The ELI Event B007R5LTNS

sat down again and picked up the .45. “Well, the joke’s on them. The demonstration is a sweep of Microville, an abandoned training facility in Nevada, and it’s fully locked in, ground-to-satellite uplink secured, target coordinates set and confirmed. Without the project data, I couldn’t stop it if I wanted to.” He laughed coldly. “Not that I’d want to. Screw these bastards; the demo will take place regardless of their filthy treachery. Groucho, we’ve got to trace that breach.”
    “I took the liberty of ordering the transaction logs pulled and printed, sir. They were online just long enough to trace.”
    “So where did the call originate?”
    “A private land line in a little town called Colby, Kansas.”
    “Colby? Never heard of it.”
    “Yes sir, due east of Denver on highway 70. Three, three and a half hours from here by car.”
    “By car, my ass,” Pettis snorted. “Call HQ and have a Huey ready when we arrive. We’re going to Colby tonight. I’ll get dressed.” He rose and turned toward the hallway.
    “Should I notify General Holt, Major?”
    Pettis stopped in his tracks and turned just enough to glare at Grochonski over his shoulder. “Hello, sergeant,” he intoned sarcastically, “Have we met?”
    Grochonski stared at Pettis for a moment, brow furrowed, jaw slack; then, two or three beats later than it should have, it hit him.
    “Oh.” He blinked a few times. “Right. Yes, sir. I… I mean, no sir. Got it, sir.”
    Pettis sighed audibly and disappeared into the hallway as Grochonski picked up the phone. “Groucho, there’s a chopper pilot, second looey name of Davies. He’s good,” he called. “Get him to pilot for us.”
    “Um, sir, I know Lieutenant Davies. He got married yesterday; they’re about to go on their honeymoon. He’s leaving town this morning.”
    Pettis stuck his head out of the bedroom. “You’re goddamn right he is—with us. Get him!”
    “Yes, sir!”

Thirteen
    The giant Hoover was loud, but not as loud as the music playing in the janitor’s headphones. He glanced up at the videovisor attached to the ’phones; three men were weaving to and fro as they lip-synched their all-time greatest hit. He had bought this vid in a fit of nostalgia, and now wished he hadn’t—the middle-aged Hanson brothers just weren’t cutting it anymore.
    He manhandled the old upright around the corner of the wide corridor, past the office doors—409, 411, 415—and idly wondered how superstition could still be so prevalent, even in the year 2034, that there was no office numbered 413. Oh, well. Push-pull, Mmm-bop , push-pull, Mmm-bop , he continued… until he nearly vacuumed over the two pairs of shiny, plastic-looking boots in the middle of the hallway.
    He automatically stepped back a pace and flipped up the visor to pause the vid. Before him were two tall, slender individuals dressed in flowing tunics over long skirt-like affairs—one male, one female.
    They stood silently side by side, regarding him with placid interest, hands clasped in front of them. They wore on their left forearms what looked like oversized TV remote controls, but with small displays and flashing lights. The man carried a shoulder bag, strapped diagonally across his chest. In her right hand the woman held a newspaper or magazine of some kind.
    He turned off the Hoover so they could speak. They didn’t, so he supposed it was up to him to break the ice.
    “Okay,” he said evenly, “since it’s too early for happy hour, I’m going to have to assume you’re real.”
    The woman smiled. “Yes, we’re real.”
    “Well, at least you speak English. Aren’t you supposed to say ‘We come in peace’ or something?”
    She smiled again. “We aren’t aliens, if that’s what you’re asking. But of course, we mean you no harm.”
    “Oh, good.” He added pointedly, “Nor I you—so far.”
    She read the embroidered patch on his coveralls. “Your name is… Arty?”
    “Yeah, Arty. Well, that’s what everyone calls me. My initials are R.T., so R.T., pronounced arr-tee, becomes Arty. So what?”
    The woman studied the janitor. Mid thirties, light brown hair, blue eyes. Intelligent, inquisitive eyes. Good posture, strong shoulders, clean clothing despite the nature of his job. She looked at her companion, who consulted the screen on his arm unit. He looked back up at the her and spoke. “It’s definitely him.”
    She nodded. “Um, Arty, is there a place we can talk privately?” she