Project Enterprise

T
wo short stories
from the
Project Enterprise
universe.

“Men in Jeans”

A romantic suspense mystery

Richard Daniels thinks life can't any stranger working at Area 51until he gets assigned to find out where a Houston area SF writer gets the ideas for her books. Should be an easy assignment—if it weren't for the dead guy in her back yard and the non-business related ideas she's giving him. (Originally appeared in the
Death in Texas
anthology)

“Steam Time”

A romantic steampunk adventure

The man formerly known as Tobias Smith hadn't planned to ride along with Dr. Everly and his Medicine Show. Grifters gave him a pain their elixirs couldn't heal. But he was headed to Marfa, too. And Everly's son turned out to be a really a fine looking damsel—one in distress when the ghost lights of Marfa bump them into an alternate reality complete with an automaton gang and airships. Could he be the good guy? Be the hero, save the day and get the girl? (Originally appeared in
Dreamspell Steampunk Vol 1)

Other books in the
Project Enterprise
series

The Key

Girl Gone Nova

Tangled in Time

Steamrolled

Kicking Ashe

W
hen Richard Daniels
started working at Area 51, he figured he'd see some weird stuff, but he never thought he'd get sent out on a gig with ET as his sidekick. They were Area 51's version of
Men in Black
, though they dressed in tee shirts and jeans. Blended in better.

Well, Rick blended in better. He flicked a glance at Kiernan Fyn, his extra terrestrial companion. He looked more biker than space guy. According to the guys who'd know, Fyn could kick ass in at least two galaxies. Maybe that's why no one had made him trim his dread locks to conform to military regs.

“Quiet,” Fyn said, staring at the house.

He should know. Rick shut off the engine, adding to the silence in the clearing. When he'd picked Fyn up, his wife said he was excited to get out of Area 51. He didn't look excited then. Didn't look it now. If his expression had changed in the last twenty-four hours, Rick had missed it.

“Yeah.” To fill the silence he added, “Maybe she's not home.”

No way to tell with the garage door closed. Place looked and felt isolated, though technically it wasn't. There were houses all around, but the lots were large, some close to half an acre. And the freeway was about five hundred yards through the trees. Not to mention freaking huge Houston, Texas, in every direction. According to one of the local guys, the neighbors were “Texas close.” Guess that meant they were in the same time zone.

“Maybe.”

That doubled Fyn's output from yesterday. Rick almost made a joke about him talking too much, but yesterday's joke hadn't gone well. No one could say Rick didn't learn from his mistakes.

If they'd been tracking terrorists, Fyn was the guy Rick would most want at his back. He was like seven feet tall, all of it solid muscle. A bit of overkill as backup for a visit to a writer, though.

Unless she was ET, too.

Or a traitor.

Or both.

Rick contemplated Fyn. No, even if she was all those things and more, he was still overkill.

Though it was hard to make the case she was innocent when her books nailed the Garradian history so perfectly. Only the names had been changed. Been better for her if
The Harradian Chronicles
had been less popular.

Still, Rick couldn't figure out why Area 51 was interested. It's not like anyone outside of Area 51 knew about the Garradians—except the
Project Enterprise
expedition. It was scattered over a couple of galaxies, so he knew they weren't talking. They might be emailing, but they weren't talking, well, except to each other.

Rick turned his attention back to the author's house. It wasn't anything special. It huddled down in the trees and Texas scrub as if it weren't sure it had a right to be there. Looked a bit shabby except for the front door—a bright, unapologetic red.

J. E. Smith had only recently bought the property, so maybe it was her way of making her mark. Or maybe she just liked red. According to her driver's license. Jillian Elaine Smith was thirty years old, five foot six inches tall and weighed 135 pounds—though she'd probably skimmed a few pounds off her real weight. Rick had never met a woman who was honest about her weight. She had black hair and blue eyes, and the official photo, well, he'd have been hard pressed to pick her out of a lineup, based on that photo.

Not that he'd find her in one. No criminal record, not even a parking ticket. She had the normal amount of friends—male and female—and none of either had stayed overnight since the surveillance started. She appeared to be the right amount of reclusive for an author—or a person with something to hide.

Like the fact that Jillian Elaine Smith had died at birth.

Who was she really? What had compelled her to write the books? She'd never have popped up on the Area 51 radar but for the books. The ID grab was almost flawless. She'd even managed to create a false grade school trail. The geeks were still trying to figure out how. It's not like she could have stolen the ID in kindergarten.

Early surveillance had failed to unearth any connection to Area 51, but that didn't mean it wasn't there. It was their job to figure out just who and what Jillian Smith was—or wasn't. Someone further up the line would decide what to do about her. No one had told them exactly how to do anything without giving away what they knew, but no one had ever said his job would ever be easy. It helped to have low expectations. He just hoped they were low enough for this gig.

They slid out of the car and Fyn shadowed him up the walk. Guy cast a long shadow. Rick applied some pressure to the doorbell. When nothing happened, he applied some more and held it for a twenty count. Just before they could consider their next step, they heard footsteps approaching the door.

There was a peep hole, so Rick held up his ID so she could see it.

The door didn't open.

“What do you want?” The voice sounded muffled coming through the red door.

“We need to speak with you, Ms. Smith.”

The door opened a crack, the chain still on. Part of a face peered out the gap.

“Let me look at your ID.”

Rick put it in her hand. They weren't FBI but she wouldn't be able to tell. It was an authentic forgery.

“He doesn't look FBI.”

Rick looked at Fyn. She was right. He'd crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet, like someone who meant to stay as long as needed. If he'd really been FBI, the dreads would be long gone.

Rick tried to look safe and trustworthy. “You can call that number on the badge, ma'am. They'll vouch for us.”

“I'm sure they will.” Her voice sounded a bit dry, a bit cynical.

Lady wasn't a fool.

Another long pause, then the door closed—and opened again, this time without the chain. She stood in the opening. She had a cordless phone in her hand, her thumb on the speed dial. Just a guess, but he had a feeling nine-one-one was the number. Very smart lady. Pretty, too. Way better than her driver's license photo, but then most people were. Green light spilled into the dim hallway, highlighting the fact that she was, well, hot. Great features, great body in shorts and a tee shirt. Bare feet, the toes painted same red as the door. She had gathered her hair into an untidy mass on top of her head, but silken strands escaped to curl against creamy skin.

Her eyes were so blue, they almost looked purple.

Not what he'd expected from a writer. Or ET. Now if she was Mata Hari…

The eyes narrowed in suspicion and her body language was defensive.

“Why would the FBI be on my doorstep?”

Her gaze met his. Her chin lifted. Slid Fyn's way. Fyn stared back without speaking. Huge shock that. After what seemed like a long time, his shoulders lifted in what might have been a sigh. Or a shrug. A slight, a very slight frown formed between his brows.

“We'd like to talk to you, ma'am.” Rick smiled in a friendly way. Whether he wanted it or not, he'd been cast as Good Agent. Fyn was tailor made to be bad.

“So, talk.”

Since no one could see them, it was hard to make a case for taking it private. At this rate they wouldn't be inside before she wrote and released another book. Speaking of which…

“We were wondering where you get the ideas for your books, ma'am?”

Her jaw slackened. Her eyes widened. It didn't reduce her hotness factor at all.

“What?”

Rick wished he had a tie to tug on. Not that he liked wearing ties, but the moment seemed to call for a good tie tug. “We need to talk to you about your books, ma'am.”

“Is this some kind of weird joke?” She looked past them, as if she expected a camera crew to pop out of the underbrush. “A new reality show?”

“We're not allowed to joke, ma'am.” It took some work, but his lips didn't twitch.

She didn't try to keep hers from twitching.

“I—you…” She sighed. “You'd better come in.”

Finally she stepped back so they could enter. She kept the phone in hand, though.

Nothing unusual, or even that interesting, about the hall or the Great Room at the end of it. Rick wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, or would that be hoping? Maybe a picture of her home planet on the wall? Alien furniture. Her certificate for passing spy school? Garradian artifacts?

“I understand you only recently moved here?” He looked around. She'd settled in fast. He'd been at Area 51 for two years and he still had some unpacked boxes lying around.

She arched her brows, her body language still defensive. Or annoyed. Hard to tell those two apart sometimes.

“Can we sit down?” Rick had had twenty-four hours to come up with a plan. Twenty-four years wouldn't have been enough. He was basically winging it. So far couldn't feel any lift. More like they were running along the ground. Hitting stuff.

“Of course.” A pause. “Can I get either of you something to drink?”

Lot of reluctance in her voice, a bit of polite.

“Water would be nice.” Rick smiled.

“Yeah.” A pause from Fyn. “Thanks.”

He kept that up, he really would be talking too much.

She disappeared into the open plan kitchen that butted up against the Great Room. Fyn settled on the edge of a chair, like it was a hot seat, his hands clasped between his splayed knees.

When she returned, both men stood again and she handed them each a bottle of water. Rick twisted the top off and took a drink. The cold water felt good going down. Nevada was hot, but that was a dry heat. Texas was damp hot.

“Thank you, ma'am.” He waited for her to perch on the edge of a rocker, before resuming his spot on her couch. He let the silence grow, hoping she'd give him an opening.

She didn't.

“You been writing long, ma'am?”

She rubbed her temple as if it ached before she answered. “About five years.”

“You were a librarian, weren't you?”

“Yes.”

Most people would be babbling by now, spilling their guts. She just looked at him, her violet eyes wary.

Okay. He thought a bit, then tried, “Any reason why you chose science fiction?”

She looked away. Looked back. “It's what I like to read.”

“Really? You read science fiction? Why is that?”

Her lips tightened and he thought she'd lose it.

“Because I like it.”

Point to her. “Right.”

Fyn shifted restlessly. “Why'd it take you so long to answer the door?”

Wow, a whole sentence.

“I was reading. Science fiction. With my headphones on.”

He could see temper simmering in her eyes.

Fyn looked around. “Where's your book?”

Her fingers tightened around her bottle of water. “I was outside. On the deck.”

Fyn rose, pointed out the patio doors. “Out here?”

“Yes.” She snapped the word off.

“Mind if I look?”

He got a look that might be permission.

Fyn pulled the glass door back and stepped out. Rick could see the foot of a lounger, saw Fyn pace toward it and stop. He turned. Retraced his steps.

She stood up, her arms crossed again. “It's called
Games of Command.
Do you need me to tell you the plot to prove I was reading it?”

“Actually,” Fyn said, “I was wondering about the dead guy.”

H
e had to be joking
, but he wasn't. Jilly could see a dead guy, lying on his back at the foot of the stairs. He was dressed in a
Star Fleet
uniform—kind of ironic because it was a red shirt one—and had on a pair of Vulcan ears. He also had a huge scorch mark in the middle of his chest. This was in the center of a round body and below rounder surprised eyes.

“Do you know him?” Agent Daniels, the “good” agent, asked.

She heard him through an odd rushing in her ears, kind of like the surf going out and coming in. Should she call a lawyer? He asked the question again and finally she nodded.

Jilly looked at Daniels, sort of aware he was a nice looking guy, in a distant kind of way. He filled out the jeans well. And the tee shirt. Had great eyes. Green. Her favorite color. It was his eyes that convinced her to let them in. Now she wished she hadn't.

Bad agent was hot, too, and kind of wild, like one of the characters in her books. He looked great in jeans but would look better in leather and packing space guns.

“His name?”

She rubbed her temple. “I don't know.”

“You said you know him.”

This question came from bad agent. Something Fyn or Fyn something.

“He read my books. He'd show up at signings.” He'd dress like Jusan, one of her characters, and used that name when he sent her fan email. Did they realize how many people showed up at her signings? Her head started to ache.

“He was stalking you?” Daniels jumped on it like a cat on a mouse.

“In a benign way.” Jilly rubbed the sides of her arms. She turned abruptly and went back inside, but it felt like “Jusan” came with her, his image tattooed to the inside of her lids. She massaged her temple, feeling the ache sharper now. She really needed to get that checked. It seemed to be happening more often. Headaches had been the norm after the fender bender, no surprise there, since she'd banged her head against the steering wheel, but they'd eased up until recently. Now the pain wasn't enough of a distraction from her dead fan.