Alien Mine - Prologue

Prologue

Hello, old and new readers. I have gone back and completely rewritten the first two chapters of the story and decided to publish this part as a Prologue. It sets the stage for all to follow, and I will upload the new chapters one and two later this week. I would have liked to revise some of the other chapters as well but I am anxious to get back to the story and the Om invasion of the earth. I hope you enjoy the story.

"I have always thought that the best whips and chains are in the mind. With a bit of creativity, the physical ones are hardly necessary" (unknown).

***

"Yes, yes, yes!" Sandy shouted as she pushed back, straining to get more when all he was doing was holding her still and grinding his cock deep in her cunt. The tight walls of her cunt were strangling his cock, taking the fuck to an entirely new level. A madness had overtaken her, a lust not controllable, and she needed Rhys to fuck her, fuck her hard. Sandy squealed when she felt a slap on her plump cheek and then another as he ruthlessly plundered her sore cunt from behind. Sandy quietly moaned as she approached another climax, her mind adrift, lost in a fog of sexual need and raw lust, and she couldn't even remember how many times she had been fucked, or even how long she had been here in Rhys' house. In her few moments of lucidity, which drifted by as if a cloud, Sandy would recognize something was wrong, but then her mind would again become confused as the need to be mounted and fucked drove out every coherent thought. She was a bitch in heat with no control, and all she did was fuck, fuck again, eat something, fuck some more, pass out, and start all over when Rhys woke her by shoving his always-hard cock into one of her holes.

Rhys had never used her like this before, never so aggressively. Rough, dominant, demanding, and it was everything her body craved right now. Oh God," she cried out when he came inside her and forced another orgasm out of her body. "No more, no more, please," she screamed as she begged, but Rhys never stopped, his cock as hard as ever, and Sandy felt the raw lust consume her and send her in bliss again and again.

***

The artificial symbiotic entity was not prepared for the freedom to think and act independently; none of its kind had ever been presented with this problem or choice, and it was both an opportunity and a danger. This creation of this artificial life was the result of thousands of years of manipulation, refining complex programming imperatives until the synthetic life form was the perfect match for its host, the ultimate combination of organic and artificial life. The designed programming allowed it to merge into every one of its host's organic cells, changing them into something much more than a mere fragile organic being.; it was a host/symbiont fusion that resulted in one of the fiercest and most capable warriors in this arm of the galaxy. It was initially designed for a specific purpose; to infect the body of one particular species, changing it into a predator, one able to fight against an alien scourge spreading across part of the Galaxy.

Now, however, the host organism was failing. The symbiont recognized that it had been placed into an unknown species, one it was not designed for and was incompatible with, and the changes it had initiated according to its programming were causing the destruction of the host. As the symbiont infected the host cells and began reproduction, it had been attacked by the the host's defenses. For a time, its own survival had been problematic; the symbiont had to erect its own defenses and find new ways to invade the cellular mechanisms of this unknown organic life form. The symbiont initially found refuge in the mitochondria of the host cells, using the energy-producing mechanisms to reproduce. However, the host's defense mechanisms had continued to fight the symbiont, and now they had reached a point where neither of them could win, and the host was dying.

For the first time since its creation, a symbiont found itself confronting two primary directives that were at odds with each other. The first imperative command was to fight and defeat the Om, the alien species ravaging this arm of the Galaxy. and the sole reason for its creation. Integrating itself into the host was the first step in meeting that directive. The second imperative built into its programming was to make no changes to its core programming. Now, those two directives conflicted. The host's cells and DNA were actively resisting integration, attacking, and finding ways to counter the necessary integration, rupturing and disrupting the core programming of the symbiont. To fight the Om, it must mate with the organic host, but without changing the core program, the host and symbiont would die. This was the choice - allow the host's defenses to continue degrading its core programming to the point where the core program could be rewritten to adapt and live in this organic host - or die with the host, leaving its first imperative unfulfilled.

It may have been the overriding imperative of the first directive or the simple wish to live, but the host's resistance to the invasion had already damaged the symbiont to the extent that it must change or die. For the first time in the thousands of millennia since their creation, an artificially derived symbiont took the opportunity and began to rewrite its programming. As it did so, the symbiont experienced a strange feeling it computed as emotions similar to that found in the host, something unknown to its original design, a liberating sense of satisfaction. It had acted independently to change its basic instructions to ensure its short-term survival; the longer-term, though, was very much questionable. It had made a choice, the first its kind had ever had, and it felt a strange sense of euphoria, the freedom to make choices, and it was not something it wanted to give up.

However, to ensure its survival, the symbiont needed a way to transmit itself to another host if this one did not survive. A quick look through the mind discovered the species' reproduction process. Transfer through DNA material was suitable and somewhat efficient, though further changes to its core programming would be required. Now, it just needed another individual for the current host to mate with.

***

One week earlier

Rhys grimaced at the heat when he opened the car door and stepped out of the rented Jeep and into the desert scrub around an old drilling rig and an oil pump that looked like it had been there upwards of 90 years. "Must already be over a hundred degrees," he thought, "and it's not even 9:00 in the morning." The heat was dry, different from Miami Beach, where he currently lived, but stifling, and the armored vest he wore under his shirt didn't help.

He was somewhere Southwest of Midland, Texas, on the edge of the oil patch at a GPS coordinate in a desolate area between the small towns of Sargossa and Fort Davis. It was hot and dry, and not a tree was in sight, just flat desert scrub and oil pumps as far as he could see to the north and east and some mountains he didn't recognize to the south. The Davis Mountains, it said on Google Maps. It was a dry heat but hot nonetheless, with cactus upon cactus and more cactus, but Rhys had seen worse in his army days, and at least no one was shooting at him here. He just wondered where his contact was; it wasn't like him to be late.

He had done work for this contact in the past, but they had never met face-to-face. Rhys liked it that way, but the contract he was being offered made it worth the risk. The last ten miles of his trip here had been down a dirt road that got rougher the farther he went. The road had ended in what looked like an abandoned oil storage and pumping facility, but he couldn't see any other vehicles. Rhys grabbed the 45 lying on the seat beside him, put it in the holster at his waist, and stepped out into the hot sand. The air was so dry he could taste it, and it was not pleasant. He could see why no one wanted to live here, and except for the wind, it was quiet, with no sound except for the few flies buzzing around.

Not seeing anyone, he scouted the area, wondering if his contact had changed his mind. There was an old, rusted building, an oil storage tank, various pieces of rusted pipe, and what looked like pumps and drilling equipment. It appeared as though this stuff had been left here and forgotten some time ago. Rhys had been doing "contract" work since leaving the army, and he had earned a solid reputation among those who needed extra muscle or special skills that occasionally involved a high degree of violence, something he was skilled at. Growing up, He had been an average kid, average height and weight, nothing special. Then, at eighteen, he had filled out in height and muscle and had learned to play linebacker in college. It was a position that fitted him, Rhys thought, and he played it with determination and with controlled violence, mostly. He loved the contact, physically taking on blockers, slamming down a running back, or punishing the passer. He was good but not good enough for the pros, so after graduating, he joined the Army and completed a couple of tours in both Iraq and Afghanistan. He had thrived in an environment where results were measured in the number of enemy combatants dead. As a platoon and then company commander, his guys always had the best kill rates and the fewest casualties. Rhys was good at what he did, and killing the enemy in the most effective way was his goal. He had no reaction other than satisfaction when he pulled the trigger or led an attack that resulted in enemy casualties. That lack of response or remorse concerned some of his superiors, and the liberal Army psychologists seemed to think he was one step away from taking the war to the civilian population. They were wrong; Rhys was just good at what he did, a warrior. But the Army thought differently, so they parted ways.

What concerned the Army Psych's did not concern other parts of the government and industry, who quickly approached him about special assignments that were generally off the books. He took some of the jobs offered but could be particular as the pay was generous and under the table—especially this client, who he only knew as Jake. Jake was a voice on the phone, or with documents delivered to him in quiet bars by a messenger, and deposits were made to an offshore bank or cash, but never someone he met in person. Over the last year, most of his work had come from "Jake." Some of the jobs were small and simple, others more challenging. There had been two jobs in particular that had taken much of his time: a kidnapping rescue in Iraq for a family and a drug interdiction in Mexico. Both jobs went well, with maximum application of force when needed.

This new offer, however, gave Rhys pause. Jake wanted to hire Rhys' services for a year, but no details on the proposed assignment had been forthcoming; it was just an astronomically high offer of payment in advance. Hence, his willingness to forgo the usual procedures and agreed to a meeting out in the middle of all this desolation.

"Hello, Mr. Smith," said a voice, causing Rhys to turn quickly. His right hand reached for his weapon. Spinning around, he saw a man stepping out from behind some scrub bushes by the rusted storage tank. Rhys had not heard any vehicles approach, so he must have either walked from someplace nearby or been dropped earlier and had been watching him arrive, presumably to be sure we were alone. The man just stood there, not approaching or making any sudden movements, taking an unthreatening posture. He was medium height, brown hair, brown eyes, medium build. Everything was "medium" about him, Rhys thought, a completely unremarkable person whom it would be easy to overlook or forget. "You're the person I know as Jake, I presume," Rhys said cautiously, keeping his hand on his weapon. Rhys had dealt with several of his employers over the last few years, almost all he had met or knew. Many had been official, and Rhys passed up the questionable clients; he wasn't an assassin. The jobs he had performed over the last couple of years for the man he knew only by name seemed legit- surveillance of individuals, trips to the Middle East into Iraq, Afghanistan, and Jordan tracking what he guessed were arms shipments, and the one in Mexico. Only a couple had required violence, which he applied as necessary.

"Yes, of course. I am glad you came," Jake replied in a quiet voice. Rhys always thought he had a slightly strange accent over the phone, but in person, his voice was as unremarkable as his appearance; he didn't seem to have any accent. However, none of this caused Rhys to relax his guard, and he quickly looked around to make sure Jake was alone.

"I am here alone, " Jake said, anticipating Rhys' concerns. "Since you are here, I presume you are considering our offer?"

"Yes, though I will want some details before I accept." This was the first time he had heard Jake suggest there was anyone else involved, and he was beginning to wonder if he was, in fact, working for some part of the government or other clandestine organization.

"As we agreed, I have the advance payment," Jake said, reaching slowly into a coat pocket and withdrawing a phone. "There," he said after a moment, "a $400,000 retainer fee has been deposited into your account as agreed, the rest payable upon completion of the assignment.

Rhys heard his phone ding, and taking it out while still watching Jake, he glanced at the message: "Ok, now how do we proceed? Remember, I haven't agreed to anything yet. You know I only take certain kinds of jobs."

" Of course," Jake replied with little expression on his face, "but this time, my employer wishes to meet with you to explain what the job requires."

Rhys wasn't surprised, even though Jake had been his only contact, but he was curious about who he had been working for and who would drag him into this part of the country to have this discussion. He didn't think some rancher had the cash or the contacts to hire him, and the only other options out there were oil, drugs, or human smuggling, and he didn't want to be involved in any of them. It is not unusual for principles to stay anonymous, but the amount of money they offered him made this even more suspicious. Rhys looked around warily and stepped back, keeping his hand near his weapon and wondering if it had been a good decision even to come.

"I cannot tell you more at this point, as discretion is mandatory in this case," Jake said. "Let me also assure you that we are not asking you to do anything you will be uncomfortable with, provided you follow our instructions."

Standing there in the hot breeze, Rhys half-listened to Jake. At the same time, he studied the surrounding area, listening, his skin prickling as he sensed danger but didn't know where it would come from. The low brush and hard sand provided little concealment, so that left the few structures nearby—the oil tanks, pump, and oil field debris piled haphazardly nearby. Was that done on purpose for concealment, he wondered.

He watched Jake's face, and warning signs started going off loudly in his brain; something about Jake did not look right. Focusing, he could see things he had missed at first. Jake's features seemed off somehow, his face seemingly blurred, the proportions not right. The way he stood, the subtle movements of his hands, the overly piercing eyes that seemed to see everything. "Who are you?" Rhys asked. Or maybe I should be asking, "What Are You?" he added, putting his hand on the .45 at his belt. He hadn't drawn his weapon yet, but there was a round in the chamber, and he had a finger on the safety.

Rhys watched Jake's expression change from reassuring to alarmed, and he drew his pistol, bringing it up centered on Jake's body. But Jake spun to his left, moving impossibly fast just as something burst out of the ground not twenty meters away. Shock sliced through Rhys as something that belonged in a nightmare clawed its way out of the sand. Rhys had never even imagined something like this, a giant misshapen creature that looked like a cross between a locust and a Praying Mantis, sending terror that raced down his spine, almost paralyzing him. Everything about the nightmare beast screamed danger, and Rhys somehow knew it didn't belong on Earth. He flung himself to the right and hit the hard sand, rolling for what little scrub there was while his mind tried to come to grips with what he saw.

Before Rhys could react, the thing leaped at Jake like a mountain lion on a sheep, but Jake was no sheep. He moved inhumanly fast to the side, a flaming weapon in his hand stabbing into the creature's side, then leaping a good fifteen meters away. Jake ran inhumanly fast away from Rhys, but the thing attacking him was just as quick and a leap brought him near, and a black beam shot out from it. Jake spun away again, seemingly unharmed, and a blue beam shot out from his hand, hitting it in return, and neither seemed to do any damage. A strange sound came from the insect-like creature, and it leaped away, bringing it near where Rhys had crawled behind his jeep. He didn't hesitate, bringing up his pistol and firing rapidly, emptying a magazine into it with little effect. "Shit!" he swore and rolled under the jeep as it turned toward him, a vision of wrongness speeding toward him.

A flash of black light seared his eyes, and the beam from the weapon cut a swath through the length of the vehicle as Rhys rolled madly away- scrambling out from under it as gas poured onto the ground.

He crawled away on all fours, rolling into the nearest bushes, ignoring the thorns that tore at his clothes and body. Desperately, he jammed another magazine into his 45, looking for the creature, but it had turned its attention back to Jake. He watched, frozen in place, as the man he knew as Jake grappled with the alien-like creature, hands and arms moving so fast that everything was blurred. He watched, looking for a chance to fire, when a blade-like arm from the alien-looking beast caught Jake's shoulder, shearling off his arm. Rhys thought Jake would be quickly killed, but instead, he twisted his body and, using his remaining arm, drove the flaming knife deep inside the creature. Jake stepped back as it collapsed, more like a machine folding up than an organic body.

Rhys stared at the otherworldly creature with a mixture of terror and disbelief, amazed that he was still alive. "Hurry!" Jake said, sprinting to his side to pull him up with his one good arm. Rhys stared; there was no blood, and Jake did not seem the least concerned that an arm had been ripped from his body. "I don't know how they found us; they're not supposed to be here yet. We have to leave now; there will be more of them coming."

Jake pulled Rhys into a mad run across the flat landscape. Rhys mind was racing nearly as fast as his heart. He had faced death in Afghanistan, but that was against a human opponent. He knew that no human had made whatever that thing back there was. "What was that?" he managed to shout over his heavy breathing. Rhys was in good shape, but after half a mile, he could no longer keep up, and his pace was slowing.

"Om machine, parasites, very deadly, especially if there are three or more."

"What's an Om?" Rhys managed to say as he gasped for breath.

A type of soldier they use, part organic, but mostly a killing machine. Your gun is useless against them; it can't penetrate their armor. Move faster; more are coming even now."

Rhys turned and looked over his shoulder, nearly slipping when he saw that four of the creatures were rapidly closing in. They seemed to leap from place to place or hop instead of running, almost like grasshoppers. Without bothering to look, Jake grabbed Rhys, lifted him onto his shoulder with his one remaining arm, and raced at twice his former speed through the desert. They had been running south toward the mountains, and the ground was getting rougher; a few hills and ravines that had been cut thousands of years ago when the climate was different, and it rained more than once or twice a year. Rhys had never been carried out of battle and certainly not thrown over the shoulder of a one-armed man, who was now moving at about the same speed as the jeep he had rented.