The Boys from Betelgeuse

Take one of them and my story would be more convincing, but then the owners of the photos would know beyond doubt that somebody had been here. Somebody who had been here and seen all their dirty secrets. Somebody who'd also picked up the tissues with the traces of cum from their own cocks which linked them straight into a rape case guaranteed to send the media totally apeshit if word about it leaked out.

Which meant at least that the jerkoffs couldn't be anymore upset if I took all their pictures instead of just one. And not only would I have all of them to prove what I was claiming, I might even be able to do better. I might be able to use the shots of Ms X's ravishment and the used tissues as payment for hard information. Information which I could use to write and authenticate my own story, whatever the hell it eventually turned out to be.

Oh yes, who could resist trying for a deal like that? And as for the mightily endowed and muchly abused Ms X, well, fuck her again as far as I cared. She'd made enough money to buy half the real estate in California by cock teasing millions and millions of guys with her bustline -- if she'd finally ended getting bust for it herself, that was her problem.

What with my shaky hands and broken fingernails it seemed to take forever to peel the photos off the table and put them in my pockets. I didn't waste time looking at them closely, but although they weren't any great displays of photographic talent they were brilliantly graphic in content. Ms X had been totally fucked every which way and it seemed that the usual opening routine was to have her holding her tits together -- with a lot of other helping hands -- for a guy to rub his cock between them while she licked his ass. No doubt about it, when I had all the shots of her performance stowed away in my pockets I had the makings of a real X file. More of an XXXX file, really.

The one problem left, of course, was that I had no way of getting in touch with this gang. And they had no way of getting in touch with me either. And I sure didn't intend leaving them my phone number or address.

OK, that was easily solved. In the old days it could be a bad move to give your phone number to a guy: he might be great to look at but a pain in the ass if he turned out to be a loser and wouldn't leave you alone. But give him an anonymous email address and he can pitch his woo as much as he likes without knowing a thing more about you than what you look like. Which is how come I can pick and choose my guys like Britney Spears; it's because I hand out hotmail addresses to anything in pants which takes my fancy. Collecting men for fun and profit is a great hobby once you learn to be one of the hunters instead of the hunted, but I never thought I'd go trawling for mutants -- well, not outside San Francisco, anyway.

I left my first name and one of my anonymous email addresses on the margin of one of the newspapers. Then, on impulse, I scrawled a few extra words alongside it: "What you people need now is a real woman!" I could almost imagine the ghostly figure of Dan Baldwin standing in the shades of the ice house and shaking his head sadly at yet another example of my impudence and imprudence. The poor old guy was right: I am a born prick teaser myself.

So, it was time to go. I'd done everything my sense of journalistic duty had ordered me to do and now I was off duty and out of here. Maybe Scully would have handled the situation better but I'd done the best I could. At least I was careful enough to remember to wipe my fingerprints off the torch before I put it back. Then I replaced the planks and covered them up again.

The dripping forest was darker than I expected, as though I'd spent hours inside the ice store. When I looked at my watch I was shocked to realize that the waning daylight was no passing illusion. I'd spent over two hours down in the dugout, and the one thing you could surely say about them was that I hadn't been bored, not once. Frightened yes, but not as frightened as I was now, feeling like Little Red Riding Hood scurrying away from a home invasion of the Wolf's den. If ever I came back here I was coming with some serious back up, and I'd never before been so glad to see the Honda.

Even when I was inside the car in familiar surroundings my nerves were stretched taut in case I got bogged in the wet ground. But it didn't happen and very soon I was driving back the way I'd come. Driving dangerously, to be truthful, because my mind was so full of what I'd found that I could hardly spare the attention needed to steer safely along an empty road. Not only was I excited, I was tired, more tired than I'd been for a long, long time. If I tried to make the long drive back down out of the mountains right now I was going to be a major danger to myself and anybody else on the road.

There was a motel in the middle of the township with the "VACANCIES" sign illuminated. I booked a cabin and hit the bed for a late siesta. But first of all I put all the photos and tissues in an envelope and made sure the receptionist locked them in the motel safe. My last thoughts before I dropped off was that I'd better find time to say goodbye to Scott and Diane before I left -- I might need their help again. But I certainly didn't want to spend much time with them: the temptation to talk about what I'd found might be more than I could resist.

Two hours solid sleep and I felt fine again. Well, physically I felt fine. Mentally, I was still off balance. A great big crack seemed to have opened in the way the world was supposed to be and that was hard to accept. In many ways I'd be happy to be proved a fool and have done with it, but those photos took more explaining than I could come up with. I guess I must have stood underneath a hot shower for about ten minutes just thinking about alternative plans. Call Dan now? Put the photos on his desk on Monday morning? Tell Scott and Diane? Hire some muscle and stakeout that ice store?

No, all those gallons of steaming water didn't wash away my previous decision: keep the evidence to myself, stay quiet and let the gang contact me quietly through the untraceable email back-channel. The one thing I was sure of was that they would contact me and that they would have to do a deal in return for the evidence I had on them. The greatest story in history and mine, all mine!

I was as hungry as a fashion model and eager for the one stiff drink I could allow myself before driving -- and that wasn't the only stiff thing I would have welcomed. Ms X's enforced dancing-with-cocks routine was still stirring up my basic instincts, not to mention the excellent chance that I was likely to be a millionaire very, very soon. Any good looking guy who made a pass at me tonight might be luckier than he expected. And since there was a bar and grill complex in the motel it was time to open the emergency allure kit.

Of course I'd only bought the bare necessities into the mountains with me. Just a simple silver and sequined mini skirt and matching top with plenty of bare midriff on show and high heeled shoes. That outfit and a generous splash of Fleur D'Rocaille should keep the wolves at the door. I squinted into the mirror with half closed eyes as I applied my makeup, trying to convince myself yet again that I really do look a lot like Lauren Bacall. It would be nice to find a guy who'd tell me that but none of the boys I date have ever heard of her.

I'd thought Lake Constitution was a quiet place but there weren't many vacant slots in the parking lot outside the bar and grill. And the waitress's smile flickered like a power outage when I asked for a non-smoking table for one. I could see why, the bar room had two big TV screens in it and one look at the crowd in there was enough to remind me it was Super Bowl Saturday. She asked me if I minded sharing, I said 'no', like I had any choice, and ended up sharing a booth with two other new arrivals. Two powerfully built Rhine maidens who politely switched from German to near perfect English as I joined them.

Well, both of them were from Berlin really, on holiday and driving a hired Winnebago around the tourist areas. Hanna and her sister, Muni. They looked more Spanish than German, both wearing stretch pants over muscular skiers' legs which neatly connected their taut butts to two pairs of high heeled boots. Each sister had wavy dark hair and brown eyes. Muni was wearing a light sweater but Hanna had accentuated her cowhide boots with a frilly white shirt. She gave the impression she would be out on the dance floor at the drop of a sombrero, clicking her heels and clapping her hands above her head. Perhaps she thought they were in Texas. Anyway, the three of us together were soon getting almost as much attention as each of the six foot by six foot TV screens. Something we were well aware of as we chatted over drinks, examined the menu and looked around the room.

It was a nice old fashioned sort of place. Dark green floral wallpaper offset by dark wooden paneling with highly polished brass light fittings. Waitresses in green shirts and khaki slacks weaved their way around the tables with piled up plates and platters. Plenty of hunks over in the bar room as well,munching wings, knocking back brews and getting cricks in their necks from trying to divide their attention between the NFL and our table. A couple of the guys deserved second looks themselves, but first things first. A healthy girl has healthy appetites, and one of them is eating. In exchange for a glass of Merlot from the German girls' bottle I helped them through the intricacies of an American menu. We'd just about agreed on Manhattan Frisbees for the entree course when I noticed Muni was looking out of the booth, half smiling but in a puzzled manner. I turned my neck: two boys were standing close to the booth, staring intently at us as if we were museum exhibits.

One Caucasian, one Hispanic. Triangular shaped faces, with hooded eyes and high cheekbones. Watching us: watching me. I couldn't help giving an involuntary start. Then I looked down at the place mat, my stomach churning. I scrabbled for the menu and pretended to be reading it again. For the first time I was suddenly very aware of my broken nails. I'm even more aware of the boys stepping up close to the booth. I looked up again. They were both lean, middle height, moving gracefully, smiling. Both of them looking intently at my hands. It was useless now to try to hide them under the menu, useless and much too late.

"Well, Ms Judith Stynes, I do believe. And so this must be your property."

It was the Caucasian one speaking to me. He sounded as self assured as he looked. I stared at him and at the envelope he handed to me. I took it and saw that it looked exactly like the one that should be in the motel safe. I looked again and read my name and room number written on it and the attached receipt and date stamp. It was without doubt the envelope I'd seen locked away in the massive old fashioned safe behind the reception desk.

"Take a look inside, Judith. Let me know if everything's there."

He tipped the envelope over the middle of the table. One end had already been ripped off and the photos of Ms X spilled out over the place mats and the cutlery. The photos, but not the tissues. The German girls are trying to understand what is happening. Each of them picks up one of the photos and Muni says something in her own language which indicates astonishment as she recognizes the female face on the pictures.

Hanna answers: "Ja, Hollywood gruppenfick!"

Then she points to a male face on the photo she holding and tilts it over so Muni can see. It is the Hispanic guy. He grins, bows slightly, then sits down beside her. Hanna's face began to look as startled as Ms X's. My own must have been very much the same as the Caucasian sat down beside me, squeezing me up against Muni.

"What are your friends' names, Judith?" he asked me. His voice is almost quiet, no sign of any emotions. As though we're not worth any.

"Hanna and Muni. We've just met."

"Are you telling me they weren't with you this afternoon on your little fact finding expedition?"

It's like an old man talking to a slightly naughty child, a bored old man inside a young boy's body. My skin creeps.

"That's right."

"From the way they're staring at those snap shots I can believe they've never seen them before. Hey, Hanna, Muni."

The Deutsch Madchen were comparing photos and giggling. Then they looked at the guys with obvious respect. "Ladies, hi. I'm Alpha and this is Delta. Over there are the rest of the gang; Beta, Gamma and Epsilon."

We all look. It's true. From different directions three other boys are slowly making their way towards us. Boys with faces we can see on the photos dropped across the table. Faces suckling on one of the biggest pair of tits ever to get squashed against a casting couch. Muni and Hanna exchanged sentences in words I didn't understand but which I can easily translate -- what the fuck is going on here? It's about as far as my mental processes have gotten as well.

"Alpha, Delta?" Muni asked. "Is that not Greek letters -- the Greek alphabet?"

"You're a smart girl, Muni. But I think we can do without you two for a little while."

He nodded over the table to his friend again and suddenly I was slumping sideways, into the empty space where Muni was -- were Muni had been. I'm sitting in the booth with two guys and nobody else. No Muni, no Hanna, but a picture that Hanna was holding in her hand flutters down onto the table. And now I know for sure I've gone mad. Especially when I hear the slap of imploding air as it rushes in to fill the empty voids where the girls' bodies had been. Alpha smiled at me.

"Nice to meet you, Judith." He picks up two or three of the photos on the table and pushes them down between the cleavage at the top of my halter as if he was dropping postcards into a mail box. "You're right. We do need a real woman -- again. And now we've found her we can put on a real show with her, right here, right now."

I didn't know for a fact that I was in deeper shit than I could ever imagine -- but that's the way I'd have bet.

"Who -- who are you guys?"

It's dark skinned Delta who answered -- with a grin: "Us? We're the boys from Belteguese."

By now some of diners have totally lost interest in the big game on the two giant TV screens. They're staring at the boys with the oddly alike faces and feeling the tension in the air. There are also a couple of tables nearby where the occupants are desperately trying to believe that somehow they weren't watching when Hanna and Muni got up and walked out. Even though they know they saw two human beings suddenly and quietly stop existing, their minds refuse to accept it -- and I know exactly how they feel.

"Belteguese?"

"It's a star -- Alpha Orionis. In the Orion nebula. An orange supergiant. One of the brightest stars in the sky. Four hundred and twenty five light years away. The Arabs call it the hand of al-jauza -- we call it home."

"Home? You're aliens!"

Delta was enjoying himself: "Well, personally I was born and raised in Nebraska, which is pretty well off the planet, I admit."

He waves his hand around to indicate the other boys sitting down at the booth. They're taking up all the seating space on the three benches around the table, pushing me into the middle of the center one, Alpha beside me on one side, Delta on the other. I suddenly realize one of the white dudes has a face I haven't seen before: he must have been the one pointing the camera at Ms X. There's always one in every group, the poor schmuck who does the chores first and gets to the fun last. Even when you're a superman you can still be small potatoes. But this is no time for philosophy.

"Nebraska? Then what the hell is this talk about Belteguese?"

"Well, we think that's where Dad came from. You've heard all the talk about crashed alien space ships?"

I nodded, dumbly.

"It's a load of crap. All the government has ever found is one alien body underneath a moving glacier on Ross island in the Antarctic. A body that had been under the ice for maybe a hundred and sixty thousand years. Nobody would ever have known it was there except for a huge magnetic anomaly it was throwing off."

"A magnetic anomaly. Like in . . . "

All the boys around the table grinned at me. "That's right. If the geophysicists at McMurdo base had never read '2001' they might not have taken much notice of that anomaly. I think Mr Clarke would be very pleased to know his story was a direct lead in to the discovery of an alien artifact. Even if it was only some kind of bracelet with the ability to twist magnetic lines of force and an engraved star chart with Belteguese in the center of it."

"But . . .?"

"Oh yes, and there was the body I mentioned. Wearing the bracelet. One well preserved body that certainly wasn't homo sapiens but wasn't so far away that cloning was impossible. Our father."

"You were cloned?"

"I told you, Judith, we're the boys from Belteguese. The ice boys."

I was stunned, I was blown away -- and I'd been thinking I was maybe onto a big story! Jesus Christ!

A very tall guy with lots of muscle underneath his casual shirt came over from the nearest table across the walkway.

"Who are you guys, and where the hell are the two girls that were just here? What's going on?"

He was staring at the photos stuck halfway down my cleavage. The guy knows they've been put there to humiliate me and he can't understand why I'm so frightened that I'm afraid to touch them.

The Afro boy sitting at the end of the table looks up at the intruder and points a finger at him: "You've heard of David Copperfield? Well, we do a magic show like his. The girls are part of our act and they're rehearsing right now. But you can have a sneak preview of what we do."

The big guy gasped and grabbed at the top of his pants as they started to slip down. The belt loops were empty. A key ring that was hanging from his belt fell down, hit his knee and dropped to the floor. As suddenly as it had disappeared the belt was back again. The guy's hands jerked away from it as if it might give him an electric shock. The Afro boy picks up the keys and hands them back politely to the big guy.

"Here, stick around and watch the rest of the show. It's real cool, I promise."

The guy took the keys as though he'd never seen them before, then shook his head and backed away like a dog that had run into a rattlesnake. Whatever happened to me from now on I knew this was one knight in shining armor who wouldn't be coming back on another rescue mission.

"How can this be?" I wanted to know. I was asking anybody who was willing to answer me and I desperately need some kind of an answer.

"You want to write our story, Judith?" Delta responded. "You really want to know it all? Because you must have figured out by now that we're government property. All that shit about Priscillian studies was only a front for the organization that's been hand rearing us ever since we were born. Hell, our mothers are on bigger pensions than the President gets when he retires. And we're supposed to be the biggest secret there ever has been."

That statement knocked me flat: "A secret! Is this the way you keep things secret?" With one hand I held up a photo of the Queen of the rednecks getting it up her big red ass and the other hand I waved towards the crowd of people staring into our booth.

Delta grinned: "I guess we've finally decided to come out of the closet. There's a time in a guy's life when he needs to cut loose and there isn't much in the way of good looking girls on Hyde's Island. See, what the government geeks never really understood was that dear old Dad might have looked halfway human but he must surely have had some abilities that you humans don't."