The Syndicate doesn’t begin with just Iris and it certainly won’t end with her. In Mark of the Void Agent Fuller of the ASB was introduced. Here’s a sneak peak at her adventures.
Are you ready for some aliens?
Agent Cannigan Fuller
It’s not every morning a girl wakes up to the sound of a poorly played theremin. That is, unless you’re me. The wavering crescendo of the vaguely electronic sound echoed through the tiny apartment I shared with the Star Trek enthusiast turned thereminist.
“Fergy! I thought we agreed no theme songs until after I had my coffee,” I grumbled, rolling out of bed. My pet Narflump whined at the loss of my warmth before falling immediately back to sleep. I’d yet to find something that could wake a sleeping Narflump. He’d slept the entire trip from Roswell to our new home. Carrying a fifty pound ball of fluff up a three-story walkup was not fun, and Fergy had been no help.
The music abruptly stopped and the pitter patter of six feet scurried across the living room floor. I opened my bedroom door to see the blur of bright green fur and teal scales pace around the room.
“It’s unfair to expect me to wait the day away when you’re the one being lazy,” Fergius Olkandrius Verdalduous the Sixth hissed. Fergius Olkandrius Veradlduous the Sixth was an unnamed species and presumed last of their kind. Better known as Agent Fergy, my roommate.
Fergy didn’t require rest, which made them an ideal analyst for the Syndicate. Unfortunately, their size prevented them from doing any field work. Fergy on their biggest day was the size of an overweight Norwegian Forest cat. No amount of alien technology or magic mumbo jumbo could fix that without significant cost and resources, something the Alien Secret Bureau didn’t have.
Fergy started cursing under their breath, marching around the living room. As the last of their kind, Fergy had one of the few languages that my implant didn’t recognize, something they took full advantage of.
“I had a long day, Ferg, let me sleep in for once before I start my new assignment,” I made my way blindly to the kitchen that was still to be unpacked, “You unpacked the theremin before the coffee pot?”
“You need more art in your life and less mind altering chemicals,” Fergy grumped, taking their place back on the sofa.
“Caffeine is hardly-”
“Do you want the morning run sheet or not?” Fergy interrupted me.
“Someone’s grumpy. Is everything ok Ferg?”
Fergy sighed, all four shoulders sagged, “I want to work in the field. I’m sick of following you from diner job to diner job and still being stuck cooped up in dinky apartment after dinky apartment. And when you get called on consulting gigs I don’t even get to come!”
“Glamour is expensive and-”
“Knowing the arguments doesn’t make it any easier. You get all the fun while I do all the work.”
Fergy didn’t do all the work, just all the boring work. I did all the actual work.
The redhead came into the diner with her own mug. She walked to the counter with all the confidence that apparently wearing a military uniform bestowed upon wearing it. Her sapphire blue eyes looked at me expectantly as she held out the white mug with green and red lettering spelling “Calories don’t count at Christmas.”
“Diner girl. Coff-ee. Hello” the redhead said with an eye roll.
“Oh, of course, ma’am,” I said in the most saccharine tone I could muster, “But I’m going to have to warn you that it’s July, and calories do in fact count.”
I couldn’t tell if her face was insulted, shocked, amused, or bored with my comment because I spun on my heel and walked back to the kitchen.
“See you met Redlight,” the haggard hasher Henry chuckled, “She don’t like new girls. Says they’re too slow.”
“I’ve worked in diners before, Henry,” I said getting another round of Unidentified Flavored Oatmeal for table four, “Why do they even eat here? It’s a tourist trap.”
“Eh, it’s a new base, the surrounding area hasn’t had time to respond to their eh, culinary needs,” Henry said adding a half dozen sausage patties ‘saucerage’ to the grill, “so they eat here, the food’s decent, and we’re open 24 hours.”
The Egg Files was the go-to dining destination for alien enthusiasts in the area. The food was themed with a twist. Sure, there were the basics flying sausages, pancakes shaped like alien heads, and bright green fizzy drinks; but Henry was truly an artist at turning the theme into an artform. His Unidentified Flavored Oatmeal was beyond compare. Every bowl was slightly different, unnameable flavor. Henry offered a $1000 reward for the first person to correctly guess the flavor in their bowl. No one in the 30 years he’d been the hasher had been able to correctly identify their bowl of UFOatmeal.
Thousands flocked to the region each year because of UFO sightings. Hundreds of kitschy small businesses with alien themes had been around since the late 1940’s. Great business for the small town of_____,___. Better business for the ASB. The Alien Secret Bureau was my actual job. Better known to the Syndicate, the larger secret government agency that we worked for, as the Apron Strings Brigade. We were an elite group of people tasked to keep the general public away from the truth about aliens.
Yup, that’s right, Men in Black are for real, but instead of Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones in badass suits with badder ass tech, you have me, Cannigan Fuller, in an ill fitting apron, slinging coffee for conspiracy theorists and apparently PMSing test pilots.
The job is trickier than it sounds, I assure you. The alien aficionados of the United States are a tenacious bunch. And with the advent of the internet and the rise of social media, it’s become more and more difficult to keep the truth from getting out there. You have to create just enough hoaxes to keep them away from real alien activity, and leave just enough unanswered questions to keep them busy. If they get too close to the truth, intergalactic war could break out. That’s a lot of weight on the shoulders of just a diner girl.
I filled Redlight’s mug with coffee from the petty decaf carafe. I really shouldn't. Rule number one of working with food is you never mess with people’s food. Especially coffee. I’d never give someone caffeinated coffee who asked for decaf. Messing with heart meds is no joke, but Redlight rubbed me the wrong way, so it was worth the “innocent mix up.”
She glared up at me when I poured but didn’t say anything more. She was sitting at a table of Top Gun rejects who clearly didn’t think much of her by the way they were excluding her from conversation. I can empathize. Despite being the top agent in the ASB, I was still treated as a pariah at the yearly conference at UFO Con each year.
“What’llyahave?” I asked the table pulling my pen from my hair.
The men go around the table giving me their standard orders and Redlight just stares at me. When I get to her she just looks up at me, “And you dear?” I ask. I knew the type. High powered women in the military earned respect. Demanded it, when not given. Calling her dear especially in front of her colleagues would rankle. Expecting ice queen, I got a smirk from her.
“I’m good with coffee, thanks,” she said.
Ah, she knew exactly the game I was playing. Well this would be an interesting turn at Egg Files. Hopefully better than my last gig.
“No man, the greys are the supreme beings in the universe. It’s like you don’t even read,” I glanced over to the table. Two guys, two three wolf moon t-shirts, two pairs of khaki cargo shorts with bulging pockets. Standard. I saw a trilby hat sitting on the empty seat next to one of the guys, while the other kept his firmly in place on his head. Perfect.
I was all set to leave them to their conversation until trilby wearer shook his head, “Nah, uh, the greys are just an amalgam of interstellar species created by the US government to throw us off the scent of the Kierlies. They’re the real supreme being.”
Consider my attention officially grabbed. I sidled over to their table, “Any thing else I can bring you fine gentlemen?” I rest my hand on hatless’s shoulder managing to turn my grimace at the damp cotton beneath my hand into a charming smile to the hatter, “And in case you’re curious,” I leaned down, “The Kierlies were a comic book in the 1950’s that inspired some of Isimov's books. I’m sure you knew that already though.”
Hat wearer sat up straighter, “Oh of course, I was just testing him.”
I smiled, “I take it you two are big followers of M.T. Julian’s?” Matthius Thaddeus Julian, aka my blog alter ego was one of the top rated alien conspiracy blogs in the world, “His latest piece about Area 52 was” I took a deep shuddering breath, “Mind blowing.”
Neither man was looking at my face, all four eyes were directly on my chest, “Well, I should get these orders back,” I said excusing myself from the table. Both men pulling out their phones to look up M.T. Julian. Just another day and another job well done for the ASB.