Ella`s Story
My Love From The Future
BOOK THREE
Chapter 6 : Patricia
Episode 28 : June 2020
Copyright © 2019-2025 Gary Brandt. All rights reserved.
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| Book 1 | Book 2 | Book 3 | Book 4 | Book 5 | Book 6 |
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#SciFi #ScienceFiction #Futuristic #SpeculativeFiction #MindBending #Interdimensional #Otherworldly #PortalFiction #CosmicEncounter #ParallelRealities#GirlPower #YoungHeroes #UnexpectedHeroes #Teamwork #BraveGirls #EldritchHorror #UnknownEntity #BeyondTheVeil #DimensionalRift #AlienMystery#SciFiAdventure #RealityWarp #ExtraDimensional #StrangePhenomena #SupernaturalSciFi
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The Washington, DC, hotel room hums with secrecy, its curtains drawn against the dawn of May 29, 2025.
Five Navy admirals, dressed in civilian clothes to avoid attention, sit in a semicircle, their faces a mix of curiosity and wariness.
The room, swept for bugs, feels like a vault.
Ella, Eileen, Roxana, Margaret, and Helana—whose first trip to DC sparkles with unvoiced excitement—stand poised, their unity a quiet force.
Commander Beaker, his tie loosened, introduces each girl to the brass, some of whom he’s meeting for the first time. “This meeting never happened,” Beaker says, his voice low.
“Top secret.” The girls’ reputation, infamous after their clash with rogue Air Force officers, precedes them.
The admirals, eager yet cautious, split off for one-on-one talks.
Ella sits with Admiral Paul, his white hair gleaming under the lamp, his smile warm but guarded. “You’re Ella,” Paul says.
“As pretty as they say.” “Happy to meet you, Paul,” Ella replies, her tone casual but sharp.
“How’s Ruth, your wife? She’s lovely.
And your granddaughter, Malinda, expecting soon, right?” Paul blinks, startled.
“You’ve researched me.
Didn’t know I was that public.” “I knew nothing until we sat down,” Ella says.
“That’s why we’re here—our ability to know things.
We can uncover almost anything.
Commander Beaker needs more funding for our project, which has outgrown its budget.
I’m here to help you find it.” “You know funding sources?” Paul says, laughing skeptically.
“You’re a million-dollar baby if that’s true.” “Project Cricket, Epsilon, Hard Target,” Ella says, her gaze steady.
“You canceled them, right?” Paul’s face hardens.
“I don’t recall those.” “You do,” Ella says.
“But you don’t know they went dark, still active.
Contractors siphon $50 to $100 million monthly, for years.
I’m writing their secret account codes here.
Since they’re canceled, you can redirect that money to active projects, like ours, yes?” Paul snatches the paper, his jaw tight, and steps away to make a call. By meeting’s end, the girls have exposed over $150 billion in off-the-books accounts.
Beaker’s discretionary fund is now limitless.
The admirals leave impressed but rattled, their secrets laid bare.
The girls, triumphant yet wary, know they’ve stirred a hornet’s nest. --- ### Off the Rails In a secure DC office, Beaker and Melanie debrief the girls, committing details to memory—too sensitive for paper or recordings.
The air is thick with the weight of their success and its dangers. “We’re funded,” Beaker says.
“That’s good.
But here’s the catch.
The brass saw your skills.
They’ll want you for a thousand political projects—spying on rivals, digging dirt.
They’ll exploit you, use you up, then discard or lock you away because they fear you.
Our allies are our adversaries.
Welcome to military intelligence.” “We’re not spies,” Ella says, her voice steel.
“That won’t happen.” “There’s no kind way to say this,” Beaker says.
“They’ll force you to spy or eliminate you.
We need a strategy to give them just enough to keep them at bay while focusing on our mission: averting a global catastrophe.
These guys—military, government, industry—are shortsighted.
They don’t believe our predictions.
They think it’s ‘fear porn’ to justify funding.
It’s all about money.” Margaret raises a hand.
“It’s not just money—it’s their secrets.
They’re compromised, guilty of immoral, illegal acts, even treason.
We know their sins.
They know we know.
A dead man’s switch—proof we’re safe keeps their secrets buried; harm us, and it all spills.
They’ll protect us to protect themselves.” “I hate this,” Beaker says, pained.
“It’s not my style, and it scares me.
But it’s the only way to shield you.
It’ll also make the brass guard you against outside threats.” --- ### Patricia “We’re done,” Beaker says, checking his watch.
“Let’s get to the airport.” “One more stop,” Roxana says.
“Ella, tell him.” “What’s this?” Beaker asks, wary. Ella’s voice softens.
“When I read Admiral Paul, I saw something heartbreaking.
His daughter, Patricia, is different—beautiful but strange.
He keeps her hidden, only letting her out in winter, bundled up like a fugitive.
We need to see her.
Save her.” “Billions need saving,” Beaker says.
“We can’t save everyone.” “She’s special,” Eileen says.
“You’ll see.” At Admiral Paul’s suburban home, Beaker, the girls, and security agents crowd the porch.
Paul opens the door, his face a mask of shock. “What’s this about?” he demands. “We need to see Patricia,” Ella says. “I don’t know who you mean,” Paul says, his voice tight. “No games,” Ella says.
“You know we know.
Please.” “This is irregular,” Paul says, glaring at Beaker.
“Get off my property, or I’ll have you removed.” “If you want Patricia’s secret safe,” Beaker says, “let us in.
When these girls fixate, our ranks mean nothing.” “It’s about your love for her,” Helana says.
“You’ve nothing to fear.” In the living room, Paul’s shoulders slump, tears welling.
“Eighteen years ago, my wife, Ruth, got pregnant at 50.
Our first child together.
I have another daughter from before.
We were thrilled.
I was working on classified off-world visitor projects.
In the first trimester, the baby vanished.
Doctors called it a false pregnancy, but early sonograms showed life.” “I suspected off-world interference,” he continues.
“For a decade, I scoured abduction data.
With contactee help, I found her at 12, among hybrids tested for human integration.
Patricia was failing—too different.
She was slated for termination.
I couldn’t let that happen.
I stole her.
She’s lived here, hidden, only going out disguised.” “She’s a hybrid?” Beaker asks.
“Alien DNA?” “No,” Helana says.
“The humanoid genome is stable across galaxies, adaptive via epigenetic expression, not DNA changes.
Patricia’s DNA is fully human, slightly varied like all Earth humans, rooted in the ancient humanoid matrix.
Off-world entities adjusted her genetic expression, like tuning a dial, to suit their needs—no alien DNA required.” Paul nods.
“She’s ours.
They tweaked her genes’ expression—larger eyes, no ears, gray skin—for specific environments.
They’re clumsy, using radiation to make random changes, then test the results.
If the child fails, like Patricia, they’re discarded.” “Why create hybrids?” Beaker asks. Helana sighs.
“Off-world spirits crave physical embodiment for its sensations.
Earth’s epigenetic makeup clashes with their spiritual matrix, causing illness.
Instead of adjusting their spirits, they tweak human genes to create suitable ‘containers.’ Hybrids, integrated and bred with humans, produce future generations better suited for their spirits.
It’s an abomination.” “Patricia’s children are their goal,” Paul says.
“Over generations, maladaptive traits fade, yielding humans who look normal but fit their spirits.
Initial hybrids like her are expendable.” “How long?” Beaker asks. “Forever,” Helana says. “Enough talk,” Ella says.
“I feel her—she’s empathic like us.
Let her out.” Patricia emerges, 18, ethereal.
Her large greenish-blue eyes shimmer, her thin white hair glows, and her translucent skin reveals faint veins.
Her delicate frame is undeniably human, strikingly beautiful.
The girls rush to her, hugging and kissing, their connection instant, forged through telepathic bonds since Ella’s discovery. “What’s going on?” Ruth, Paul’s wife, storms in.
“Patricia, back to your room!” “Ruth, they’re friends,” Paul says. “Mother, Father, sit,” Patricia says, her voice soft.
“Meet my friends.” “There better be an explanation!” Ruth snaps. “Mother,” Patricia says, “you wished for a family that fits me.
These women are that family.
They embrace my differences.
From the moment we sensed each other, we’ve loved one another.” “You’re not leaving!” Ruth screams, tears streaming.
“They’ll find and kill you!” Patricia touches Ruth’s forehead.
“Calm, dear mother.
It’s time for me to be who I was born to be.
Don’t fear for my life or death—that’s far off.
Help me pack.
No tears.” Ruth, soothed by Patricia’s touch, helps pack.
The girls and agents load her belongings into the van.
Patricia steps out in a hoodie and sunglasses, shielding her albino skin from the sun. --- Ella’s bedroom is a haven, the DC trip a fading whirl.
At 12:21 PM MST on May 29, 2025, she opens her diary, exhaustion and joy spilling out.
Dear Diary, What a day! Up before dawn, flew to DC.
Met admirals, showed them secret accounts.
We’re fully funded, with trust funds and allowances.
Shopping spree time! Margaret’s getting an apartment, a car, and starting community college to be a teacher.
She left the Navy—they didn’t know what to do with her. Best part: our new sister, Patricia.
She’s at the safe house, part of our group.
She’s a human tweaked by alien tech, an albino hybrid.
We love her so much.
No blending—it could hurt her—but she’s telepathic, so we’re bonded.
Aliens planned to kill her for not blending in; her parents hid her.
Stupid—she’s perfect.
An albino hippie chick, totally blendable.
She’ll study at college, make friends, wants a boyfriend.
Eww! Parents bought our cover, except Mr. Danvers.
We told him the truth—he’s sworn to secrecy.
Mrs.
Danvers checked her background; Beaker fixed it to show she’s the admiral’s homeschooled daughter.
All good. Up 20 hours.
Sleeping tomorrow unless my allowance hits—then we’re shopping for Patricia’s hippie clothes. Goodnight, Diary.
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Being Human
27