"Red Time" by Sean W. McDonell

Every few years They came. Descending from the sky, They, the aliens, destroyed almost everything in their path. For a few nights, the world was in a period of chaos as the aliens attempted, once again, to wipe out all humankind. Their aggression was uncalled for, strange. They had come from out of the sky on evening and hung low above the skyscrapers.

They were the answer to every human's questions about intelligent life in the universe.

Until They fired.

Thousands had been massacred by bizarre alien weaponry. The military could barely damage their strange aircraft. They even tried using nuclear. But the aliens used their weaponry to intercept the missiles. The mysterious assailants were untouchable.

And so, for a few horrible months, they flew around the world, destroying humanity’s military, looting farm crops, eradicating small population centers and other things one would expect invading extraterrestrials to do. That period of carnage was dubbed, “Red Time.” But the strangest thing had yet to happen.

At the end of that terrible period of devastation, rather than enslaving the human race as almost everyone expected, they vanished.

But they returned, every six years, to wreak havoc.

And that was partly why Alex Brockman was starting his new job with the Conglomerate. The company had been the answer to the world’s prayers, during that unspeakable time. They took risks, and delivered supplies to people, built bunkers and weapons for them to use during Red Time. All they asked in return was a small amount of money in order to pay their workers.

The blessed corporation was comprised of almost every company in the world. They had special, under-ground safes that could hold anyone’s assets, for a price, protected from the aliens above. They owned everything, oil, food, services; it was impossible to find a single product without the Conglomerate logo stamped onto it. They made hundreds of billions of dollars a year. But they helped people.

And, more importantly to Alex, they maintained contracts during the Red Time. Most companies didn’t do that because half their work force was often killed (to be replaced by Conglomerate™ Busy Bot™ Mechanical Laborors, of course.) But the Conglomerate kept its contracts, and even paid their employees during the Red Time! So Alex guessed that, because of his assosciation with the Conglomerate, he was set for life.

Alex proudly walked into the public waiting area: a shining, white room, and proceeded to the factory floor through an underground tunnel. He strode into what appeared to be the entrance to a warehouse; a towering, high-roofed room with a pair of massive, steel-plated Conglomerate™ Duradoors™ acting as an entrance to whatever strange workings were behind them. He knew he couldn’t just enter.

Alex glanced around the massive space and quickly spotted a man in a booth beside the door. He was fat, not paying any real attention to Alex’s presence, reading a Playboy, one of the few magazines that had managed to stay in print, and smoking a cigar. God! Alex thought, Even their low-paid goons can afford cigars! He strode confidently over to the booth. The man inside looked up.

“Yeah?” he said gruffly.

“I’m here for my first day at work,” Alex proudly announced.

“Name?” the man grumpily asked.

“Alex Brockman,” Alex beamed.

“Okay, Mr. Brockman,” he typed on an ancient computer for a few moments before he glanced up, “Head right in.” Alex turned and walked towards the rack of work helmets, boots and vests when the man looked up from his magazine.

“Not there,” he pointed a chubby finger at an entranceway beside the towering gates, “There.”

“Um,” Alex was sure he job was inside the factory; maybe it was an alternate entrance. But the Conglomerate knew what it was doing, so he decided to go through the door, “Thanks.” He walked over to the door, perplexed.

“I’d hurry up if I were you,” the man spoke, “You’re late for your meeting.” Alex hurried through the door. Once it was closed behind him, he looked at his watch. It clearly read 8:55. If anything, he was five minutes early for work. He resolved to have his watch reset as soon as he got home as he hurried down the bland, grey-walled corridor.

Alexander Brockman rushed through the Conglomerate public greeting area and straight down a concrete corridor. He was late for a very important meeting, and his plane from Boston had been delayed and his limo had failed to meet him at the airport. He couldn’t believe he was late.

His first day on the job with J.R. Spool the Third, the grandson of the founder of the Conglomerate. Alexander decided he would have to apologize explicitly for this, and spent his journey down the concrete tunnel planning his apology. He glanced at his watch, 8:55. He would have to apologize very profusely.

His briefcase in hand, his apologies prepared, he strode quickly into a large, concrete entranceway to some odd factory floor. He guessed this was the mechanical manufacturing building. He scanned the room until he spotted a man in a control booth.

He ran over and began talking in a quick and agitated voice.

“Excuse me,” he started, “I’m very, very late. Can you please direct me to the meeting room?”

“Pardon,” the man glanced up from his magazine, “Can y’all speak a bit slower?”

Alexander sighed and complied, sarcastically leaving spaces in between his words, “Please sir, I’m very late for a meeting with Mr. Spool. Can you please direct me to the meeting room?”

“That’s better,” Alexander’s sarcasm had obviously flown over the man’s head, “Name please.”

“What?”

“Name please,” the man affirmed.

“Oh, um, Alexander W. Brockman,” he replied and glanced at his watch, “Could we please hurry up?”

“Just hold your horses,” the man dropped his magazine and began typing on an old, dusty computer. Then he promptly stopped.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he sputtered, “But… Did you say Alex Brockman?”

“Yes, it’s my name,” Alexander replied.

“Then… it says here you’ll start tomorrow.”

“Here, I have papers,” Alexander opened his briefcase and pulled several papers. The man glanced over them.

“Oh no… go! Quickly!” the man motioned to the door, “I sent in the wrong man!”

Alex had entered the meeting room and was greeted by a tall, bearded man in a blue business suit who was smoking a cigar. Several other men in business suites sat around a large, oval table.

“Why, hello there,” the man smiled from cheek to cheek, and spoke quickly, “J.R. Spool, pleased to make your acquaintance. You must be Mr. Brockman. Mind if I call you Alex?”

“Mr. J.R. Spool?” Alex sputtered, “President and grandson of the founder of the Conglomerate?”

“Why, who else?” Spool smiled. Alex was startled. J.R. Spool the Third. The J.R. Spool! He was the saviour of billions of people! And Alex was in his presence!

“Dressed casual, I see!” Spool joked at Alex’s dirty apparel and slapped him on the back, “Well, I like a man with different tastes!” Spool quickly shrugged off his overcoat, slung it over his shoulder and untucked his shirt.

“Well,” he continued, “As you can see, this is Mr. Brockman. I’ve heard he has great ideas for our next marketing campaign! Now, would you like to take the tour?”

“Um, sure.” Wow, Alex thought, blown away by the presence of J.R. Spool, the J.R. Spool is taking me on a personal tour of the factory!

“This way!” he opened a large, wooden door that revealed a black hallway. Alex walked through with Spool following him.

“Are they coming?” Alex motioned to the men in the previous room.

“Nah!” Spool sneered, “They’re my corp-goons. They’ve already taken the tour.”

Two minutes later, the corp-goons were in a heated discussion about what colour scheme they should use for their latest marketing campaign.

“The thing is,” one of them, spoke on the verge of shouting, “People fear the colour red. Red Time, get it? And…” He was cut off as a man burst through the door.

“Excuse me,” he panted, “I’m… I’m Alexander Brockman. The doorman accidentally sent the wrong person in.” He glanced around the room. “Where’s Mr. Spool?”

“What are these?” Spool had taken Alex down through an elevator to a level below the factory floor. Machinery Alex didn’t recognize was constructing machines he had never seen in the Conglomerate catalogues. He was now looking at one that was floating in a vat of green-tinted fluid. “And what’s it floating in?” he added.

The machines were odd. They had one upside-down triangle for an eye, four short, clawed legs and a large, pod-shaped body. Brown tentacles spread from his back and floated in the fluid.

“Oh, that. Well, you should know,” Spool turned around and stood beside Alex, looking at the bizarre robot, “It was your idea.”

“Huh? I don’t get it,” Alex stammered, confused.

“You know, have the aliens come out of their UFOs for once. And make sure their slimy, we did some research and people seemed to respond more acutely to slimy aliens than dry ones,” Spool explained.

“Aliens? I don’t understand,” Alex’s confusion growing by the moment. Spool sighed.

“Come on, follow me,” he motioned for Alex to follow, “You see, years ago, before the Red Time. My grandpa had struck it rich in the Billion Bucks lottery.”

“I’ve heard the rumours about that,” Alex recalled, “A mysterious lottery held every century, and the jackpot was one billion dollars.”

“Yeah, well, he used it to found the Conglomerate, slowly purchasing companies until he had quite a large portion of the market under his wing. But that still wasn’t enough. He was savvy, and realised that it wouldn’t be long until he started losing money. So he had an idea. He would create a new market place, perfect for his products and services.”

“And what was that?” Alex asked. Spool led him into an elevator. It lurched downwards.

“Well, he owned large portions of the grocer markets, but not much of the sources. People could get food from other places. And other companies still had more materials and manpower in the construction sector. Another biggie was energy; oil companies are pretty damn expensive to purchase.” The elevator reached the lowest level.

“All those industries were the first to go,” Alex frowned.

“Don’t you get it?” Spool said, irritated, as the elevator door opened, “He created the Red Time.” Alex looked into a hangar bay. Eight of Their ships were lined up. Technicians and robots scuttled around below them, making adjustments and repairs. Alex watched in horror as a small automatic wagon pulled an alien laser cannon over to one of the ships.

“We’re planning to have Red Time a little earlier than usual,” Spool chuckled.

Just then, a door beside the elevator swung open and a man in a blue suit ran through, panting heavily.

“Who the hell are you?” Spool angrily asked, as he noticed the look of shock on Alex’s face.

“S…sir,” the man coughed, “I…I’m Alexander Brockman… this man…” he pointed to Alex, “…the doorman accidentally sent him in. He’s supposed to start work in the factory tomorrow.”

“What?” Spool glanced from Alex who was edging slowly towards the elevator and Alexander who was wearing a blue suite, and promptly fainted.

Alex watched as the other Alex ran to his side. Spool’s eyes fluttered. He pulled Alexander’s ear close to him, and whispered into it. Alexander then took something small from the man’s pocket and stood up, holding the object behind his back.

“I’m sorry,” he solemnly stated, “But you know too much.” Alex turned to run, looking back he saw Alexander raise something that looked like a strange gun and…

Alex woke up on a street corner. He was wearing a dirty jacket, a street light glowed orange in the night. A thin layer of snow was falling from the sky. Alex leaned up. He had been asleep on a bench. He grabbed one of the snowflakes in his hand. It wasn’t cool. In fact, it was hot. Alex ground it and it turned into a fine dust. Then he realised the air was also warm.

He glanced up at a streetlight. It wasn’t on. Then he realised the source of the heat and the glow. The buildings around him were burning. Immense flames engulfed them. Alex probed his memory, trying to find anything. Nothing. Blank. He circled around in horror at this discovery. Something was wrong. He knew it.

Suddenly, a massive red disk shot overhead, shooting at a pair of helicopters that were in pursuit. Then it came to him: what was wrong. It was Red Time.