Submitted for the July 2025 prompt: Aliens Among Us

“Sitrep, overwatch,” I say into my mic.

 

“Thermals indicate a single Tango.”

 

“Strike teams, confirm ready.”

 

I listen to the litany of verifications, wondering again what Gupta thinks we’ll find at a posh lodge deep in Idaho’s Salmon-Challis forest — absolutely nowhere near the massive spaceship hovering over the Indian Ocean. Granted, two months on and all communication attempts remain fruitless, and when your boss is the richest man in the world, well…

 

The last confirmation arrives. I don’t hesitate. “Breach, breach, breach.”

 

* * *

 

“The Men in Black have arrived — finally!” the Tango says, adroitly cutting and reshuffling a deck of cards one-handed. Behind him, a muted news report rerun scrolls across a huge screen — a decrepit-looking alien landing craft disgorging three-foot furry birdlike creatures onto HMS Queen Elizabeth’s flight deck.

 

No one knows why, out of the vast international flotilla bobbing beneath the alien behemoth, they chose that one. It hadn't gained the Brits anything. The creatures merely imitated the sounds and actions of anyone they interacted with. Some internet influencer nicknamed them ‘Dodos’. Like I said: fruitless.

 

I remove my helmet and set it on an elegantly rustic table.

 

“Arlen Thorsson?” I ask. According to the file, he’s Chief Actuary at some elite insurance firm.

 

“Indeed, indeed,” he replies, before suddenly proffering the deck, cards flared face down towards me. “Pick a card, any card.”

 

His file said nothing about moonlighting in magic tricks. “My employer would like a word. He believes you have something of great interest to him.”

 

“And who is your employer?” he asks, shuffling the cards. He fans what seems like a pretty standard deck face up.

 

“Chan Gupta.”

 

He reshuffles. Fans again. Every card’s a joker. He gives me a shit-eating grin, unimpressed by my revelation.

 

“Fitzhugh,” I bark, “Full search. Standard—"

 

“Fine,” Thorsson interrupts. “Maybe Gupta will be more fun. Check the walk-in pantry’s industrial freezer.”

 

I nod and Fitzhugh starts issuing orders.

 

Thorsson begins walking a card back and forth across his fingers. “Nothing like object manipulation for practicing fine motor control.” With an almost imperceptible flick, he launches it.

 

I duck. Not fast enough. I peel the King of Clubs off my forehead.

 

“Do you feel like a king, Mr. Collins?”

 

Wait, how does he know my name? Abruptly, the world bifurcates, as if I’m seeing from two different perspectives simultaneously. Then a falling sensation.

 

Fitzhugh grabs my elbow, steadying me. “Sir, are you all right?”

 

I blink my eyes, everything normal again, and shake him off.

 

Seemingly of its own volition, the card flies back into Thorsson’s outstretched palm. He slips it into the deck and with a deft flourish the whole stack disappears. He gives me another wicked grin.

 

“Cuffs,” I say. “Then gag him and bag him.”

 

His smile drops.

 

* * *

 

Six hours later we’re in Ubiquity Corp’s Tulsa research center. Fitzhugh and four of Gupta’s bodyguards guide Thorsson, still hooded, to a steel table. A titanium ring with a short chain is welded on top. Fitzhugh locks the chain around Thorsson’s cuffs.

 

The body from Thorsson’s freezer lies on another table. Gupta scrutinizes it, frenetically muttering. “Roughly human-sized… vaguely insectoid… except three legs. Six arms. Fibrous skin, like a plant…, smells like licorice.”

 

When Gupta finishes his examination, he sits down across from Thorsson. I remove the hood. Gupta frowns at the gag, but I’m not apologetic as I unfasten it. Thorsson will vex Gupta soon enough.

 

Thorsson gives Gupta a wide grin, completely unfazed by his ordeal. “You must be Chan Gupta.” He extends a hand, but the chain stops him short.

 

Never one for niceties, Gupta asks, “How did you procure it?”

 

“It crashed nearby. Died soon after.”

 

“You didn’t contact anyone?”

 

“Got no service out there, but I figured someone important must’ve tracked it.”

 

“Indeed. NORAD recorded a sporadic track of something departing the mothership. Since the entire world runs my software and I have a backdoor, I made it disappear.”

 

Gupta glances at me. “Did he have anything?”

 

“Just these.” I extend Thorsson’s deck of cards.

 

Gupta takes them, expertly shuffles and deals two standard poker hands. “I made my first million at thirteen playing poker. A break from fixing AI coding problems.”

 

“I prefer magic tricks.” Thorsson reaches for the closest cards, but the chain’s still too short. He retreats, fingers nervously twitching.

 

“Why are you on Earth?” Gupta asks.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“The Atlantic spaceship is obviously misdirection. Are you an advance scout? A prelude to invasion?”

 

Thorsson’s smile widens. “You’re not worth the effort.”

 

“Not for our resources? Our water? Our women?”

 

“Hah! Water worlds and mineral-rich bodies are ubiquitous. Your biome rating is only 0.3 and dropping. Our betting markets predict you’ll make the planet uninhabitable in under fifty years.”

 

“A fugitive then?”

 

“No, I’m a contestant.”

 

Gupta frowns.

 

“I’m afraid your planet’s only real value is entertainment.” Thorsson switches to a deep announcer’s voice: “Eleven primitive worlds, eleven contestants! Who will be first to gain Total Control!?”

 

“We’re being recorded?”

 

“Hundreds of cloaked sensors.”

 

“What are you?”

 

“A thaumaturgist. Once I made a whole star disappear.”

 

“Not what you do. What are—"

 

With a click, Thorsson’s cuffs open. He scoops his poker hand and flicks the cards like shuriken. Struck, Gupta’s guards freeze into immobility. Fitzhugh’s card misses.

 

We unholster our pistols. Thorsson suddenly collapses, like a discarded ventriloquist’s dummy. Exactly the distraction I need. I shoot Fitzhugh through the eye.

 

Gupta stares at me, speechless.

 

“I’m a microscopic organism swarm,” I say, “though I can partition myself only so much.” I indicate his bodyguards. “Not enough of me in each for control, but sufficient for locking down gross motor function. Had to drain Thorsson, mind. My maximum for complete co-option is three.”

 

“Three?” Gupta croaks.

 

I nod at the cards he holds. He tries releasing them, but can’t.

 

“I keep memory access, but neural control assimilation eventually erases the original personality. Still, you’re a godsend.”

 

“This’ll be the fastest win ever,” I say, using Gupta’s vocal cords.