Read Online The Second Ship by Richard Phillips - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Phillips
Tags: Fiction, General, thriller, Suspense, Science-Fiction, Science Fiction Thriller, Sci-Fi, Science Fiction Horror, Techno-Thriller, Science fiction; American, Human-alien encounters, Space ships, Extraterrestrial beings, New Mexico, technothriller, thriller and suspense, Astronautics, techno scifi, Government Information, thriller horror adventure action dark scifi, science fiction action
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way.”
“You think Mom and Dad will buy what we told Principal Zumwalt?” Mark asked.
“It’s the truth,” said Jennifer.
“Yeah, but they know me,” said Mark.
Heather patted his back. “They also know how much we’ve all been studying together since you got grounded. They’ll believe us.”
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing. If we keep screwing up like this, it is only a matter of time until someone finds out about our ship.”
Jennifer sighed. “We’re just going to have to act more normally.”
“Yeah,” said Mark. “If anyone can remember what that’s like. Oh, speaking of acting normal, has anyone else noticed any coordination issues?”
“Like what?” asked Heather.
Mark took three coins from his pocket, placing them on the back of his right hand. As he wiggled his fingers, the coins began rolling end over end between his knuckles like a magician might do. As they watched, he flipped one over the other, hopping them up and down so that the coins spun between each other on the back of his fingers.
“Like this.”
Jennifer gasped. “When did you learn to do that?”
“I was messing around in study hall today.”
“Well stop it before someone sees you! Christ, you’re creeping me out.”
Mark flipped the coins in the air, snagging them in his fist and putting them back in his pocket. “I figured it must be more of that neural enhancement we got.”
Heather nodded. “Odd that I haven’t picked up the same benefit. What about you, Jen?”
“Are you kidding me? I tripped over my front step this morning and almost fell in the rose bushes. If Mark hadn’t caught me, I’d still be picking out thorns.”
Heather pursed her lips. “Hmm. All of us had our memory enhanced, but either some of the effects kick in more slowly for us or perhaps it’s some individually dependent behavior. After all, our minds are all unique. That might account for it.”
“That would make some sense,” said Jennifer. “Learning to use some skills may take a while.”
“Or maybe we are each more naturally adapted to certain things,” said Heather. “I guess only time will tell.”
The conversation came to a close as Heather’s mom pulled up in her red station wagon, the Grunge Buggy, as Heather called it. Heather slid into the backseat beside the twins. The good news about the ride home was that Heather’s mom bought their story. The bad news was they were going to have to repeat it for each parent, something that could lead to questions where uncomfortable half-truths would be the best they could give.
As they rounded a bend, her mother screamed and slammed on the brakes, throwing them hard against their shoulder harnesses as the sedan fishtailed. The car slid to a stop barely two feet from a pedestrian who stood calmly in the center of Pajarito Road, the main road between Los Alamos and White Rock.
The man was tall and thin, his greasy blond hair hanging down below his shoulders, his eyes so deeply set that the shadowed sockets looked empty. Clutched in his right hand, a crudely lettered sign screamed at the world.
BEG HIS FORGIVENESS. THE END OF ALL THINGS IS AT HAND!
As the strange man moved closer, Mrs. McFarland activated the door locks with an audible thunk. The man grinned, his mouth a horror of stained, misaligned teeth. As he reached for the door, Heather’s mom hit the gas, accelerating past him down the highway toward home.
Glancing back, Heather saw the ragged man standing in the center of the road still staring after them, the mad grin fixed upon his face as if it had been painted there. The feeling that he was still there grinning at her persisted, long after he had disappeared around the bend.
Chapter 11
Since 1970, when President Nixon presented the White House with an oval mahogany conference table, its massive surface had filled the cabinet room in the West Wing. This table had been the platform for countless meetings of the highest-ranking executives of the
“You think Mom and Dad will buy what we told Principal Zumwalt?” Mark asked.
“It’s the truth,” said Jennifer.
“Yeah, but they know me,” said Mark.
Heather patted his back. “They also know how much we’ve all been studying together since you got grounded. They’ll believe us.”
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing. If we keep screwing up like this, it is only a matter of time until someone finds out about our ship.”
Jennifer sighed. “We’re just going to have to act more normally.”
“Yeah,” said Mark. “If anyone can remember what that’s like. Oh, speaking of acting normal, has anyone else noticed any coordination issues?”
“Like what?” asked Heather.
Mark took three coins from his pocket, placing them on the back of his right hand. As he wiggled his fingers, the coins began rolling end over end between his knuckles like a magician might do. As they watched, he flipped one over the other, hopping them up and down so that the coins spun between each other on the back of his fingers.
“Like this.”
Jennifer gasped. “When did you learn to do that?”
“I was messing around in study hall today.”
“Well stop it before someone sees you! Christ, you’re creeping me out.”
Mark flipped the coins in the air, snagging them in his fist and putting them back in his pocket. “I figured it must be more of that neural enhancement we got.”
Heather nodded. “Odd that I haven’t picked up the same benefit. What about you, Jen?”
“Are you kidding me? I tripped over my front step this morning and almost fell in the rose bushes. If Mark hadn’t caught me, I’d still be picking out thorns.”
Heather pursed her lips. “Hmm. All of us had our memory enhanced, but either some of the effects kick in more slowly for us or perhaps it’s some individually dependent behavior. After all, our minds are all unique. That might account for it.”
“That would make some sense,” said Jennifer. “Learning to use some skills may take a while.”
“Or maybe we are each more naturally adapted to certain things,” said Heather. “I guess only time will tell.”
The conversation came to a close as Heather’s mom pulled up in her red station wagon, the Grunge Buggy, as Heather called it. Heather slid into the backseat beside the twins. The good news about the ride home was that Heather’s mom bought their story. The bad news was they were going to have to repeat it for each parent, something that could lead to questions where uncomfortable half-truths would be the best they could give.
As they rounded a bend, her mother screamed and slammed on the brakes, throwing them hard against their shoulder harnesses as the sedan fishtailed. The car slid to a stop barely two feet from a pedestrian who stood calmly in the center of Pajarito Road, the main road between Los Alamos and White Rock.
The man was tall and thin, his greasy blond hair hanging down below his shoulders, his eyes so deeply set that the shadowed sockets looked empty. Clutched in his right hand, a crudely lettered sign screamed at the world.
BEG HIS FORGIVENESS. THE END OF ALL THINGS IS AT HAND!
As the strange man moved closer, Mrs. McFarland activated the door locks with an audible thunk. The man grinned, his mouth a horror of stained, misaligned teeth. As he reached for the door, Heather’s mom hit the gas, accelerating past him down the highway toward home.
Glancing back, Heather saw the ragged man standing in the center of the road still staring after them, the mad grin fixed upon his face as if it had been painted there. The feeling that he was still there grinning at her persisted, long after he had disappeared around the bend.
Chapter 11
Since 1970, when President Nixon presented the White House with an oval mahogany conference table, its massive surface had filled the cabinet room in the West Wing. This table had been the platform for countless meetings of the highest-ranking executives of the
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