferior Humans. I don’t remember you mentioning those facts in the self-serving report you just gave me.”

Zeck had been developing his answer to this question ever since he’d awakened from stasis. He had crafted the story based on half-truth and half lie. Since he was the only Chrysallaman alive who had access to the whole story, he hoped his lies would never be uncovered. Girding his mind against any mental probes that might try to pierce the truth locked away in his brain, he released his prepared thoughts to the Emperor with all the mental strength he could muster.

“It is true. I didn’t want to sully the name and reputation of my sub-commander, DrrTrr Zennk, captain of the scout ship, UurBereck, by reporting his failure in my opening remarks. DrrTrr Zennk sneered at the combat capabilities of the Humans and wanted to demonstrate the futility of any attempt to defend planet HG-281 from the overwhelming military power of the Chrysallaman Empire. Zennk disobeyed my orders of no direct contact with the military forces of the Humans. Instead of maintaining a safe distance between his ship and the range of the Humans’ explosive projectiles, he exposed the UurBereck so closely to the Human defenders even a Chrysallaman youngster throwing a rock would have been able to hit it. One of the Human explosive projectiles pierced his ship, causing it to crash in a blinding explosion. Following expedition protocol, when I learned of his ship’s destruction, I recalled my remaining scouts and departed for home base. Reporting the successful location of a world suitable for colonization was of paramount importance.”

Finishing his tale and expecting an angry response to losing the first scout ship in the glorious history of Chrysallaman exploration, Hisspat clenched his hands into fists and waited for death.

Surprisingly, Horcunt relaxed. Tension flowed out of him in a telepathic gush that swept over Zeck like a warm breeze.

Smiling, the Emperor declared, “Hisspat Zeck, you are hereby appointed General of my Space Fleet. You shall have 50 mother ships with a full complement of scouts. A fleet of 200 mega-liners, each with a payload of 100,000 Chrysallamans, will accompany your armada to planet HG-281. Your mission is to take control of the planet in the name of the Chrysallaman Empire for immediate colonization.”

Hisspat was so shocked his head hadn’t been cut off, he fell to his knees and clasped his hands in front of him as if he was giving prayerful thanks. Horcunt thought the General was praying to him and raised his right hand, gesturing a royal benediction.

The Emperor continued, “General Zeck, your armada and the mega-liners will be ready for departure in seven years. I ordered the construction of the mega-liners to begin over 10 years ago when it became apparent the population growth on Chrysalis couldn’t be sustained. Our planet is at the breaking point. The current population must be reduced by out-migration, or we will be forced into mass exterminations.”

Pausing a moment for the import of his declaration to sink into Zeck’s consciousness, the Emperor continued, “Sadly, since you left over 60 years ago no exploratory missions have returned with news of a habitable planet. This inability to find suitable planets for expansion of the Chrysallaman Empire is maddening.”

Visibly calming with a focused effort, Horcunt declared, “You will be escorting one-third of the entire population of Chrysalis to their new home world. The very survival of the millions of Chrysallamans aboard the mega-liners depends upon you.”

“I shall not fail.”

A low rumbling sounded from the Emperor’s stomach and placing a hand over his belly, he asked, “Why don’t you tell me more about this delicious sounding meaty paste you brought back from HG-281?”

1978

Tom Blunt’s first assignment upon graduation from West Point as a new Second Lieutenant wasn’t the combat role he wanted. Tom was a man of action like his father. Even the competitive sports he’d chosen during his time at the Academy displayed a calculated aggressiveness. He’d selected karate and swordsmanship as his sports and became proficient in both martial arts.

His body had been honed during his four years at the military school into 185 pounds of hard muscle with lightning fast reaction times. His training in military strategy had come from the best combat officers and intelligence operatives. Their projections of conflict in the World had centered on the increase of Soviet military influence in Afghanistan, the increasing unrest in the Arab States and the continued growth of nuclear weapons capability in both the United States and Russia. There were so many opportunities for meaningful and exciting assignments around the globe that an assignment to a Nevada desert facility 125 miles north of Las Vegas appeared to be a punishment.

Academically, he was in the top 1% of his class in both electrical engineering and computer sciences. Programming the machine language software running various computer systems had come naturally to him and integrated nicely with his studies of electrical engineering. His senior project on microelectronic design of digital communications systems had been reviewed in the Journal of Microelectronics and Computer Design. He’d been offered full-ride scholarships to Caltech and MIT, but his focus on a military career didn’t allow for another seven years of specialized research.

His assignment papers ordered him to report to a Captain Jerome McPherson and provided no other details. When he told his father and mother about his assignment, they kept bland looks as if they were only mildly sympathetic. Their reaction was mysterious since they had always shown keen interest in everything he accomplished at the Academy. His guess was they were being stoic for his benefit, putting on a strong face so he wouldn’t get discouraged.

Boarding a military cargo flight out of New York, Tom landed at McCarran Field in Las Vegas in the late morning of October 16, 1978. As he walked down the cargo ramp of the aircraft with his duffel bag thrown over his shoulder, he noticed a tall, very white-skinned man with flaming red hair standing at the bottom of the ramp looking expectantly at everyone who walked past. Tom decided he might as well take the initiative and when he stopped in front of the man, he was pleased to see the name tag on the uniform read McPherson.

“Hello, Sir,” Tom said as he saluted. “My name is Second Lieutenant Thomas Blunt. I am ordered to report to Captain Jerome McPherson.”

Pulling his assignment documents from his duffel and handing them to McPherson, he continued, “Here are my papers, Sir.”

McPherson scanned the documents. With a grin, he wrapped his arm around Tom’s shoulders, declaring, “Damn, Tom, you’re a real combo kid. I can see both your mother and your father in you.” Wagging his head toward the hangar door, he said, “Come on, follow me.”

Tom kept silent as McPherson walked away from the cargo plane, but he couldn’t help thinking, “How does this guy know Mom and Dad? They’ve never mentioned him before.”

Around the side of the big hangar, a Bell 206L helicopter squatted in a landing circle. The copter’s body was painted gunmetal gray, and its main rotor was half white and half red. Rocket launchers and Gatling machine guns were mounted below each side entry door. McPherson slid open the port side door and motioned for Tom to board.

Once they were seated and belted in, McPherson motioned for the pilot to take off, saying, “Quincy, take us back to the base pronto. Let them know I have the new recruit.”

Tom had flown in similar aircraft several times and knew how noisy the cabin would be in flight, so before Quincy started the engine, he asked, “Where are the earphones and mics?”

McPherson beamed at him, “This is a special design. We won’t need any.”

Tom was about to ask why when he noticed the rotors beginning to spin up to lift speed with no sound other than a muffled slapping as the blades whipped through the air. With wide-eyed amazement, Tom felt the craft lift and streak off across the desert in a northerly direction at roughly twice the speed he’d expected.

Speaking in a conversational tone in the silent cabin, McPherson inquired, “How do you like our new electric motor design? Quiet, huh?

“Electric?” Tom replied incredulously. “What’s the power source? There’s no battery in the World that could provide this much continuous power to a motor the size required to lift this aircraft.”

“Oh, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet my young pup.” McPherson replied with a mysterious smile. “Believe me, you just got assigned to the greatest, most exciting job in the whole universe.”

Pausing a moment to let the young man process what he had just been told, McPherson confirmed, “And I do mean the whole universe.”

Thirty minutes later, Tom saw jagged mountains rising from the desert floor. His orders had indicated the Nevada base was far north of Las Vegas surrounded by high mountain ranges. As they started to cruise over the southerly mountain range, Tom saw the two-lane highway they had been following ended at the mouth of a tunnel guarded by a large number of military vehicles and tanks. Expecting a sprawling, bustling facility resembling a small city, Tom was surprised when the copter crested the mountains, and the base came into view. Other than a windswept runway which McPherson said was 2 miles long, the only buildings in the valley were three large aircraft hangers surrounded by endless sand dunes.

The pilot flew the copter into one of the massive hangars and hovered over a large landing circle until the wide hangar doors slid shut. The hangar was large enough to house three B-29 Superfortress bombers wing-tip to wing-tip, but the cavernous space was empty.

Sliding open the door, McPherson jumped from his seat to the hangar floor and said, “Grab your gear and follow me. I’ll get you to your room, and then I want to introduce you to everyone.”

Their steps echoed in the vast emptiness of the hangar as McPherson led Tom to a bright yellow door marked ‘Radiation Leak - DANGER - Do Not Enter’. Ignoring the warning, McPherson held his thumb against a flat glass panel in the wall to the right of the door. A few seconds later, the yellow door slid open to reveal an elevator large enough for an elephant to stand in and turn around. Entering, McPherson pressed the lowest button of ten on a panel, the door slid shut, and they dropped so quickly, Tom’s stomach got butterflies.

The door of the elevator opened on a wide, brightly lit hallway. Exiting to the left, McPherson led Tom down a labyrinth of hallways to ‘C’ wing where the dormitory suites were located. Tom’s suite was spacious and included a bedroom, living room, office, kitchen and spacious bathroom. Large television screens inset into the suite walls mimicked windows by displaying scenes of rolling pastures and quiet forest glades. McPherson explained that since he was going to be living on the base all the time, his accommodations were designed to be comfortable and home-like.

Leaving the suite, they walked to ‘G’ wing where McPherson said the laboratories were located. Tom tried to memorize all the twists and turns in the myriad of hallways they traversed but gave up after about five minutes and two more fingerprint readers.

Stopping before a door labeled ‘K’, McPherson looked at Tom with a grin and said, “You are about to meet the most supercilious, pompous weasel who ever shook a test tube. The man has a foul temper and absolutely no qualms about belittling anyone he comes in contact with who questions or interferes in his work.”

He then placed his big hand on Tom’s shoulder and said, “Even so, keep in mind the guy is brilliant, the inventor of the kinetic generator, and I consider him my friend.”

“The kinetic what?” Tom asked as McPherson opened the door with a flourish and stepped back to let Tom precede him.

A loud conversation was taking place as they entered the lab and Tom heard someone say in an imperious tone, “If I wanted your opinion, I’d tell you what to say.”

McPherson slammed the door and sauntered over to where two men were standing.

“Doc, how’s my old buddy?”

The older man wearing a pristine white lab coat turned to look at who had interrupted him. His eyes seemed too close together, and his nose was long and slender. His hair might have been black when he was younger, but now it was a thin and scraggly grayish-white, slicked backwards as if he soaked each strand with motor oil when he combed it. He wore round, gold-colored metal-framed glasses.

Glaring at McPherson with a scowl, Heinbaum said, “My tormenter returns. What brings you back to soil my spotless lab?”

He then spotted Tom and added, “And who is this military goose-stepper you brought with you? Someone else wanting to usurp my research for black ops projects?”

Tom was stunned by the audacity of the old geezer. He was about to reply with where the lab rat could shove his opinions when McPherson broke his musings and said, “Doc, this man is Tom Blunt. He’s the son of Jim Blunt and Diane Hoffman.”

The attitude change in the old man was instant. His first reaction was wide-eyed amazement. His second reaction was to walk over, put his hands on Tom’s shoulders and in a welcoming tone and smile, proclaim, “Oh my God, I see it now. Good thing you take after your mother.” Then with a sly smile Tom found obnoxious, Heinbaum said in a low, conspiratorial tone, “I always thought your mother was a real looker.”

Standing back from Tom, Heinbaum waved a hand at the man he had been berating and said, “Ernest, come here, I want to introduce you to this young man.”

“Tom Blunt, this is my lab assistant, Ernest Longarrow. Ernest has been with me for about 10 years.”

Ernest nodded and shook Tom’s hand. He was short with black hair tied in a ponytail by a leather strap. Longarrow was a Native American Navajo Indian with a Master’s degree in Microelectronics from UCLA.

Peering at Tom, Ernest asked, “There was an article published in the Journal of Microelectronics by a Lieutenant Thomas James Blunt about microelectronic digital communications systems. You that guy?”

When Tom nodded, Ernest smiled, “Brilliant. Loved your theory of parallel cross-linked processors. I think you’re onto something there.”

At that moment, McPherson cleared his throat and announced, “Heiny, Tom has been assigned to work with us in the development of computer-controlled armament using your kinetic generators.”

With a puzzled look, Tom inquired, “What is a kinetic generator? I’ve never heard of that before.”

The grins on the faces of McPherson, Heinbaum and Longarrow threatened to crack their faces wide open.

Wrapping a big arm around Tom’s shoulders, McPherson said, “Tom, you are about to be introduced to the greatest discovery in the history of mankind. A limitless power source that makes nuclear power look like a campfire trying to burn wet wood.”

1984

General Hisspat Zeck stood on the command deck of his mother ship, VrrSilliac Xur, looking at the view screen depicting the vast array of warships and mega-liners aligned in high orbit above the planet Chrysalis. Forty-nine mother ships were assembled in three overlapping layers in the shape of a pointed cone aimed in the general direction of planet HG-281. In the center of the cone, protected by multiple layers of mother ships floated the command ship, VrrSilliac Xur. Trailing the VrrSilliac Xur, like the shaft of an arrow, were 200 mega-liners positioned two abreast. Each huge ship held 100,000 Chrysallamans ready for recolonization on HG-281.

Never in the history of the Chrysallaman Empire had such a mass migration been attempted. Each mega-liner was a cylinder of dark gray metal, 3,000 feet long and 1,000 feet in diameter, filled with 100,000 stasis pods and enough propulsive power to deliver the ship to HG-281 and land. Other than the pilot and two maintenance technicians on each mega-liner who would awaken from stasis to land the ship, all other occupants would remain in stasis until after landing. The benefit of stasis was that no food, water or air purification systems had to be built into the ships to keep their occupants alive during the 30-year voyage. Each mega-liner was also equipped with a cargo warehouse holding fertilized embryos of food stock animals and various native Chrysallaman plant life, all put into stasis chambers for the long journey.

Every mother ship was a floating arsenal containing 5 armored scout saucers. Each scout was powered by a fusion reactor which could run unattended for 100 years before requiring re-fueling. Each scout was crewed by four highly trained and disciplined Chrysallaman soldiers and armed with offensive weapons featuring 360-degree cutter and heat rays. Once the gravity drive on any saucer or mother ship was activated, no projectile weapon could penetrate the glowing, blurry drive field and cause damage.

From personal experience exploring planet HG-281 and testing specimens of the Human race, Zeck was confident no Human or Human technology could withstand the onslaught of the mighty fleet. It had been 6 years since Hisspat had returned to his home planet from HG-281. A malevolent smile curled his lips as he thought about the sweet revenge he would enjoy upon return to the planet. Humans would feel the wrath of Hisspat Zeck for the loss of his scout ship and the tarnish to his service record. No doubt about it.

Glancing at his data screen, Zeck saw all ships reported ready to leave orbit. Confident he would go down in the history books as the Chrysallaman who saved his race from extinction, he stabbed the button authorizing his fleet to activate their gravity drives. Warning lights began blinking and 10 seconds later a blurry, glowing fog enveloped each ship, and they flashed away from Chrysalis toward HG-281. All the plans and preparations for the invasion of Earth had come to fruition.