Oh, Harry, what have you gotten yourself into this time? Time for tea?

[Gerry Rafferty \\ Baker Street]

C1.6

Callahan jogged from his apartment to the Central Division homicide bureau on Bryant Street at least three times a week, getting there early enough to put in fifteen minutes in the weight room before taking a quick shower in the locker room. Once dressed he usually walked up the stairs to the main Homicide Bureau offices before picking up a cup of coffee and flopping down at his desk to catch his breath, and after half a cup he would usually walk over to his ‘mail box’ and pick up copies of incident reports from Patrol he’d been assigned. With those in hand he would then drop by Captain Bennett’s office to pick up any assignments from him, then he’d spend a few hours reading through the incident reports from the shifts before to see if follow-up investigations were warranted.

But not this morning.

By the time he’d made it to the coffee pot he saw Bennett standing in the doorway to his office – and he was just waiting for him. “Good morning, Captain…”

“My office. Now,” Bennett growled, his jowls pulsing in scarlet waves.

Callahan sighed and took a pass on the coffee – for now – then he trudged into Bennett’s office but came up short. Al Bressler and DiGiorgio were already in the room, as were Captain McKay – and Frank Bullitt.

“Shut the door, Callahan,” Bennett grumbled as the Old Man made his way to his desk.

Callahan’s eyes swept the room, his mind anxiously trying to get a read on the mood, but even Bullitt looked as confused as Callahan now felt.

“Alright,” Bennett said as he picked up a blue incident report form from his desk, “as you know, Harry and DiGiorgio had a weird one a few nights ago, but he and I were doing some followup last night down at the scene and we, both Harry and myself, saw something…well, something of interest. But before we get to that, Lieutenant Briggs called me at four this morning to let me know there’d been another incident. The victim was a piano player working at one of the jazz joints down near the wharf. He and some friends walked down to look at the fishing boats after the place closed, and something came out of the water and hit this guy with something, well, with something that literally blew his body apart. Like Harry’s case a few nights ago, there was nothing left but blood and body fluids, no bone, no sinew, no nothing, and now we have five witnesses that describe the same thing. Black, slimy body, described as looking like wet snake’s skin, vaguely human in shape but much taller, like seven or eight feet tall, and when it fled the scene all five witnesses saw a large green area of what looked like glowing gas, green glowing gas, under the fishing boats down there. Divers couldn’t find anything.”

Bennett paused and looked around the room.

“You said the victim was a pianist?” Callahan asked.

“That’s right.”

“My reporting person is a pianist,” Callahan said. 

“Coincidence?” Bennett wondered out loud.

Frank Bullitt cleared his throat: “No such thing as a coincidence in a homicide investigation, Captain. It’s a lead.”

Bennett nodded then turned and looked at Harry. “You play the piano, right?”

“I, uh, yeah, I play a little.”

Bennett nodded. “Okay, I want you and Bullitt on the case from last night, so Harry, get Frank up to speed on your original incident report and include yesterday’s events, then you’d better head out and get your witness interviews knocked out. I’m still not sure what we’re dealing with here, and I’m still not sure if we’re dealing with a human or some kind of marine life, but we need some answers in order to develop some kind of protective strategy. DiGiorgio? I want you to take Gonzales and a crime scene artist and talk with last night’s witnesses, get some idea of what this thing looks like, then take your sketches up to Steinhart and see if any of the biologists up there can help us figure this thing out.”

DiGiorgio nodded. “Right. Anyone know where Chico is?”

“Weight room,” Callahan said. “He doesn’t come in ’til ten, so he’ll be down there now.”

Bullitt and Callahan walked out of Bennett’s office and went to Harry’s desk, but both stopped off at the coffee pot on the way. “What happened yesterday?” Bullitt asked as they sat at Harry’s desk, nursing hot cups of coffee. “Bennett looks pretty miffed.”

Callahan recounted their day out on the water, all of it, finishing up with spotting the head and torso of this black creature in the water by the marina.

“You’re kidding, right? You sayin’ you two really saw this thing?”

“We both did…yeah. About a hundred, hundred and fifty feet away. Shiny and with amber eyes. Big eyes…” Callahan said, his voice almost trancelike as his mind drifted back to the moment he’d felt those amber eyes.

“So, what’s up with you and this girl? Devlin, is it?”

“Yeah, and nothing’s up.”

Bullitt looked at Callahan, his eyes looking for an opening – as if he was peeling through layers of deceit, pushing past the dangling webs of his momentary diversions. “Bennett said she’s on some kind of heavy psych meds. Know what’s going on with her?”

“No,” Callahan said, suddenly on the defensive.

“Seems like basic stuff, Callahan, so I’m wondering why you’re protecting her…?”

“Am I?”

Bullitt shook his head. “Any other witnesses last night?”

“Yeah. An old guy out taking a walk stopped and stared at the thing, too – but then it was like he just faded into the fog.”

“How thick was it last night?”

“I’d say I could see things that were maybe a hundred yards away, like to Broderick Street.”

“Which way did the old guy walk when he left?”

“West on Mason…I think…” Callahan whispered.

“So, towards the trees?”

“Yeah.”

“What was he wearing?”

Callahan closed his eyes and drifted on those other currents… “Cape – wool. Loden green. Gray corduroy slacks. One of those funky hats. Bavarian, like with the bristles on one side…”

“Did he have a beard?”

“Yeah. White, medium long. Bushy white eyebrows. Not tall. Maybe five-eight and two hundred pounds. And he was walking with a cane…”

“Limping?”

“No. But he did the damndest thing, Frank. I caught it out the side of my eye, but he swung the cane in a circle above his head then brought the tip down – and I mean hard – on the sidewalk. And then it started to thunder, like way out past the bridge.”

“Thunder? You’re saying you think he, like what? He summoned the thunder?”

“I know it sounds nutty, Frank, but that’s what I saw.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I know, I know, it sounds weird…”

“It sounds as nutty as a fuckin’ fruitcake, Slick,” Bullitt sighed. “So, you got the number for this girl…at her house?”

“Yeah. Maybe you ought to call her.”

“Ya think?” Bullitt looked at Callahan and tried not to think the worst. Callahan had only recently been assigned to the bureau after testing high on the exam, and he obviously didn’t have any reported history of mental illness, but this crap was over the top. The only thing that mattered right now was that Bennett had seen this thing in the water, but Bennett didn’t see the old man and the cane – but did that matter. “Gimme the number,” Bullitt growled. “I want to get to the bottom of this – first thing.”

Though Bullitt only talked with the nurse looking after Devlin that morning, he scheduled an appointment to talk with her at noon, so he took Callahan in tow and went to the original crime scene by the yacht club, then they walked along the sidewalk where Callahan had seen the old man – and sure enough, Bullitt found evidence of two fresh strikes in the old concrete, and right where Callahan had indicated they’d be.

“Looks like a fresh metal strike,” Bullitt sighed, checking the area for similar markings.

He found none.

But Weyland’s house turned out to be, literally, just a few yards away. 

They crossed Marina and walked up Baker Street until they came to the doctor’s home, a three-story Spanish colonial, replete with red tile roof and a freshly painted, light gray stucco exterior. Bullitt walked up to the door – and a housekeeper opened the heavy oak door before he had a chance to ring the bell.

“I’m sorry sir, but Miss Devlin is having a bad morning,” the old woman said, apparently very nervous and speaking as if she was reading from a well rehearsed script, “and her nurse asked me to convey her regrets.”

Bullitt, standing with his legs apart and a hand covering his mouth simply nodded. “Ask her to come to the door, please. I’d like to speak to her.” The housekeeper hesitated, then the flustered housekeeper curtsied before she closed the door and scurried off in a huff, disappearing inside the house and leaving the two detectives standing alone in clouds of confusion. “Baker Street,” Bullitt whispered. “Where the hell do I know that from?”

“You ever read Sherlock Holmes when you were a kid?”

“Of course! That’s it! Did you read that stuff too?”

“I think maybe I read a couple of them,” Callahan said with a self-deprecating shrug.

“What was the name of that club where he and Watson hung out?”

“You mean that gentleman’s club?” Callahan mused. “The Diogenes Club, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

The door opened just then and a nurse stood there looking seriously put-out and angry. “What do you want?” she asked brusquely, her steel-gray eyes leveled like lances ready to do battle.

“I’m Detective Bullitt. Did I speak with you earlier?”

“No. I took over at eleven. What’s this all about?”

“We need to speak to Miss Weyland…”

“There isn’t a Miss Weyland here,” the nurse said.

“What?” Callahan barked. “Devlin? But I’ve been here with her before.”

“Oh, you mean Miss Aubuchon? Devlin Aubuchon?”

“I thought Dr. Weyland…”

“The doctor is Miss Aubuchon’s guardian.”

“Her guardian?” Callahan sighed, now very confused. “Where is her family?”

“I don’t know anything about her background, and you’ll excuse me, but are you with the police, too?” she said, her eyes now boring into Callahan’s.

So Harry reached into his coat pocket and produced his badge, and that seemed to satisfy the beast – for now. “We were out sailing together yesterday,” he added, “and a few questions have come up since. We were hoping to clear them up with her this morning,” Callahan continued, now smiling as politely as he could.

“I’m sorry,” the nurse said, warming a little to Callahan’s sudden contrition, “but she’s not really up to seeing visitors right now…”

“She was two hours ago,” Bullitt growled. “What happened since then?”

“I’m afraid I really don’t know. When I read the morning notes it only said that Miss Aubuchon had a bad night and a worse morning and that Dr. Weyland had ordered an increase in her Haldol. She’s out like a light right now.”

“Haldol?” Callahan said. 

“Standard treatment for cases like hers,” the nurse said.

“Schizophrenia, you mean?”

The nurse nodded, but then she looked away suddenly and now Callahan thought the woman was concealing something, or trying to, anyway. “I take it you can’t really talk about these things,” Callahan said.

“She’ll tell us whatever we need to know,” Bullitt growled menacingly – now really getting into the whole ‘Good-Cop–Bad-Cop’ schtick. “But you know what? Let’s cuff her and take her downtown, run her through a polygraph.”

“Frank, take a hike,” Callahan snarled – and then he turned to face the now very cowed nurse. “Do you think we could go inside and talk…just you and me?”

Bullitt grumbled as he walked away from the house, really laying it on thick as he kicked at the sidewalk. “Maybe I should get a search warrant first, huh?”

Now the grateful nurse nodded at Callahan and let him in, and he could see she was visibly shaken by Frank’s antics. “What did you say her last name is?”

“Aubuchon.”

“And what’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Page. Page Sanderson.”

“Miss Aubuchon isn’t really schizophrenic, is she, Page?”

The nurse shook her head and looked away. “No sir, I don’t think she is; in fact, there’re times when I think she’s being drugged. Like maybe to keep her quiet.”

“You work for Dr. Weyland?”

“I work up on the wards. Dr. Weyland sends us down here on our days off.”

“So a lot of people are involved in her care? Are you the only one who thinks…”

“Look, some really weird stuff goes on here, alright? With her. I mean stuff that makes your hair stand on end…”

“Can you tell me…”

“Look. No way, man…”

“Have you ever…when you were with her…seen an owl? A white owl?”

Sanderson stepped back and now she really looked upset. “You’ve seen it, too?”

“It? The owl?”

“It’s not an owl.”

“I saw an owl, then I saw her eyes had changed to…”

“Amber,” Sanderson sighed. “Yeah, and you better not be around her when that happens.”

“What happens…if you are?”

Sanderson looked terrified now, and she was shaking hard. “You…believe me…you don’t want to be around her when that happens.”

“I was. I got sick, I think I passed out.”

“Is that it?”

“What have you experienced…when it happens?” 

“I really can’t begin to describe it…”

“Have you…did you see a strange animal? Like shiny black?”

Sanderson nodded. “Oh yeah. I have…most of us have…”

“Do you get a sense that this thing knows her?”

Another nod. “It’s the thing that’s really protecting her, Mr Callahan.”

“Does the doctor know about this thing?”

Again she nodded. “He isn’t what you think he is,” she whispered, “so if I was…look, you be very careful what you say around him.”

“Are you saying the doctor isn’t who I think he is? What does that mean?”

They heard someone walking through the house. Heavy footsteps, like a man walking on tile.

“You need to leave now. Right now,” she said as she pushed him towards the door.

“Okay, I’m going. Thanks,” Callahan just managed to say before the door slammed shut. He turned and walked down to the sidewalk, then pulled the microphone out of his coat pocket and brought it to his lips. “Did you get all that, Frank?”

Bullitt pulled up in Cathy’s pale yellow Porsche and pulled the plastic earpiece from his right ear. “Yeah. Took notes, too. But you know what? I think I need a drink…”

“Hell, it’s five o’clock somewhere,” Callahan said as Bullitt drove away from the house on Baker Street. Neither saw the white owl overhead, ducking in and out of the clouds as they drove back to the bureau.

© 2023 adrian leverkühn | abw | adrianleverkuhnwrites.com | fiction, every last word

[Peter Gabriel \\ Darkness]

Yeah, yeah, I told you it was going to get weird. And what…you didn’t believe me? Well, let’s go down that road a little more and see what else is out there – just waiting in the shadows.

[Thompson Twins \\ Hold Me Now]

C1.5

Callahan looked up and saw Peter Weyland was now at the wheel and with a start he realized he was laying down – and that his head was in Devlin’s lap; Captain Bennett was sitting nearby, looking at Callahan with frank concern in his eyes.

“You okay, Sport?” Bennett asked when he saw Callahan’s eyes were open.

“What happened?” Harry replied, squinting at the sudden sunlight.

Then he felt Dev’s fingers running through his hair and he moved his head tentatively, saw she was looking at him, smiling and without a care in the world showing in her bright eyes. “You lost your breakfast over the rail,” she sighed, “then you slipped and hit your head.”

“You’re going to have a little knot on your forehead,” Dr. Weyland advised professionally, and with an offhand grin, “but otherwise I think you’ll live.”

Callahan rolled his eyes and tried to sit up but immediately thought better of it and moaned as his head began pounding.

“You might want to take it slow for a half hour or so,” Weyland added.

Callahan nodded and then realized the wind had died down and that they were sailing along slowly, the boat not leaning at all now, so he took a deep breath and just let go again – and a moment later he felt himself falling asleep…

“Hey! Sleepyhead!” he heard his mother say, “You ready for some lunch?”

He opened his eyes again and now his head was resting on a folded up jacket and then he saw Devlin was coming up from down below with a plate full of sandwiches, so he pulled himself up and rubbed his eyes then tried to remember where he was and why he was on a boat…

“Harry,” Sam Bennett said, “always has a big appetite. You need a hand there, Miss Weyland?”

Callahan looked around, saw the boat was apparently at anchor and a couple hundred yards away kids were frolicking on a rocky beach and a couple of other sailboats were anchored nearby. The air was still and smelled of the sea at low tide, and for a moment he thought the air almost smelled of iodine and he shook his head as Sam helped get the cockpit table set up and ready for them. Devlin handed over the sandwiches then disappeared below again, surfacing a moment later with a pitcher of iced tea that had big juicy slices of peach floating in lazy circles around the rim, then a little tumbler was thrust into Callahan’s hand. 

Weyland came up the companionway a moment later and handed Callahan a couple of Tylenol tablets and as he drank the tea Callahan thought it the most amazing thing he’d ever had. So simple…just a peach or two and it felt like he was drinking the nectar of the Gods…

Then a sliced turkey sandwich with a simple slathering of mayonnaise and a little cracked pepper, and a nice thick slice of summer’s finest treat, the beefsteak tomato, freshly sliced so the bread remained light and airy and full of goodness. Callahan took a few bites then leaned back and let the sun wash over his face and he couldn’t remember feeling so good – ever. Neither could he remember ever being so totally confused.

‘There was an owl back there. A white owl. I saw it. I watched it watching me and I was not imagining it.’

His detective’s mind raced to find an explanation where none could possibly exist, but that didn’t stop his reaching beyond the obvious. He looked around the back of the boat, back where he had been kneeling and retching and where he had seen the owl, then he remembered seeing the owl’s eyes were also Devlin’s…but that just couldn’t be…

He looked at her now and no, her blue-green eyes were still those of a human being and certainly not the huge amber orbs he’d seen in that blinking instant – which he had to admit was reassuring – but that fact wasn’t exactly comforting, either…given present circumstances.

“Where are we?” Callahan asked.

“North side of Angel Island,” Weyland said, watching Callahan closely now, “on a mooring ball in Ayala Cove. How’re you feeling now?”

“Foggy.”

“We’ll give it another hour. You should be up to snuff by then.”

Sam was plowing through his sandwich and enjoying every bite. “Where on earth did you find these tomatoes?” he asked. “They taste exactly like a summer afternoon!”

“Oh, once a week or so,” Weyland began, smiling now as he talked, “we drive down Highway One and check out the farm-stands set up by the roadside. This time of year the tomatoes are coming in and we found some good ones last weekend.”

“I’ll say,” Bennett said. “Do you get out here on the bay very often?”

Weyland nodded between bites. “Try to. Of course this is the time of year for it.”

Callahan wasn’t paying attention to this chatter; he was looking at Devlin, still trying to make sense of the morning when he saw a little white feather flutter off the aft deck and fall into the pale, grey-green water below them in the shallow little cove – and he watched as it landed on the mottled surface and drifted on idle currents into the maelstrom of a dream he didn’t quite understand. Yet.

+++++

They sailed to Sausalito as a cooling fog rolled in through the Golden Gate, and smartly dressed dock-boys helped them tie-off to the guest pier at the Sausalito Yacht Club, then the four of them walked over to The Spinnaker restaurant as the day’s sunbeams and cool breezes gave way to scudding clouds creeping in over the low coastal foothills. Shadows fell away to the blues and grays of evening and the sudden enveloping warmth inside the restaurant felt soothing, like a respite from the changes they had endured that day. Glasses clinking, women batting their eyes at passing men, men staring at passing legs – everything as it should be…just another night in the land of plenty.

Weyland recommended a few things on the menu and drinks appeared, then plates of fresh seafood in a bewildering display of excess that Callahan simply couldn’t relate to. Was Weyland, he wondered, trying to assert the fact of his obvious wealth to a couple of poor cops, or was he simply a generous soul. But more than anything else, by the time dinner was over Callahan was left to wonder what this day had been all about…because Weyland had planned it all out, right down to their dinner reservations.

Weyland had put Harry back to work after lunch, stood beside him while they navigated around Angel Island before circling back and sailing up Richardson Bay, all eyes focused on the depth gauge as they closed on the old cream-colored Victorian house that now served as an Audubon Society preserve. Weyland was a patient teacher but for the life of him Callahan couldn’t understand what all this instruction was about.

And neither could Sam Bennett, but by the time Weyland’s foggy excursion came to a wet, soggy end back at the St Francis Yacht Club, he felt more than certain that both he and Callahan had been taken for a ride.

+++++

Weyland decided to head back into the club for a late evening libation, but he thanked Harry for being such a good sport. “Maybe you’ll catch the bug!” he said cheerfully.

“Oh? What bug is that?”

“Sailing, of course. And anytime you’d like to go out please let Devlin know and we’ll try to lay something on! You’re an able student and I enjoyed my day tremendously.”

Callahan nodded and smiled. “I did too, sir. Very much, and thanks.”

Bennett smiled and watched this exchange carefully – if only because Devlin remained well back and kept to the periphery now…as in out of sight, out of mind…but Bennett was certain the girl had, against all odds, fallen in love with Callahan. And that did not bode well, for anyone. But Sam caught the goodbyes and remembered where he was, so he added a cheerful: “I did as well, Doctor. Thank you for a memorable day.”

“You’re most welcome, Captain. I hope to see you both soon,” he said, now looking at Devlin. “Perhaps now would be a good time to take Captain Bennett and Callahan down to where all this happened,” he said to her before adding: “I’ll probably be late so let yourself in. I won’t see you ‘til morning.”

She nodded then walked up to Harry and took his hand. “C’mon, let’s go before it gets too cold.”

Bennett fell in behind Callahan and the girl and he could feel Harry’s dis-ease at the girl’s suddenly aggressive possessiveness. As they walked along she pulled a reluctant Callahan closer and closer, and Bennett wondered why Harry was going along with her overt display of affection…

Streetlights were coming on now, and lines of glowing orbs stretched out in the gathering fog as Harry and Devlin talked about what she thought the ‘creature’ was; she had no idea but when Callahan suggested squids and octopi she just shrugged and gathered herself up against the growing chill. Sam listened intently – but he also watched her body language, looking for signs of reluctance or deceit. Or insincerity.

And he saw nothing of the sort. Not even ambivalence. Yet he could feel her fear as they approached the spot where the boy had been eviscerated.

There was still ample evidence something terrible had gone down on that beach; there were still deep maroon splotches on the sand where neither time nor tide had lingered long enough to wash away the quiet detritus of death. The water was calm now, very calm, and if not for the glowing orbs reflected on the inky black surface there would have been no way to see any difference between this water and crude oil.

And then an Old Man wearing a cape and walking with the aid a walking stick approached, and while the old fella tipped his hat as he passed he said not a word. Sam watched the old man for a moment, as the old man approached Mason Street, and when he stopped suddenly and looked out over the water Sam turned and looked too.

And he saw something out there. Almost like a man but tall and slimy-black, black with latent malice – and the thing suddenly turned and was staring at Devlin.

“Callahan?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you see that?”

Callahan turned and looked at Sam, then followed his eyes. “What the hell is that, Captain?”

“That’s it,” Devlin whispered. “That’s what got Jimmy…”

Bennett reached for the Colt 1911 in the shoulder holster under his left arm and pulled it free…

…and at the same time the Old Man slammed the silver tip of his cane down onto the sidewalk…

…and the creature slipped under the inky surface and disappeared, just as thunder rumbled somewhere out beyond the Golden Gate.

And when Bennett turned to find the old man he found that he too was gone.

Standing next to a streetlight not at all far from where Bennett, Callahan, and Devlin stood, a tall, thin man stood watching. He coughed once then lit a cigarette before he disappeared in a passing shadow.

© 2023 adrian leverkühn | abw | adrianleverkuhnwrites.com | fiction, every last word…

[Peter Gabriel \\ Red Rain]

Things aren’t always what they seem deep inside the memory warehouse, but you knew that already. Didn’t you?

[Spirit \\ Nature’s Way]

Right…off we go.

C1.4

The water in the yacht club’s marina looked to be about the same color as the sky, a deep cerulean blue and with not a cloud visible anywhere Callahan looked. There were, however, whitecaps all over the bay and a crisp 25 to 30 knot wind was funneling in through the Golden Gate. Looking at the bay, the few sailors out there seemed, as far as he could tell, to have their hands full. Callahan and Bennett looked at one another with their eyes wide open now, and both now seriously regretted popping by Bennett’s favorite diner for pancakes and eggs before heading down to the marina.

Callahan saw Dev Weyland standing up on the front of a sleek looking sailboat, and when their eyes met she waved at them.

“Wow,” Bennett smirked, “now I know why you’ve taken such an interest in the case. Sheesh, Harry, she’s a knockout!”

And Callahan had to admit that right now, standing out there in the sun and the wind she looked as pretty as any woman he’d ever seen. Her long chestnut hair was streaming in the breeze, and only a blind man could have ignored her smile – let alone her shapely legs; Callahan returned her wave and tried to match the excitement he felt in her smile, but then he remembered her drugged out shuffle the day before and realized this had to be one of her good days.

“Just be careful, Captain. Her father said he’d ‘have her ready’ for the day, so I assume that means well medicated.”

“Did he tell you what her condition is? Or what she’s taking?”

“No sir, but he did say she hallucinates, so I guess that implies schizophrenia…?”

Bennett shrugged. “Usually, but not always.”

Peter Weyland was waiting for them at the head of the pier, and after he opened the locked gate he walked ahead of Callahan and Bennett out to his boat – hardly acknowledging their presence as he stared at the sky. He guided them along a narrow finger pier that divided two slips, and simply pointed at the boxy little steps used to gain access to the deck of his boat.

“My-my, but that’s just a beautiful boat,” Bennett said. “Are those teak decks?”

And once the beauty of his ‘yacht’ had been recognized – and acknowledged – Weyland’s demeanor changed in an instant. Now his face registered pleasure and pride, and Callahan noted a subversive little smirk of satisfaction on Weyland’s face as he led them into the boat’s cockpit. “Yes, teak,” he finally said, as if he’d had to think about the matter. “I think it’s Burmese teak, however the yacht itself was built in Finland. Devlin? You ready?”

“Yes, Papa,” Devlin said, still smiling at Callahan.

“Callahan, if you wouldn’t mind taking the wheel for a moment…?”

“What?” Callahan cringed. “Me?”

“Yes, you! Are you deaf, or are you simply afraid?”

Callahan had never sailed anything larger than a battleship in the bathtub of his parent’s house in Potrero Hills, but now he hopped behind the wheel and stared at Weyland as he stepped forward and removed a dock line from it’s cleat on the pier.

“Okay Dev, cast off now! Callahan, see the lever on the right side of the binnacle?”

“The – what?”

“The wheel? Pull it back towards you about an inch, until you feel the boat moving back a little.”

Pulling the lever back, he soon realized, put the motor “into reverse” – and pulling the lever further back made the boat go faster…in reverse – so Callahan looked around and made sure the boat was backing out of the slip in a reasonably straight line…and then it hit him. This was a test. Weyland was testing him, watching how he responded to an unexpected challenge, so he took a deep breath and let his instincts take over.

‘Okay…there’s only one way out of here and after I back out of this slip I’ve got to turn right, which means the back of the boat has to go left…’ He turned the wheel to the left and right and settled on left and he felt the boat slowly back out to the left.

“Okay, now move the lever to the middle and just let her coast along for a moment. Right. Good. Now, slip the lever forward about an inch and feel what happens.”

“Got it,” Callahan said, though in truth he still didn’t have the slightest idea what he was doing.

“Okay, straighten out the wheel and look where you’re going…and keep right in the middle of the channel here…”

Callahan straightened up and looked ahead, trying to guesstimate the width of the channel, and then he saw an instrument that was showing their depth. “This gauge says seven feet…is that right?”

Weyland nodded. “A little more to the left for about fifty feet, then come right just a little.”

Callahan’s gut was churning now, but the feeling was indescribable. He looked ahead then checked the expression on Weyland’s face then checked their depth on the gauge. “Still showing seven feet…okay, 6.9…6.8…”

“Okay, start a gentle turn to the right, and add a little power. See the knot meter?”

Callahan found it. “Got it!”

“Accelerate to 5 knots, but not a bit faster.”

“Right!”

But now it was Bennetts turn to watch – and he couldn’t help but think that this psychiatrist was playing Callahan like a fiddle. Not simply testing him, but judging his usefulness – and Bennett had been around his type in the Navy long enough to know where this usually led. Bennett wouldn’t have cared one way or another, but Callahan was investigating a homicide, or a potential homicide, and watching the way Weyland was twisting Callahan’s perception, knocking him off balance, was making his old ‘cop on the beat’ instincts sing like a canary.

“Alright…good,” Weyland called out. “Straight ahead another fifty yards then a hard left, and don’t let her get away from you when we clear the breakwater!”

By this point Callahan could see where the water was deeper just by looking at the colors off to the left. Shallower water was lighter colored, almost sand colored in places, while the deeper water in the basin was a little greener – yet as he turned hard to the left the water ahead turned blueish-green, then a deeper blue, and the depth gauge quickly dropped from ten feet down to 15, then 25 feet.

Then they cleared the breakwater off to their left and that unobstructed wind funneling through the Golden Gate slammed into boat, and Callahan felt a new pressure through the wheel – and as the boat began to slide off to the right he countered with left input on the wheel…

“Okay Harry…see the left tower on the Golden Gate? Head right for that, and keep her pointed exactly at that tower…”

Callahan turned the wheel and he watched as Dev and her father raised the sail on the mast, and it began flailing about like it wanted to beat itself to death…

“Okay Harry, turn a little to the right…”

And as quickly the sail turned rock hard…

Then father and daughter raised the sail up front.

And now it felt to Callahan like he was riding on the back of a caged beast that had just been released from its shackles, and not only did the boat take off like a rocket it was now leaning over so far that water was rushing along right by the edge of the deck…

Then Weyland was by his side, first shutting down the engine then trimming the sails bit by bit…

“See Angel Island over there?” Weyland said, pointing past Alcatraz Island. “The right side, that’s Point Blunt…steer right for that.”

Callahan noted the boat wasn’t leaning over quite so much now, but as Weyland fiddled with the sails their speed began to creep up, hitting 7 knots within a few hundred yards then stretching for 8 knots…and Callahan could feel it then…the boat was no longer a simple machine…it was more like a wild creature running free at a dead gallop and everything around him was literally humming as their speed increased.

A gust slammed into them and the boat leaned hard to the right, the right edge of the deck disappeared under water for a moment – until Dev let out one of the lines – and then the boat straightened up a little…but now their speed was edging over 8 knots and heading towards 9 and the sudden sensation of building speed was exhilarating…no, Callahan thought, it was beyond exhilarating, beyond anything he’d ever experienced before…it was almost like flying, only…better…

And then Dev was standing beside him, leaning into his shoulder again…

“I feel like we’re flying,” Callahan said into her ear…

“I know…sometimes you can almost feel what a gull must feel out here…”

Callahan noticed a freighter coming out from under the Bay Bridge, and then another coming through the Golden Gate, and he started judging his own speed while he tried to guess how fast the freighters were closing…and suddenly little alarm bells started going off in his mind – because to his unpracticed eye it looked like all three vessels were going to arrive at the same point out there near Alcatraz – at the same time.

But Callahan also saw that Weyland was looking at the two freighters and performing the same calculation – and Weyland didn’t seem the least bit fazed. 

Another gust slammed into the boat and this time Weyland looked at Callahan and smiled. “A little starboard…uh…to the right now, Harry.”

And Callahan could feel an immediate difference. When a gust hit and the boat leaned way over, turning away from the gust lessened its impact and the boat sailed more upright, so as the gust passed he turned back to the left and the boat started to lean again, and it felt like they were going faster, too. And no one had adjusted the sails. ‘Interesting,’ Callahan said to himself. ‘What happens if I turn more to the left?’

The boat instantly leaned even more, the edge of the deck slipping into the water again, so he backed off and steered right…and the boat leveled the more he turned…

“You’re starting to feel it now, aren’t you?” Devlin whispered, still holding onto Harry.

“Yeah. You know, in some ways it feels like a Huey…”

“A what?”

“A helicopter.”

“Vietnam?” she asked.

“Yup.”

Her grip tightened on his arm and she seemed to pull herself even closer to his side, almost like she wanted to meld with him. “I’m sorry you had to go through that…oh…my God…”

“What?” Callahan said, suddenly aware of a galvanic impulse ripping through his body. “What’s wrong?”

“Falling…falling…you’re falling and I see a white snake…and there’s fire everywhere…”

Callahan cringed under the weight of sudden recall. To getting his Huey shot up and crashing in the swampy marshlands just outside the perimeter at C-Med during the Ten Offensive, and he could see the white python closing on the shattered windshield and feel the machine gun fire ripping through the engine compartment…

“Harry? You still with us?” Sam Bennett said.

And in the next instant he was back on the bay behind the wheel of a sailboat standing next to a girl he didn’t recognize and he felt the concussive blast of mortar rounds zeroing in on his position then the womp-womp-womp of another Huey circling low overhead and he felt plastic shattering on the overhead panel as more machine gun rounds slammed into his Huey and now he was spinning spinning spinning in some kind of pale vortex…

“Harry?” Bennett barked.

And then Callahan turned from the wheel and leaned over the aft rail, heaving his guts out into the grey-green water of the swamp and the white snake was suddenly gone…

…and as he looked up he saw a huge white owl perched on the rail by the side of his head, its amber eyes staring into his innermost being…

And then Devlin was beside him, holding onto him, and after a moment she leaned close again and whispered in his ear: “You didn’t see that coming, did you?”

He shook off the flaming remnants of the Huey and the glistening white python from his mind, then he looked for the owl but it was gone now too, gone and as suddenly forgotten – so he turned and looked at Devlin, and as he looked into the owl’s eyes again she started laughing.

© 2023 adrian leverkühn | abw | adrianleverkuhnwrites.com | fiction, every word

[The Stewart-Gaskin Band \\ Walking the Dog]

Another quickie today, hardly time for tea.

[Pulp \\ The Trees]

C.3

“Where is she, Denton?” Judy asked her husband.

“I’m not sure,” he sighed as he looked over the dispatch he’d just received from COMMs. “A planet called Thedus, but it’s not in our database, so of course it’s not on our star charts, either. She’s been working on a bulk ore carrier…”

“A…what? You’re kidding!”

Then the blue light on the admiral’s intercom panel blinked rapidly – meaning that the Lars Jansen avatar was ready and waiting to talk – so Ripley hit the ‘ENABLE’ button and watched the boy’s mesmerizing blue-swirling form take shape on his desktop monitor…until it finally snapped into sharp focus. 

“Ah, Admiral Ripley, I’m glad to see Judith is with you. I have new information that concerns you both.”

“You look happy, Lars. What have you been up to?”

“Walking on a beach, I think. But there are times when it is hard to discern.”

“Uh-huh. No sand between the toes? And how many girls were with you this time?”

“I think I’ve moved beyond that phase of life, Admiral. I was walking with a…I do believe it was an otter. Yes, it was a sea otter, and he was telling me all kinds of things.”

“A talking sea otter. Lars? You doin’ okay in there? I mean, I know this all came as a surprise…”

“Oh, yes, I understand, Admiral, and thanks for asking. I appreciate your concern, but yes, I am most happy in here. I was always an awkward sort, if you know what I mean, but so many of us are. Now if I want companionship all I have to do is think about it and there it is. Talk about instant gratification!”

“Have you met any others like yourself?”

Lars seemed reluctant to talk about that right now. “It is hard to be sure, Admiral,” he finally said.

Ripley smiled. “I’ve had that problem myself, I think,” Ripley sighed. “So, you have news?”

“Yes, Admiral. I have found something of immediate importance. A video file left by Admiral Stanton. I found it on a drive located in an IT nexus in Armstrong City, I believe it was originally recorded on a personal storage device left by the Admiral Stanton before his…well, you’ll understand after you watch the recording.”

“Is it a personal message, Lars?”

“Some of the information is of a personal nature, sir, but most concerns the immediate situation we are now facing. The information is self-explanatory, sir, though I would say that many parts will need to be viewed by all the other captains in the fleet.”

“Okay, I’m putting you on the large screen.”

“Ah, Judith,” Lars said amiably after he popped up on a large, wall-mounted display. “Nice to see you again.”

“Hello,” she replied uneasily, still not sure what to make of the dead boy’s memories roaming free throughout the ship’s various computer systems. “Nice to see you, too.”

Lars noted her reticence as he pulled up the file. “I would recommend that you remain seated, both of you. Some of the material is – a little graphic.”

“I see,” Denton said. “Okay, start playback.”

A dark blue USNSF seal popped up on a pale blue background, then a recording date of 15 November, 2122 appeared, followed by a Top Secret classification and encryption warning, and that the material in this file was ‘TSC-Eyes Only’ and encoded to the Flag Officer(s) in charge of Agamemnon and/or the Enterprise Battle Group; a moment later Admiral Stanton’s steely-eyed visage appeared onscreen.

He was shuffling note cards but then looked up suddenly, and his eyes looked care-worn and anxious: “Denton, things aren’t going well here at the moment, but I’ve covered that in an earlier recording; there have been some positive developments recently, so I hope you find those files before you see this one. First things first. I’ve enrolled Ellen at the Merchant Marine Academy high school in Musk City, and I sent Walter with her. She’s about to finish her first term and I hear she’s doing well. I’ve done my best to shield her from events here, but I may not have been entirely successful on that front; more on that in a minute.”

Stanton flipped to the next page in his notes before continuing:

“Meteorological conditions on Earth have deteriorated rapidly – and much more quickly than anticipated, with the almost perpetual cloud cover resulting in over 700 inches of new snow in Washington DC, and 1400 inches in Boston last winter. The permanent ice line has now moved as far south as Raleigh-Durham to St Louis to Denver to Sacramento, and the icepack is growing exponentially now so we expect total ice coverage with the decade.”

Another page turned:

“All civilian governments on Earth are collapsing rapidly, and about the only thing that matters now is launch capacity. We’ve converted all warship construction to the manufacture of colony ships, and existing shuttles are running people up to these ships as quickly as they can be serviced and turned around. Still, with current projections it looks like we’ll be lucky to get a half billion people off world before ice completely encapsulates the arable surface, and I guess I don’t need to tell you but that will be that.”

Another page:

“Top Secret stuff here. Unknown how many people made it, but at least three large caverns in North America were converted into underground cities. Looks like there are in Kentucky, South Dakota, and New Mexico. I have no idea how successful these efforts have been, but if you get a chance you might look them over and see if you can lend a hand.”

The next page seemed troublesome to Stanton, and he stopped and sighed a few times before continuing:

“The Space Force has ceased to be. Simply shut down. The Naval Space Force is, well, I hate to say it but whatever remains of your fleet will constitute the remainder of the USNSF fleet, and with this file I am hereby transferring command of the NSF to, I assume, Admiral Denton Ripley – or his duly registered successor, if Ripley is no longer in command. There is no longer any civilian command and control network presiding over the NSF, neither is there any legitimate military organization with any right to command the NSF. Your only assigned duties are the protection of Earth and whatever might remain of the United States of America; if those entities no longer exist then as a practical matter it would be my recommendation that you take the fleet to a new world and start over. Do not get involved with this new civilian government…these BAPists. Denton, take my word for it…they are going to be real trouble.”

Stanton paused and looked up into the camera.

“Denton, of course I’ll never know how all this turned out, but I can’t help but wonder about what happened out there? Now, about Ellen…”

Then there came banging on the door behind Stanton, and his mood changed.

“Well, it looks like the BAPists have found me again,” he sighed. “The NSF tried cooperating with them, but in the end it’s my belief that these people are the common enemies of humanity. They make no bones about it, Denton. They plan to enslave us all in the service of some kind of pagan spiritualism that, well, frankly, I don’t understand. I can’t tell you how to deal with them but I’ve tried to resist…”

And at that point the door behind Stanton was blown open by some sort of explosive device and Stanton could be seen reaching for something on his desk, but then he disappeared in a hail of machine-gun fire and the file simply stopped at that point – and Lars came back on the main screen.

“From my reconstruction, Admiral, it appears he was closing the file when agents of the crown broke down the door. I did find the notes he was referring to and about the only thing he wasn’t able to convey to you was that an apparent alliance between the BAPists and the Weyland Corporation might not have been a recent event.”

“Meaning what?”

“That the BAPists within the Company may have been calling the shots for a long time, potentially for decades.”

“Of course…but that makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? I mean, it looks, by that point, anyway, like the Company controlled almost 90 percent of the shuttle capacity, so the BAPists inside the Company would have been in THE perfect place to make sure that only their adherents and supporters made it off world, and so only their supporters would make it to one of these new worlds.”

“So that’s why there haven’t been any popular uprisings against this new monarchy,” Judy sighed.

“Yes,” Lars added. “They entombed their opposition on the planet, so how could there be?”

“So, Lars,” Denton said, looking at the blue avatar on his screen, “have we been scanning areas near those caverns in North America?”

“Gee, Admiral, I thought you’d never ask…”

+++++

Ellen Ripley was confused and suddenly felt very off balance; this was the first time in her life that this particular Walter unit hadn’t been by her side, and she realized that she now felt quite lost without him. He’d been with her almost from the moment of her birth, he’d acted as her first teacher even before she started school, been there for all her birthdays and Christmases, and while she felt it might not be completely accurate to say she had feelings for Walter, she did regard him as something much more than a simple fixture that passed into and out of her life. While he, or it, wasn’t exactly the parental figure that Admiral Stanton had been, Walter had represented the pure, nonstop continuity that so much of human flourishing depends on, and now she felt that as an acute stab in the back.

Sitting on the bridge now, maneuvering the Nostromo into docking formation with the massive ore processing ship, she tried to concentrate on the readouts on the main docking display but found she was having trouble with even the most basic adjustments to the ship’s velocity vectors.

And now she was sure that Captain Dallas was noticing her distracted state of mind.

“Ripley? You got a handle on that drift?”

“Ripley, watch your rate of closure!”

“Ripley! Roll rate! Now!”

Then Mother spoke up: “Captain, I think I ought to intervene now.”

“Ripley!” Dallas shouted. “Ship’s control to automatic!”

Ellen flipped the switch and buried her face in her hands. Lambert smelled blood in the water and smiled. Kane looked up and shrugged. Dallas stormed off – but not before letting slip a long string of expletives.

And so the Nostromo maneuvered under the refinery ship and in short order the docking clamps joined the two ships, and with that done Ripley loaded the first waypoint into the current NAV computer and hit the ‘EXECUTE’ button. A thousand feet behind the bridge three drives flared, and the Nostromo started the first leg of her long journey to Sparta…

“Ripley!” Dallas’s voice cried out over the intercom. “Report to the wardroom, on the double!”  

“Oh, great,” she muttered as she popped clear of her harness and walked aft – and past a gloating Lambert – to the crew’s mess, passing her cabin on the way and wanting to duck inside to avoid the inevitable tongue-lashing she knew she’d earned.

“Coffee?” Dallas said as she came in and sat at the round table beside the galley.

She shook her head, crossed her arms over her chest and waited.

“What’s our departure clearance look like? Any inbound traffic?”

She shook her head. “No, we’re clear all the way to the outer rim.”

“No new Outie activity in the sector?”

“Nothing reported.”

Dallas sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Parker says the ship is ready for sleep, but that means keeping Mother on ‘auto’ for the duration, and you know how I feel about being on autopilot cruising through a system. Any system.”

“Yessir?”

“It would mean an extra ten days out of the chamber, but we have more than enough food to stand a two-man watch all the way out to the rim. You mind staying up?”

“No, not at all. I’ve got some correspondence to get through, and some studying to do.”

“So, how are you feeling about Walter?”

“I’m not really sure yet, Captain. Lonely one minute, like I’ve lost a friend, then I remember he’s a synthetic and wonder if my emotions have been misplaced all these years, which only…”

“Yeah, I can see that becoming a feedback loop. You get any sleep last night?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, I can’t leave Lambert out with you, so what about me? You feel comfortable enough with that?”

“Comfortable enough? What’s that mean, Captain?”

“Oh, you know. The whole man-woman thing, being alone with me for an extended period. That kind of comfortable.”

“Yeah, I’m comfortable.”

“Yeah? Well, okay. Let’s have dinner then we can put everyone else in their slow-cooker. You know, maybe read ‘em a bedside story before we tuck ‘em in.”

Ripley shook her head. “You’re twisted, you know that?”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Kiddo.”

+++++

He’d decided on showing the Stanton recording to Davis and Farrell first – so he could gauge their reaction first more than for any other reason – but also because he didn’t want to precipitate a war within the fleet. Judy asked to stay in the room while he played Stanton’s message – and his murder – again, and he’d reluctantly agreed. He knew he could count on her for moral support if nothing else, but he didn’t want to edit out the personal bits and pieces and open himself up to charges of manipulating the data.

And as the recording came to its grisly conclusion Ripley found himself watching Neal and Dean and their reaction when the machine guns opened up.

“Goddamn it to Hell,” Davis growled under his breath – just before he turned away and wiped away a tear or two.

Farrell’s reaction was almost the exact opposite. “I’m surprised they let him get any kind of message off to us, no matter how it might be delivered,” Stavridis’s captain said. “Technically, that was a mistake on someone’s part…unless it wasn’t…?”

“Meaning?” Ripley said, his voice flat and gruff.

“Unless someone wanted him to get off a warning to us,” Farrell added.

“Then why cut him off in mid-sentence,” Admiral Davis sighed. He and Stanton had become friends after Davis had served on the admiral’s staff for a year, so the murder had hit him hard.

Dean Farrell simply shrugged. “What about the caverns? Any signs of life?”

Ripley nodded. “At all three of the big ones. Fairly big heat blooms near the last charted entry points, and an initial analysis points to reactors of some kind being constantly in use.”

“But if there are survivors aren’t they, well, wouldn’t they now be entombed under the ice?”

Again Ripley just nodded. “Sure, but these survivors would also have unlimited water and the machinery needed to punch boreholes through the ice, so they’d have air as well as water. With enough lead time we can assume they set up hydroponic gardens and even factories to make the bare necessities, so assuming those are all true, from there the question their existence poses to us is quite simple. We need to ascertain the number of survivors down there, and we need to come up with a plan to get as many of them off world as we can.”

“Denton, we have to be careful not to put the cart before the horse here,” Farrell sighed.

And Neal Davis nodded in agreement. “Admiral, we really need some place to take these people, assuming they want to leave, and we need someway to move them…”

“And you know what?” Ripley said, grinning. “It just so happens we know someone who can help us with both of these problems.”

“Oh yeah?” Farrell said mockingly. “Like who?”

Ripley punched the intercom button and waited, then – after Louise Brennan appeared onscreen – he smiled and nodded. “Why don’t you and your boyfriend come on in, and let’s see what you two came up with…”

(c) 2023 adrian leverkühn | abw | fiction, plain and simple

[What Is and What Should Never Be]

Okay, let’s head back to the streets of San Francisco for a look around the memory warehouse with Harry & Co. Yes, yes, this one has 88 keys everywhere you look, so go slow and enjoy the sights. San Fran is always nice this time of year…

[Blue Jays \\ I Dreamed Last Night]

A short one today, so grab a cup of cardamom tea and take a minute to settle in.

1.3

“You come in early,” Captain Sam Bennett said to Callahan as he walked into the Homicide Bureau and over to the coffee pot, “or were you here all night?”

Callahan stifled a yawn and nodded. “All night. Got called in around 0100, got a weird one down at the marina?”

“Weird? What happens down there that isn’t weird?”

Callahan shook his head as he watched Bennett pour his coffee. “Girl walking from the yacht club to her house saw a black thing and screamed…”

“A black thing?” Bennett grumbled sarcastically. “Now that is weird…”

“…but then this thing comes for her, and then a couple of workers from the yacht club hear her scream and run over to see what’s goin’ down and the black thing turns and it just obliterates one of ‘em. The other guy gets the girl back up to the parking lot and then calls us. Divers went in looking but they couldn’t find anything…”

“No body?” Bennett asked, his curiosity now piqued.

“No body, and I mean nothing.” Callahan shook his head as he recalled the bloody sand. “One of the divers said he saw something like a big green bubble, but…”

“Oh come on. What is this – some kind of April Fool’s Day bullshit? Like maybe the diver farted in his wetsuit and a big green bubble…”

But Callahan shook his head. “I saw it too, Captain. So did DiGiorgio.”

“A big green bubble? You saw a big green bubble – and that’s our prime suspect in your homicide case?”

“We saw a greenish glow underwater, but as soon as the divers went in to investigate the thing just moved off into deep water…”

Bennett looked up from his coffee when he heard that. “Possible submarine?”

“Maybe, but it would have to be pretty goddamn small to operate in that water. The depth around there is in the ten to fifteen feet range – at low tide – which it was.”

“You said the victim was obliterated? Anyone hear a weapon discharged?”

“No, and that’s weird too, Captain. There was blood everywhere, even on the woman’s legs, and a huge blood trail led down to the water, but there was nothing solid. No bone, no tissue residue, and the divers couldn’t find anything in the water so I had the Crime Scene people get as much of a sample as they could, just in case…”

“In case of what, Callahan? What kind of case are you calling this, because the DA sure isn’t going to call this one a homicide.”

“Sir?”

“Well, hell, Callahan, from what little you’ve told me this could have been some kind of goddamn sea creature, maybe an octopus or a squid of some kind, but it sure doesn’t sound like one human being killed another.”

Callahan shrugged. “Unless it was someone dressed up in some kind of costume…”

“That disappeared in a glowing green submarine? Seriously? That was more likely some sort of bioluminescence…”

“So what do you want me to do with this, with my report?”

“How did patrol sign off on it?”

“Signal One – homicide – according to their shift sergeant, but I assume the first watch lieutenant approved that.”

“Hell, Briggs ought to know better than that,” Bennett growled, putting his coffee on his desk before he turned and looked out his window – at the mass of humanity walking in and out of the jail complex. “Well, hell. You’d better go over to Steinhart, over to the Academy of Sciences, and see if anyone has any idea what kind of animal could have done this. Then you’d better go talk to that girl, the one who first saw this creature. See if she can help us get this investigation pointed in the right direction.”

“Okay.”

“Before you do anything else, head on home and get a few hours of rack time, and then…ahem…don’t forget to drag a razor over that furry thing growing on your neck.”

Callahan grinned. “Aye-aye, Skipper!”

“And don’t call me skipper!” Bennett shouted as his newest detective walked out of the bureau.

+++++

Callahan knocked on the glass door and waited; a few minutes later a young woman who appeared to be a nurse of some sort came to the door and opened it. “Yes?” the nurse said expectantly. “Can I help you?”

“Inspector Callahan, San Francisco Police. I need to speak to Miss Weyland, please.”

The nurse looked uncertain, as if she simply didn’t know how to respond to a cop at the door, but she nodded her head slowly then simply pulled the door to and disappeared down a marble-tiled hallway that led into the depths of the large, very upscale house.

“Swell,” Callahan growled as he watched her walk off, but he just stood there, waiting. A minute or so passed and then an elegantly dressed white-haired man came down the same marbled hallway, and the man came directly to the door and opened it wide.

“You’re with the Police Department?” the man asked.

And Callahan nodded. “Callahan. Homicide. I’m going to need to speak further with Miss Weyland. Are you her father?”

“Would this be about last night?” the man said, a little evasively.

“Yessir.”

“I see. Well, perhaps you weren’t aware, but Devlin, Miss Weyland, is unwell and has been most of her life. She hallucinates, she sees things that aren’t really there, so is it possible that she hallucinated the events of last night, Mr. Callahan?”

“No sir. There were other witnesses.”

“I see. I didn’t know that. I came here earlier this morning and had to sedate her – as I thought she had hallucinated these events, but you’re telling me they actually happened?”

“Yessir. Excuse me, but are you a physician?”

“Yes. I’m the head of psychiatry up at St Francis General.”

“I don’t know what you’ve been told, Doctor, but a man from the yacht club was – well, for want of a better word, he was vaporized – and directly in front of Miss Weyland – and another employee of the club witnessed these events. Two other employees located a little further from the scene observed some of this as it happened, as well,” Callahan replied, cataloguing the physician’s appearance as they faced off, filing away the details in his mind – just in case: white buttoned down shirt, laundered, heavy starch; an Hermes necktie, tannish gold with a small riding crop motif; black slacks, pressed, Gucci belt, Gucci loafers; hair on the medium long side, whitish-blond, kept clean and combed, parted on the left; eyes hazel, with contact lenses; watch, Rolex Submariner; no wedding band or other jewelry. 

The physician still seemed unconvinced as he spoke now: “She said something about a large black creature taking one of the employees into the water, then something green, a green glow, taking them away. She really wasn’t all that coherent, Mr. Callahan, so I’m not sure if that’s exactly what she observed or not.”

“You said she hallucinates, Doctor? Is she psychotic or schizophrenic, something like that?”

“Something like that,” the physician repeated casually, offhandedly, as if that diagnosis was out of bounds for this discussion.

“Do you think I could talk with her?”

“As I said, Mr. Callahan, she’s heavily sedated.”

“Is she conscious?”

“Yes. Yes, she is.”

“Then I’d like to speak with her. Now, please, if that’s at all possible.”

“Do you have a warrant, Officer?”

“Do I need one, sir?”

“Well, you see, though I also happen to be Dev’s father, I am also her guardian, so I have a direct say in the matter.”

Callahan nodded. “I see. Does she play the piano?”

“Yes. She’s quite good, actually. Why do you ask?”

“We had a moment out there, sir. Something almost personal, and it had to do with playing the piano.”

“Do you play?” the physician asked quietly, almost kindly.

Callahan nodded. “She asked if I played Debussy, and when I replied Gershwin she said that was even better.”

“Indeed. She didn’t mention that.” The physician stood aside and held the door open. “My name is Peter, by the way. Peter Weyland. Won’t you come in?”

A little off balance now, Callahan smiled at the change that had come over Weyland as they walked into the house; he could see into the living room from the foyer and his eyes went to a massive concert grand in the far corner of the room. Next to a corner that seemed to be all glass, the Steinway was bathed in pure light – and Callahan had never seen a more seductively majestic setting to sit and play in his life – but when he turned to face Weyland he found that the physician had disappeared.

But a moment later he came back, only now with his daughter in hand.

She was hardly recognizable, he thought when he saw her now. Hunched over and with her face sallow and gray, the young woman he’d seen last night was gone now, subsumed by and inside the confines of the world her medications granted. Her slippered feet shuffled along unsteadily and her auburn hair was an unkempt nest that seemed wildly out of place inside this house.

And then she saw Callahan standing in the foyer.

And then she stood straighter in an instant and her face brightened as color returned, and when she smiled at Callahan he felt the strength of her in his bones. Suddenly and quite unbidden, she walked up to him and she held his eyes in her own and the house came alive with strange magic inside the suddenly slower passage of time. And then, after she came to Callahan she reached out and took his hands again, but this time she clasped them together inside her own, then brought them to the side of her face.

“Gershwin?” she whispered to him, her voice weak but taking strength from him.

“Yes. He’s always been my favorite.”

“Show me.”

“What? Now?”

“Please?”

So Harry walked over to the Steinway and after he got comfortable he began fingering an extremely simplified rendition of Summertime, but just a few bars…then he blew into an explosive phrasing of the Rhapsody…a real window-rattling romp…before he settled into the oppressively languid Second Prelude, playing through to the end – then he turned and looked her in the eye: “And what would your music tell me?” he asked, wondering what she might choose to tell the story of the moment.

And after she sat beside him she addressed the keyboard and closed her eyes before she drifted in Schwarzwald’s Second – but just as she meandered into the second bar he stopped her.

“Please,” he whispered, “anything but that.”

“Why?”

“She’s – my mother.”

“What?”

“Imogen,” he struggled to say, “is my mother.”

“Callahan,” she sighed. “Oh yes, I remember reading about her now. What was it like? To grow up with that music all around you?”

His mind drifted to the green house between Monterrey and Carmel, to the avocado trees and blackberry brambles – and the storms that came when she played… “I’m not sure I could find the words,” he started to say, but then he looked away. “It was…our life was very complicated.”

“So, that’s where Gershwin comes from. Point–counterpoint, wouldn’t you say?”

“I guess maybe it’s obvious now, but I’ve always been an open book. Just like Gershwin is an open book.”

“I doubt that very much,” she whispered, then she leaned into him, placed the side of her face on his shoulder in a way that felt a little too familiar. And yet oh-so-strangely familiar.

Then, perhaps out of guilt Callahan looked around the massive living room for her father, but he had simply left the room and now not even the nurse was present. “Would you mind telling me about the medications you’re taking?” he asked.

“I would if I knew what they are. Why?”

“Your father? He doesn’t tell you?”

She shook her head. “No. But I’m not really interested.”

“What are the side effects?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I was wondering, do they keep you from playing?”

“Oh. Sometimes. I think more than anything else they make me sleepy, and then I can’t concentrate. And sometimes my fingers feel heavy, like they’re made of lead.”

“I can’t imagine what that must feel like,” he said. “To be cut off from something so elemental.”

“You do understand, don’t you?” she whispered, now rubbing up against his shoulder – and to him it felt like in a very feline gesture of acceptance, so much so that he almost expected her to start purring.

“I think I would feel lost without music, but I wouldn’t want to presume…”

“You don’t have to.”

“Inspector Callahan?” Doctor Weyland said as he came back into the room. “Have you been able to talk about last night’s trouble?”

Callahan pulled away from Devlin and stood. “No sir. This isn’t going how I expected.”

“I dare say. Perhaps you should come by in the morning. I’ll have Devlin up and ready to go by nine.”

Callahan knew a dismissal when he heard one, so he nodded and sighed before he turned to her again. “Perhaps, if you feel up to it in the morning we could walk down to the water, or maybe over to the yacht club. It might stir your memory…”

“Better yet, Callahan,” her father said, “why don’t you come out with us. We were planning on a day out on the water, so when the tide turns at eleven why don’t you count on spending the afternoon with us?”

Callahan nodded. “If it’s still alright with you, I would like to come by at nine – and I’ll need to come with another detective.”

“Yes. That’s probably best.”

Harry could feel her disappointment – but worse still, he was sure she could feel his own. Something wasn’t right about all this, and he knew it. If word of his behavior today got back to Captain Bennett, his career in homicide would be over.

Yet he drove back to the bureau trying to understand what had just happened to him. Inrushing feelings for a girl he didn’t know, overwhelming dendritic impulses flowing from notes in a score to a hazy shade of memory he hardly recognized as his own. What was she doing to him – if not casting a spell…?

He turned on Bryant then turned hard onto Harriet Street, then into the lot and he sat there for a few minutes, watched Charlie McCoy pulling his radar gun from a saddlebag as he talked to Captain McKay. He shook his head at the thought then wondered how his old friend managed to keep riding and working Traffic now that he’d turned 50. 

“And what the fuck are you gonna do when you turn 50?” he asked the eyes in the rearview mirror.

Callahan tried to shake off the sudden funk; he got out of the puke green Ford and crossed the street and walked into the main lobby, flashed his badge and was buzzed into the bowels of the building, then rode up to the fourth floor in silence. Bennett was in his office working on another stomach ulcer, while Frank DiGiorgio and Carl Stanton were at their desks pounding away on ancient gray Underwood typewriters.

“Callahan!” Bennett growled, his voice rattling the windows. “What the hell have you been up to?”

“Steinhart, then at the Weyland residence – talking to that witness.”

“Find out anything at the aquarium?”

“No, nothing. Everyone there was all wound up about some kind of pre-historic fish someone found in Africa. A coelacanth, I think they called it. Ugly fucker, too.”

“Uh-huh. A Doctor Weyland called, wanted to know if you could interview his daughter tomorrow – on some fucking boat. You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on with that?”

“The girl, the witness, is apparently schizophrenic and was heavily sedated. The doctor, her father, thought I might have better luck talking to her in the morning.”

“Uh-huh,” Bennett said, not at all pleased. “So let me get this straight. You wanna go sailing tomorrow? On the taxpayers’ dime? With this dame?”

Callahan shrugged. “I have plenty of OT, Captain. You wanna call it comp-time?”

“Not if you are interviewing a witness in an official capacity. I mean, I assume this will be official, right?”

“Yessir.”

“Take Carl with you. He looks like he probably owns a pair of boat shoes…”

“Ah, c’mon, Captain,” DiGiorgio chimed in, “can’t I go?”

“You?” Bennett sneered. “Shit. If you stepped on a fuckin’ sailboat the fucker would tip-over.”

“Hey, fuck you very much, Skipper,” DiGiorgio replied, grinning.

“And the horse you rode in on, Fatso,” Bennett grumbled. “And don’t call me skipper!”  

“Right – Skipper!”

“Stanton!” Bennett growled. “You free tomorrow?”

“No sir. Court, 0800.”

“Fuck. Well Callahan, looks like you’re taking me sailing tomorrow. Pick me up here at 0700 and we’ll go get breakfast.”

Harry nodded, then he looked away and sighed, because it suddenly looked like tomorrow was going to be a very long day.

(c) 2023 adrian leverkühn | abw | fiction, plain and simple

[The Animals \\ San Francisco Nights]

Next part of the Ripley story. A little longer arc today, so plenty of time for tea.

[The Animals \\ We Gotta Get Out Of This Place]

So, here were go…

C 2

Once the Walter in Antarctic Traffic Control had linked and cross loaded files with all the other Walters and Gordons in the Enterprise Battle Group, Denton Ripley now had access to the pure, unfiltered historical record of the last thirty years, or the relative time Agamemnon and the Enterprise Battle Group had been away. More importantly, Lars Jansen now had complete access to all the computers on Gateway Alpha and on the Moon. After Ripley had gone over the rough outlines with Lars and Gordon, he knew it was time to get all the ships’ captains together for a council of war.

Including the tankers and Agamemnon, the Enterprise Battle Group numbered 34 ships, and this number included the Enterprise, an immense assault carrier, the heavy cruisers Wainwright and Saratoga, the Kearsarge – a Mohican class troop carrier outfitted with an air wing of her own – six tankers and with the balance of the fleet comprised of frigates like the Stavridis and Darwin. But Ina Balin had almost finished building a second X-ray Maser on Stavridis, and this latest version incorporated the moving mirror design developed by Pak’s engineers. Ripley was going to send her to Enterprise as soon as she finished on Stavridis.

Stavridis’s skipper, Dean Farrell, had been with Ripley’s first task force on the Hyperion mission, and like Ripley he was an Annapolis grad. Unlike Ripley, Farrell had studied history and philosophy at the Academy and had always been considered an intellectual; he was also fiercely loyal – to Admiral Stanton, to Denton Ripley, and to the United States Navy, and pretty much in that order, too. Like all Navy captains, Farrell had a deep interest in engineering, but he’d enjoyed developing camaraderie even as an XO, and under Farrell, Stavridis was soon considered one of the happiest ships in the fleet.

So Ripley wasn’t at all surprised when Farrell showed up a half hour before the Admiral’s council of war – carrying a pile of books.

“What on earth do you have there?” Denton smiled as Dean walked into the Admiral’s in-port conference room.

“Homework,” Farrell smiled back.

“Oh?”

“Denton, I have a Gordon onboard, so I think I know what this is all about.”

“So, what’s this stuff for?”

“Background,” Farrell said. “In case anyone’s interested.”

Neal Davis from the Enterprise was the next to come into the room, and he too looked troubled – but so did each and every skipper as the group piled into Ripley’s suddenly far too small conference room. When everyone was seated, Ripley’s yeoman Joan Carson distributed drinks and snacks, then Ripley called the meeting to order.

“Does anyone here not have access to the Walter Downloads?” he asked as all eyes centered on him.

But then a few hands shot up.

Ripley nodded. “Okay, here’s a quick summary of what’s happened while we were away. As all of you are well aware, what passed as a few months for us – because of the amount of time we traveled at faster than light speeds, well, almost thirty years passed here on Earth, and a lot has happened while we were away.”

He paused and looked around the room, measuring the dour mood. 

“The United States of America is no more. For that matter, the old nation states we were all familiar with are now all gone, and the planet is now entirely encased in ice. There is a continuing human presence at McMurdo, but the ice is increasing in thickness, on average, at a rate of 30 centimeters per annum.

“Approximately seven hundred million people were evacuated from the planet’s surface over a fifteen year period, and yes, that means more than eight billion souls are entombed down there in the ice.”

He paused to let that sink in.

“About 28 years ago a Company survey ship located and charted a planet that’s now called Sparta, and a BAPist cult managed to get the upper hand, politically speaking, on that planet, and they established a monarchy…”

A hand shot up. “A what?”

Ripley turned to Captain Farrell: “Dean, you want to take this one?”

“Sure. I’m sure most of you remember basic 21^st century history, the economic collapse of 2008 and the Obama period that followed. This of course spurred on the revisionist nationalism of the Trump period, but it wasn’t until a few years later that one of the key philosophers of the Trump period was finally uncovered. This man billed himself as The Bronze Age Pervert, or BAP, and it turned out that this BAP had a number of acolytes in the Trump White House. BAP was a devotee of Nietzsche, the 19^th century German philosopher that lay at the heart of Naziism, and BAP carried the idea of the so-called übermensch, or superman, into the 21^st century. Here’s his manifesto, by the way, if anyone is interested,” Farrell said, holding up a copy of BAP’s book, Bronze Age Mindset. “This edition was published in 2018, by the way, and BAP was, like Nietzsche, like Hitler, and like Ayn Rand, dividing humanity into two groups: the men who accomplish great things and all the rest, which he referred to as subhuman slaves, and that’s putting it charitably.

“I’m sure that you all remember that after the tectonic events in the Pacific Northwest, when Rainier and Hood and Shasta erupted and the North American plate shifted, the resulting climate shifts brought on the current ice age, but looking over the Walter Downloads it appears that BAPists had by the mid-21st century almost completely infiltrated the remnants of state governments in the western US. There are indications that the space agencies in the US and EU were compromised as well, and that many of their members were well placed within the Weyland Corporation. It now appears that these BAPists decapitated the federal government’s response to the threat of encroaching ice, and that they may have executed key members of the Senate and Council…”

“And that,” Ripley said, “makes this King Leonidas our common enemy.”

“But…does it, really?” Neal Davis said. “I mean, Denton, let’s think this thing through. The United States no longer exists. There is, literally, no admiralty. No Council, not even a Senate. As the armed force of a democratically elected people that reports to a civilian command authority, we literally, well, we’re stateless and so have no legitimate purpose. This Leonidas may not be our elected leader, but he is, apparently, the leader of what’s left of the human race, so let’s face facts. We could go in tomorrow and wipe Sparta off the map, but in the end we’d only be hastening the end of mankind…”

Denton smiled – because this is exactly what he’d wanted to happen: a spirited discussion of the options facing the fleet – because somehow he was going to have to build a solid consensus among his skippers before any action could be taken, and he’d need everyone’s support.

“Well,” Dean Farrell replied, “let’s look at the problem another way. Leonidas wasn’t elected, he was selected, and probably by a group of corporate sponsors, so his leadership is anything but legitimate – in a democratic sense, at least as far as we’re concerned. And there have already been revolts on New Chicago and on Asia, so there are already strains in the system with this sort of leadership. Also, this new empire has limited resource processing ability and an almost primitive war fighting capability…”

“For now, you mean,” someone said.

“Yes,” Farrell said, “precisely. In ten years they may be armed to the teeth and ready to take us on, but right now it appears they are comparatively weak and we hold a real strategic advantage.”

“Your forgetting something important,” Judy Ripley interjected.

“Like what?” Neal Davis replied.

“This Leonidas has corporate patrons, and these patrons run all eleven planets in this new alliance, and Weyland is the biggest of these. That said, the Company is probably well armed with the organism.”

“But that’s a ground force, and besides,” Farrell said, “employing the organism all but dooms the targeted group, be it one of our ships or a planet. That’s a Doomsday Weapon, pure and simple.”

Denton Ripley nodded. “Mutually assured destruction. But how the hell do they expect to use it against us?”

+++++

Thedus had been discovered a few years after a Company probe transiting the Coalsack sectors had run an automated scan of the planet as it passed. When the results of the scan were transmitted to New Sparta, the Company dispatched an assay team to the planet to confirm the results of this first incomplete scan; when the results were confirmed several colony ships loaded with construction engineers and miners were sent to begin constructing the infrastructure necessary for large scale mineral extraction. Habitation modules under large pressure domes were the first things built, then the first ore processing modules were shuttled down to the planet’s surface. Crushing ferrous oxide under high pressure released oxygen – which was then further processed and stored to provide breathable air inside the domes, and not long after that milestone was passed facilities to distill liquor and to provide testicular release followed, and five years later more than nine thousand people called Thedus home. When a second brothel was built the miners knew they’d finally hit the big time.

And as it was a small planet, one that would be resource depleted within fifty years, the Company had decided against terraforming or building long term settlements there. More a planetoid than a planet like Earth, or even Mercury, Thedus had less than one-twentieth the gravity of Sparta – and while that made walking problematic it did make it economical to load minerals on the planet’s surface and then boost the payload into a low orbit. Because of these significant cost savings, miners working on Thedus were very well paid indeed, and productivity had remained high since Day One.

Sir Ian Tarkanian was the current governor general, and he “positively loathed” his latest posting. A sharp, lean man with hungry eyes, Sir Ian had made a small fortune transporting wealthy refugees from South Asia and sub-Saharan Africa up to orbiting colony ships, and ever since he’d lived the life of a wealthy sybarite wherever he happened to land. Accepting his peerage had come with the proviso that he take the offered assignment on Thedus and remain there for at least two years; now he was counting down the days until he could hop on one of his ships and return to Sparta. That he would be called Sir Ian, or Governor Tarkanian for the rest of his life, was only the very sweet icing on a very large cake he would happily call all his own.

His office, by any standard but especially so for Thedus, was garishly decorated in a red velveteen velcro material trimmed with ornately shaped solid gold trim – the gold freshly mined and processed from the vast deposits beneath Tarkanian’s feet. And while the Company took the biggest percentage of the haul and the Crown the second biggest, the sitting governor also took a decent percentage of all the minerals, ores, and precious metals extracted from the planet, and which would in the two years of his posting see Tarkanian move up the list from modestly wealthy to the obscenely rich. As such, his far-flung commercial enterprises also ensured he was dialed into all the comings and goings within the imperial aristocracy, and it was said that he knew who was in and who was most definitely on the outs long before anyone else on Sparta.

And this morning Sir Ian was reading through his dispatches from the regional capital on New Caledonia before his first appointment of the day, with this Ripley woman from one of the tugs. Reading through her dossier was like reading the summary of a condemned man, or woman, as was the case here; her parents were celebrated U.S. Naval officers that had been among the last to matriculate from the old Naval Academy on Earth, but they had disappeared during the course of the disastrous Mintaka expedition and had not been heard from since – until a month ago, that is. For the entire USNSF Enterprise Battle Group had instantly – and mysteriously – appeared in Earth orbit and been contacted by a disbelieving Antarctic Traffic Control. And that was when the shit had well and truly hit the imperial fan.

Yet of more immediate interest to Tarkanian, in that one instant the entire balance of power within the empire had seismically shifted into unknown territory, and he had been looking for a way to exploit the sudden appearance of this fleet.

Because there simply weren’t any ships like the Enterprise or the Constellation in the new Imperial Navy. Even the frigates Stavridis and Darwin were more powerful than anything built in recent decades, and this was the simple, unintended consequence of the so-called Peace Dividend declared by Leonidas after the final collapse of the Russian-Chinese alliance. “All threat of war is hereby abolished!” the King had merrily decreed, and so centuries of military tradition and war fighting capability had withered and died in the span of a single generation, and with it all threats to Leonidas’s continued reign.

And yet here was this girl, in effect raised by the last four star Admiral of that Navy and without any knowledge of the whereabouts of her real parents, and now he was going to get to break the news to her. Her parents were alive! She was to return to Earth immediately by the fastest available means! It was all very breathless and amusing, and he was almost looking forward to delivering some good news for a change – when Thomas Dolby floated into his office without so much as a knock on his Duraplast door.

“When is Ripley scheduled to meet with you?” Dolby growled as he floated across the room, finally sitting across from Tarkanian – and then putting his feet up on Sir Ian’s desk.

Doing his level best not to look supremely put out by this unwanted intrusion, Sir Ian looked at the CIAs local head-of-station and shook his head. “0800, I seem to recall.”

“She’s not to be told anything about her parents, and she is not to return Earth or the Gateway under any circumstances,” Dolby sighed. “Am I being clear? She’s not being sent back to Earth to meet up with dear old Mom and Dad. Got that?”

“And why the devil not, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Because the Company wants it that way,” Dolby said, handing over a dispatch. “You’re to confer her adjustment in rank to Chief Warrant Officer, effective on the date noted, and mention that comes with a quarter point increase in shares for this flight – and that is all you are to tell her at this time.”

“And, that’s it?” Sir Ian grumbled. “But all that blather is normally transmitted internally, isn’t it?”

Dolby shrugged. “What the Company wants, the…”

“…the Company gets. Yes, yes, so I keep hearing. Any idea what this is all about?”

“No, not entirely, but I suspect it has something to do with her parents.”

“Obviously,” Sir Ian said. “But what the devil could they have done?”

“My guess is they’ve refused to swear the oath of allegiance to Leonidas, and that makes the situation a real problem.”

Tarkanian nodded in complete understanding. From what he remembered reading a few years ago, the Enterprise Battle Group was immensely powerful and could lay waste to entire planets, and the thought of an old school U.S. Navy admiral showing up in orbit over New Sparta with that fleet had to be keeping the imperial court up at night – because there was nothing at all in the new “Navy” capable of stopping Ripley and his fleet. If the admiral were to refuse to cede the disappearance of the old United States of America, and if they were to attempt to…

“Ah yes, I see the problem,” Tarkanian sighed.

“Do you? Well then, good, that’s excellent.”

Sir Ian nodded. The one thing that might sway Admiral Ripley could very well be to throw his daughter’s future into the mix. To, in effect, hold her hostage? Obviously the intel services would have to use the Company to pull off something like that, and he wondered what Dolby had come up with? 

+++++

There were currently three Tesotek 2100-B bulk ore carriers on Thedus, and as the captain of the Nostromo looked at the dispatcher’s display he sighed, then turned away in anger when he realized only one had been – partially – loaded. Time was money and this screw-up, Arthur Dallas knew, was going to cost the Company some real money. Though the ore separators would continue to process the bulk ore during the flight back to Sparta, tight construction deadlines on the imperial planet meant that a late arrival would slow progress on any number of major construction projects nearing completion, as a late ore arrival meant unnecessary delays in steel and aluminum production – and these types of delays always rippled downstream into further production bottlenecks and even more delays. Still, because Sparta was such a pristine, not to a mention gorgeous world, the Crown had long since decreed that the home of the imperial aristocracy would not suffer the same fate as Earth, and that meant ores would not be extracted from within Sparta, and to this day only the barest minimum hydro-carbon emissions were permitted. Turning these ores into steel beams and aluminum sheathing were considered within this framework, for the time being, anyway, but these ore ships carried an even more precious cargo.

Because in addition to the iron ores and bauxite carried in the massive storage domes, more than 110 tons of refined gold and and 35 tons of palladium had already been secured inside Nostromo’s internal cargo bays, and the Crown desperately needed these precious metals to pay for the massive infrastructure projects already in progress – both on Sparta and on the eleven settled worlds of the Co-Dominium.

Thomas Kane, Nostromo’s XO, pulled himself into the dispatch office wearing his habitually dour face, his eyes studying the latest ore download rates and departure estimates as he floated over to Captain Dallas. “Call it thirty hours to finish the load-out, and then two more hours to pressurize the reactor and dock with the refinery module,” Kane said.

Dallas knew it was almost impossible to maneuver into position and secure the docking clamps to a Tesotek in less than four hours, and he’d already guesstimated the time needed to finish loading the four domes with raw ore, so he wondered what Kane was up to. “We have any passengers this trip?”

“No, not this time,” Kane said. These bulk ore runs were slow, but passage could be booked on the cheap – and with no questions asked – because the crew usually pocketed the proceeds from these off-the-book transits.

“Any crew changes?”

“No. Lambert is still on NAV, Walter on Science, Ripley has the stick and it looks like we’re stuck with Parker and Brett again down in Engineering. Oh, in case you haven’t heard yet, Ripley’s promotion to CWO just came through, so she can officially handle all flight deck duties now.”

“Wow, that fast? Well, three more runs and she can sit for the Commissioned Officer’s Exam, then she’ll be gunning for your job…”

“You still gonna retire from the merchant marines?”

“Yup. This is my last trash run, Tom. I’ll be flying passengers between Sparta and New Chicago by this time next year.”

“Oh? Did your orders come through?”

Dallas held up a hand-held screen and pointed to an entry. “Final interview a week after we finish unloading.”

“Hey, congratulations! About time!”

“Thanks, Tom. Four more round trips and then you can sit for the exam, right?”

“You got that right. No more hyper sleep for me.” Big bulk haulers like Nostromo were simply too massive to generate Langston Fields, so they relied on a constant 1.1G acceleration to get up to near light speed, then at the halfway point flipped and applied a 1.1G braking thrust until reaching Sparta. If the ship ran into trouble, Earth was near the halfway point and the old Lunar Gateway was their alternate.

Joan Lambert floated in and Dallas immediately looked at the navigator’s fingernails – because she was constantly chewing on them, often to the point where they were a bleeding mess wrapped in gauze. The woman was perpetually nervous and, generally speaking, suspicious to the point of paranoia. Ripley was the only one onboard that seemed to get along with her, too, leaving Dallas to conclude that Lambert had been through a few bad relationships with men. Then again, he’d heard rumors that Lambert and Parker had a sex-type-thing of their own going on, so who knows, maybe he was wrong about her.

“Any surprises on our route this time, Joan?” Dallas said to Lambert as she hovered nearby – doing his best to ignore the little bits of fingernail under her perpetually scowling lower lip.

“Possible comet as we approach the Terran Oort Cloud. Nothing else listed,” she said – just before she began chewing on a thumb nail.

Dallas shook his head and looked away. “Oh, by the way, Ripley’s Chief Warrant Officer rating came through, just in case that comes up.”

Lambert nodded but she looked away, too. She’d been passed over for CWO two times already, which meant she was trapped now, that she’d spend the rest of her time with the Company as a navigator. Her only way up the ladder would be to dump flight status and go teach at the old merchant marine academy on Mars, something she had been considering for a while. Still, she’d need a few more trips to be considered for a ground-side teaching assignment, and she was already coming up on thirty years old. “That was quick,” Lambert finally said. “How long before we head out to the ship?”

Dallas looked at Kane again. “You want to take Ellen and go make sure the food-paks were  reloaded correctly this time?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Dallas nodded and then turned to Lambert. “We’d better go out and make sure Mother has the mission parameters sequenced correctly, and that her fuel calculations tally with yours.”

“Now?” Lambert asked.

“Yeah, now; unless you’ve got something better to do?”

“I’ll have to go download the files – and format a new drive,” she said, exasperated by having been asked to do her job.

“Okay,” Dallas said, suddenly tired of trying to work around Lambert’s incomprehensible moods. “Why don’t you bring out a hard copy, too. Just in case I want to look over the route.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, Lambert nodded brusquely and pushed off. “See you up at the ramp,” she said before she disappeared down the access way that led to the NAV Center. 

“Where’s Ripley?” Kane asked Dallas, shaking his head at Lambert when she finally drifted out of sight.

“Still in the BOQ with that goddamn cat; at least she was a half hour ago.”

“You want anything special this trip?”

“No, not really. Whatever the kitchen comes up with is fine by me.”

“We all liked that green stuff last trip out of here. Tasted kind of like spinach.”

Dallas shrugged and turned to his personal correspondence; Kane took the hint and turned to push off and make his way out to the BOQ, or the Bachelor Officer Quarters – relishing the pure freedom of zero-G up here in the orbital base station – while it lasted.

+++++

The Nostromo was a Lockheed Martin CM-88B Bison, an M-class interplanetary tug powered by one ChiCo contained fission pile reactor and two Westinghouse fusion plants. Power in a vacuum was provided by four large Rolls-Royce ion drives, while the command module was designed to detach for flight into known atmospheric conditions using either a scramjet or two high bypass turbofan engines. She was larger in all aspects than the ocean liners of the early 20^th century, and could generate enough power to supply the needs of a small city. That such a huge machine could be handled by a crew of seven was a testament to the power of the computer that, in truth, really ran the ship.

And for almost 20 years, the MU/TH/UR-5500 class computer had handled these routine duties, but M-class interplanetary tugs had recently switched over to the larger -6000 series. With six ten-terabyte cores, ‘Mother’ could handle the most complex astro-navigational chores with ease, and she interfaced with the computers servicing each of the ore processing towers, dispatching maintenance drones to all areas of the two ships.

Because both Walter and Gordon units could interface directly with Mother, though perhaps more a matter of economics, most ships were assigned synthetics as science officers. Their energy requirements were minuscule compared to human needs and, with the exception of the disastrous David model introduced in 2080s, synthetics subdued, quasi-human AI driven emotional reactions made them ideally suited to the conditions encountered during long-duration interplanetary voyages. 

Dallas and Ripley were on the bridge entering waypoints into the ship’s INS, a new, state-of-the-art Thales Inertial Navigation System, while Lambert entered the same data – manually – into Mother’s NavDat terminal. Done this way, Mother could independently crosscheck that waypoints had been correctly entered before departure, as well as monitor the progress of the ship during the voyage. Making major course corrections during transit had to be approved by a bridge officers, and on this trip that meant either Dallas, Kane, or Ripley had to sign off on such changes.

Dennis Parker, the ship’s engineer, and his assistant, Sam Brett, had already double checked hull integrity as well as the the three docking clamp mechanisms that would be used to secure the refinery complex to Nostromo, and they were off to see that all provisions were up to date in the ship’s lifeboat, the same Narcissus-class lifeboat affixed to all CM-88 tugs. This meant ensuring the oxygen scrubbers and food-paks were all replenished and up-to-date, and that the  hyper sleep chambers on the main deck were correctly pre-loaded with occupant information and their current flight profile.

Tom Kane, as the ship’s executive officer, was responsible for double checking Parker’s work, and more often than not he found maddening errors and glaring deficiencies, and while he’d long wanted Parker tossed out of the merchant marine, Parker, and to a degree his useless assistant Sam Brett, were protected by the powerful Spacer’s Union, so getting him fired would literally take an act of the crown, which meant it would never happen. Making his rounds behind Parker and Brett this morning he’d already found eight major errors in their pre-load settings, and he was only half way through his pre-takeoff checklist!

Ripley and Lambert had double checked the INS entries and now Ripley was waiting for the final load-out report so she could enter the cargo’s mass. With that information entered she could calculate the fuel requirements for the voyage as well as the fuel needed to enter a parking orbit around Sparta. Dallas would have to sign off on those calculations, and only then would the final flight profile be sent on to Mother for crosscheck and approval.

“Forty five minutes to cargo launch,” ground control said over the radio.

“We still need the numbers!” Ripley replied caustically.

“Right. Sending now,” a too young voice said over the circuit.

Ripley shook her head. Labor shortages were a fact of life in the Co-Dominium, and probably would remain that way for a hundred years, or so they’d been told. With more than ninety percent of the Earth’s population lost, automation had become more important than ever, but there were still too many things that required human intervention and judgement. Still, she’d been stunned to see a twelve year old girl working approach control in the tower on Thedus. 

And as she entered the cargo weights and performed balance calculations she noticed a short, squat-necked man walking onto the bridge. He appeared to be in his 40s, if his close-cropped steel gray hair was any indication, and his facial expression seemed guarded, his eyes furtive, almost evasive. 

The stranger walked over to Captain Dallas and handed him his orders.

His name was Ash, and he would be replacing the ship’s Walter for the duration of the voyage.

this chapter (c) 2023 adrian leverkühn | abw | fiction, plain and simple

[Status Quo \\ Pictures of Matchstick Men]

Once again I am relying on Niven and Pournelle and the framework presented in The Mote In God’s Eye (and The Gripping Hand) to present the governmental framework of this last chapter of the Ripley triptych. Readers of these two books, and a whole bunch of others, will recognize the Co-Dominium – as it existed a thousand years after its formation, so your indulgence is in order here as I am creating a “backstory” to the creation of their Co-Dominium. And once again I’d implore you to read the two Mote books, as they really are among the very best sci-fi novels out there.

[Pink Floyd \\ Hey You]

A fairly short chapter to kick off this latest work, so maybe time for a cup of tea. Enjoy.

Nostromo

Chapter 1

There was a moment – when awareness first returned and the last icy tendrils of hyper-sleep began their slow, feral retreat – when those who experienced the sensation admitted to feeling the nightmarish panic of suffocation – and this was usually just before their mind gave up on the idea of sleep and real panic set in. Deep within those last fleeting moments of hyper-sleep, the elaborate mechanisms of electro-chemically induced hibernation finally gave way to the organic, biologically mediated reawakening of consciousness, and yet the brain simply could not shake off the reality that just moments before it had generated an electrical impulse once every ninety seconds that traveled down the vagus nerve and ‘caused’ the heart to beat once. Yet even so, the lungs did not expand and contract to push oxygenated blood around the body – because the hyper-sleep chamber was itself a hyper-saturated oxygen-rich bariatric environment. Electro-compressive elements in the thermostatically controlled sleep suit continuously massaged this oxygen rich mixture throughout the body, forcing these gases deep within all of the body’s tissues, most notably the brain – yet it was the brain that was the last part of Ellen Ripley to come back fully to life.

Her mind raced through the last dark corridors of the nightmare as she ran for the light – and the oxygen – that her conscious mind now craved, and then, right there in the deep middle of her oxygen deprived panic the suit delivered its coup de grâce: a shock that opened her eyes and that also commanded a sharp inhalation of room air. Her body was then on autopilot once again, following a script written over the eons; she sat up in her sleep chamber as her eyes popped open, and then months of lactic acid stored in her muscles flooded into her stomach, causing her to retch even as she reached for the ‘muscle milk’ being handed to her. She drank half the one-liter glass in one quick slug, neutralizing the inrushing acid in time to prevent the worst outcome, then she felt helping hands reaching under her arms, lifting her free of the chamber.

“How are you feeling, Miss Ellen?” Walter said.

“How long was I out?” she groaned, finishing the glass of hydrating fluids.

“Sixty four days. The ship is now in an elliptical orbit around Thedus.”

“Great. We have any R&R lined up?”

“R&R? No, Ma’am,” Walter sighed. “You do, however, have a meeting with the governor-general, Sir Walter Lockhart, at 0800 tomorrow morning.”

“The governor, huh? No shit. Wonder what I’ve done now.”

Walter smiled noncommittally, then he looked away. “I have no idea, Miss.”

“Walter, knock it off, would you? Whenever you’re holding something back you always look away like that…”

“Like what, Ma’am?”

“You look away…just like that…but then you kind of smile, too. You aren’t going to try and tell me you didn’t realize you were doing that…”

“I didn’t…so sorry.”

“Damn, Wally, you been around humans long enough now…you really ought to be a better liar by now.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Ellen. Are you telling me that you would like me to lie to you more often?”

Ripley shook her head as another wave of nausea hit. “No,” she said, rolling through another grimace inducing cramp, “but if you wouldn’t mind, would you hand me that bucket?”

+++++

The USNSF, such as it was, still maintained a “defensive presence” on the massive Lunar Gateway complex, but it was an irrelevant posting now that the Earth was no longer of any commercial value, and that was just one of the things that struck Denton Ripley as utterly insane as he walked through the worn down station.

The Earth, all of it – every political institution and every corporate entity – had simply packed up and left during Agamemnon’s 25 years long voyage – even though Ripley, like everyone else in the Enterprise Battle Group, had aged only a little more than a year. And now that he had learned the truth behind this great migration he was even more mystified.

After the combined fleets of the Russian-Chinese alliance and the American-Japanese space forces had been defeated by an “unknown faction” within the Tall Whites’ armed forces, the U. S. Naval Space Force, still commanded by Admiral Stanton, had simply been unable to secure enough funding to rebuild the fleet. 

“But how was that even possible?” Denton asked Tom Bretton, the current commander of the gateway. “I mean, with half of the fleet destroyed and the other half unaccounted for, and with Earth’s defenses stretched to the breaking point, are you telling me that the Council couldn’t earmark enough money to rebuild…”

“By that point there was no Council, Admiral Ripley. And for all intents and purposes, the American Congress had simply ceased to function when the last arable land was covered by the ice sheet. Almost the entire remaining human population was located either in orbit, on the Moon, or on Mars. For three years every resource was allocated to building shuttles and getting the population up to the gateways, and then we found Sparta, or New Sparta – as it’s called now. Big bulk carriers were transformed into colony ships and about that time a new governing structure developed…”

“What? What new structure?”

“Well, for one thing, it’s a monarchy. There’s no president, no congress, nothing like that anymore – although there’s talk that the King is under pressure to reconstitute some kind of Senate…”

Ripley’s face was screwed up into a tight scowl and he was gnashing his teeth in pure rage. “A…king? Are you fucking kidding me…?”

Bretton pointed at the ceiling and shook his head. “Look, you’re going to need some time to get acclimated to these changes. Everyone understands that. But Admiral, within a few days you’ll need to record your oath of allegiance to the crown or…”

“Or…what?”

“You’ll be provided with transportation down to the planet’s surface.”

“To Earth, you mean?”

Bretton smiled. “Yes.”

“I understand. So, just so I’m clear, is everyone on this New Sparta now?”

“Oh, no, we’re migrating to dozens of planets now. The biggest cities in the Co-Dominium are on New Chicago and Saint Ekaterina. We don’t know much about the Chinese settlements right now, but they are on seven planets now.”

“Saint Ekaterina? That’s Russian, is it not?”

Bretton nodded. “Yes. Apparently the Chinese turned on them after Mintaka and that was one time too many. The Russians swore allegiance to Leonidas about five years after they lost contact with their fleet and that was that.”

“So…no United States? No European Union and no Russia? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Yessir. Now you’ve got the Co-Dominium or you’ve got exile to the planet’s surface, but don’t get me wrong. There’s still a lot of grief about this in the outer rim planets. Levant, where most of the Muslim population settled, has a big dissident faction, and half the people on New Caledonia are always up in arms about one thing or another…”

“Is there a Navy?”

“Oh, you bet. Divided into two forces. Escort and counter insurgency.”

“Counter insurgency? So that kind of implies we’re not all one big happy family…doesn’t it…?”

“Yessir, you got that right. There was a revolt on New Chicago last year. Refused to pay their taxes, again. So they Navy went in and read them the riot act, told them to pay up or the Navy would blockade the planet. There’s still not a lot of major industry on New Chicago, not enough to be fully self sufficient, so blockade means starvation and, well, death – when you get right down to it.”

“How many ships does this new Navy have?” Denton asked.

And now Bretton just shrugged. “Depends on who I’m talking to, Admiral Ripley. If your allegiance resides with your oath of office to the old constitution, I’m not telling you anything beyond a rough outline of what happened while you were away.”

And that, Ripley said to himself, was all he needed to know. The Enterprise Battle Group could form up and attack this New Sparta, or he and Neal Davis could swear allegiance to this new King, this Leonidas the First. That was the choice being presented to him right now, and it was a stark choice. Revolt, or allegiance. 

But allegiance to what? Or…to who?

To something, or someone, he knew nothing about? How the devil could these people assume he or anyone in his fleet would do something so outrageously out of character – unless they…

Unless they already had a fleet en route…

…to enforce the King’s law.

(c) 2023 adrian leverkuhn | abw | fiction, plain and simple

[Alan Parsons \\ Time]

And so here are all chapters of Agamemnon – now completely revised and with about thirty or so new pages creating a very different ending. I hate to say it, but many additional changes were inserted throughout – so you might as well restart from the beginning. Pardon the lack of editing; you’ll probably find more errors than usual.

Also, I’ve tried to keep elements of this story from becoming too cinematic, though in my mind I can’t help but see the visual poetry in Scott’s movies, especially the ship interiors, filling in the blanks. Yet at the same time The Mote in God’s Eye is never far from my mind, and oddly enough I think that story contributed more to these efforts than did Scott’s films.

There are other storylines within this part of the arc that are just begging to be expanded, notably the Lars avatar and his role in events. The Brennan baby is another, and of course the whole Ellen Ripley backstory that is never touched upon in the movies is not addressed here. That said, I could see coming back to this one and filling in a few of the details I’ve omitted, but in the end I wanted to keep this story manageably short and not turn it into another War and Peace (aka The 88th Key).

Anyway, that was the thinking. So far. Hope you find it fun.

[Jed Kurzel \\ The Covenant]

The Voyage of the USNSF Agamemnon

USNSF Agamemnon                                                                 15 October 2107

Denton Ripley watched the docking clamps release over a remote video feed, and he flinched when Hyperion’s port-side reaction control jets began firing to the beat of an elaborate dance all their own. As he watched the live feed, Ripley noted the huge ship – his last command – was slowly beginning to pull away from her moorings at the Lunar Gateway, then he saw two tugs moving in to help keep her on station. Ripley’s arms crossed protectively over his chest as he watched the evolution, knowing his wife now had the chair on Hyperion’s conn – and that, for now, all eyes were on her.

“Mixed emotions, Denton?” Admiral Stanton said as walked into the orbiting basestation’s huge, multi-storied control tower.

“I should be out there with her, you know?” Ripley said – almost under his breath, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the hum of the computers in the complex – let alone the blast of the air conditioners needed to keep the computers alive.

“Oh? You don’t think she’s ready for this?”

“I have more combat experience, Admiral. Not to mention Hyperion was mine for two years.”

Stanton smiled. “If I had a buck for every time I’ve heard that one…well, I guess I’d be a rich man by now.”

Ripley nodded. “Goes with the territory, I suppose.”

“Very few skippers last six months, Denton. Operational needs dictate the ebb and flow of assignments and postings, but if you decide to stick around you’ll start to see the big picture.”

“Stick around?”

“You don’t have to retire, Denton. You can always move to administration or operations when you get back.”

“I wasn’t aware that was an option, Admiral.”

“Well, I just made you aware, didn’t I? And I don’t need an answer now. Just give it some thought – while you’re out there.”

“Yessir.”

“The yard boss tells me Agamemnon will be ready for her initial test run in a few days. I want you to take her out to Mercury…”

“And then return?”

Stanton shook his head. “Only if absolutely necessary.”

“Sir?”

“Look, I know this is not exactly doing things by the book, but you’re going to head out with a unrated crew, but you’ll also be heading out with a group of Israeli technicians onboard. They’ll tune the reactor and iron out any bugs in that weapon of theirs while they get your fire control team up to speed – and we’ll get ‘em back to base on one of the tankers.”

“You mean…?”

“Yes, the Council and the administration have assigned your mission highest priority. We want you to make the jump to Alpha Geminorum Ca as soon as possible, and we want you to find that installation.”

“Installation? Sir, Thomas referred to it as a university.”

“And who knows, Denton…maybe it is. But do you really think we can afford to take that chance?”

Ripley suddenly felt ill, like he had been betrayed – because he knew what had to come next. “Sir, what are the mission objectives?”

“Retrieve our midshipman and ascertain what threat level these ‘Tall Whites’ pose.”

“And?”

“If they’re hostile, then Agamemnon, Constellation, and Stavridis will engage when and if you determine you have the tactical advantage.”

“And if they aren’t a threat?”

“You’ll have dozens of academic sorts onboard your flagship, as well as on the Enterprise; the Science Ministry recommends you convene a working council after contact and work out the best way to proceed diplomatically. You’ll also have the five remaining middies from your original mission, and they’re to stay with you onboard Agamemnon – unless, that is, you have to abandon ship.”

“So, any thoughts about how we enter the system?”

Stanton shook his head. “No, not really. I assume you’ll jump with both Constellation and Stavridis, but I’d keep Connie out at the jump point – to secure the return to Earth. Maybe Stavridis could hide out in the asteroid belt, kind of like an ace up your sleeve for when, or if, things hit the fan. If it turns bad out there, Constellation would be in a good position to send a longboat through the Alderson point. Within six weeks we hope to have the Enterprise Battle Group assembled and ready to make the jump to provide a secondary attack force should this new race prove hostile.”

“A battle group, Admiral? Can we spare that many ships if we get into a shooting war with the Russian and the Chinese at Mintaka?”

“I don’t know, Denton. Why don’t you think it through and see what you come up with.” An exasperated Stanton looked him over again – then he too crossed his arms over his chest before he turned and walked out of the control tower – and Denton realized he’d asked a question worthy of any midshipman still wet behind the ears. 

Yet that question had been in the plan all along. In fact, everything he and Stanton had just said had been for the benefit of the prying eyes and hidden ears scattered all over Gateway Alpha. Because of the nature of the Gateway, that of providing access to the lunar surface, operational security up here was a nightmare, with personnel from dozens of countries flowing through every day.

Hyperion was soon about a hundred meters away from the Gateway and Ripley could now take her all in. With her Langston Field down she looked like an interconnected jumble of mismatched white rectangles covered with hundreds of small metallic sensor arrays and antennas – and he had to admit she looked nothing at all like most modern warships – yet in an offhand way that’s exactly what she was. And she was headed in harm’s way, too – only now Hyperion was skippered by a woman who also just happened to be his wife.

+++++

Yet his new ship was anything but a warship, and Agamemnon was anything but a rectangle.

As he looked her over the word ‘rakish’ came to mind, because she looked like one of the ocean greyhounds that used to roam the Earth’s southern capes – the Clipper Ships – two hundred years ago. Even made fast to her moorings here at the Gateway, she looked like she’d been built for pure speed, like a bird dog straining at the leash and ready to join the chase. And while she was technically an emissary ship, Agamemnon too was a kind of warship, only a warship built with very different objectives in mind. 

Agamemnon’s mission wasn’t confrontation; no, she was – in her way – an olive branch. A very fast olive branch. This new ship had been built with the implicit knowledge that the most enduring peace is based on understanding and respect – respect grounded in an explicit ability to lay waste to any enemy the ship came across.

This was an old concept, of course. The policy of MAD, or Mutually Assured Destruction, had been employed during the First Cold War and had remained in place through the Resource Wars. After a wild series of tectonic shifts and volcanic eruptions had sent the Northern Hemisphere into perpetual winter, the customs unions of the north had simply moved south, pushing aside native populations as these unions asserted control over vast new territories. Yet once all the resources necessary for explosive industrialization were discovered in the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter, terrestrial conflict came to a sudden, convulsive end. As all modern economies were built on the shaky foundations of military industrialization, it soon became apparent that all such conflict would have to take place in space. And in a sad irony not lost on Ripley, there was not now even one country that maintained a real sea-going navy anymore; in an era of rapidly changing climates, the cost, let alone the danger, was simply no longer justifiable.

Yet Agamemnon represented something new, and as such her design was radically different from the first generation of interstellar warships. Of course the ship had an Alderson Drive so of course she had a protective Langston Field, yet despite being a warship she had been designed to deploy only one weapon. Agamemnon would be the first ship to deploy a working X-ray MASER, and this offensive weapon had been developed specifically for this ship. Rumors had been floated that this Maser was quite probably the deadliest weapon ever created by man. In tests, Maser-X had cut through all known armor plate in nanoseconds, yet the weapon concurrently delivered a kinetic impact equivalent to five megatons of force. The real horror of this weapon was that even a ship’s Langston Field could not absorb this kinetic impact; instead, all this colossal energy was transmitted inward, directly onto the ship within the Field. Developed in Israel, during her proof of concept tests the Maser had been deployed against steel structures in the Negev, and the results had been terrifying. Huge iron beams bent under the force of the impact, but then the metal began to disintegrate as the Maser ruptured molecular bonds within the metal. Now the thinking was that a ship targeted by the Maser would be instantly crippled by the kinetic impact, then the targeted ship’s Langston Field generator would fail, allowing the full power of the Maser to strike the underlying structure, in effect slicing through the ship and exposing the habitation modules to space. The most unusual, and horrifying, aspect of this new Maser was that the beam could be narrowly focused and wielded like a scythe, or with greater distance its beam could be widened to hit a large area with a hammer blow. When deployed from a 200 mile orbit and used on ‘terrestrial’ targets, the target area broadened to a half mile square, meaning that an area the size of the old Central Park on Manhattan Island could be annihilated, simply turned into molten slag – in nanoseconds.

Yet Ripley had been more than a little surprised to learn that Agamemnon’s keel had been laid down a full six months before he’d first left earth – on Hyperion. So, the ship had been re-tasked – from an unknown original purpose, one possibly related to the old Cold War MAD doctrine – to a vessel designed for First Contact. So then, what was the term that the old Strategic Air Command had operated under? Flexible Response? Have the necessary ships – and crew – available to meet both current anticipated needs – and those unanticipated adversaries that always came along. And because new technologies always came along, some more unexpectedly than others, platforms needed to be designed with the unexpected in mind. So, months before he’d ever commanded the first Hyperion mission, the Navy had started work on Agamemnon. But…why? What had they known? There was simply no need for a ship like this without First Contact in mind…and that troubled Ripley.

‘What changed?’ he wondered. ‘Where was the new threat? The Company? But – what if The Company struck an alliance with China or Russia? Even though that would be against The Company’s long term interests?’

But all this meant Admiral Stanton had considered him the best person for the task at hand, to take Agamemnon out to face an unknown adversary. And Judith was now considered more than capable enough to sail Hyperion into battle on Orion’s belt. Or? Was she simply more expendable than he?

‘And am I flexible enough for this mission?’ he asked himself – as he watched Hyperion’s main drive come online and flare to life. ‘What do they think is going to happen out there? Meet these ‘Tall Whites’ again and sing Kumbaya around a campfire on the beach? But – why had The Company been out there in the first place? Simply to find out what happened to Covenant? Or had they known about the Tall Whites? And if they did, how the hell did they find out?’ He’d have to go back to his cabin and reread the Prometheus Mission after action report one more time…

A personal Comms came through from Hyperion and Ripley took the call.

Judith’s image came onscreen and he thought she looked calm enough, almost serene – given the circumstances. “Everything good, Judy? How does she feel?”

A simple nod. “Crew is still tight, but right now everyone is on edge. Things got dark after the Marines boarded.”

“How many?”

“Two companies, and their gear is stowed away down there on the aft hangar deck. What about Agamemnon? When do you put out for builder’s trials?”

He looked at her and shrugged at the continuing subterfuge. “No word yet. Yard crew is still onboard, still working on Reactor Two, something wrong with the interlink. I think we’ll be out of here within a few weeks.”

This was the agreed upon coverup Stanton wanted going out over the Command Net, in case unauthorized ears were listening…and of course Judith was in on this last minute deception.

“That figures,” she said, smiling. “Hell, this thing out in the Belt will be over by the time you leave. Wait for us and we’ll go on trials with you.”

“I’ll mention it to the Admiral. Let’s hope this is all just a tempest in a teapot.”

“Well, whatever it turns out to be, we’re ready for an extended engagement.”

Ripley nodded. Until the full nature of any alliance between Weyland and the Chinese and the Russians was fully understood, the scope of the conflict at Mintaka would remain unknown – at least until hostilities commenced. But what was there to worry about? Just because Hyperion was being sent in first – to test the waters, as Admiral Stanton put it – didn’t mean Judy was in imminent peril. “Perhaps they’ll find a diplomatic solution,” Denton said, his voice a little too forced. “When will you make the jump?” he asked.

“Looks like 1.5Gs to Mercury, so call it two weeks and change.” There was a flurry of activity in the background and Judy turned to deal with it; a moment later she turned back to him and said “Gotta go. Talk to you later,” and as quickly as she had come to him her image disappeared.

After less than a half hour Hyperion was now almost five hundred miles away from the station, so he switched to a telescopically enhanced view – just in time to note the main drives flare as Hyperion went to maximum power. Hyperion was setting sail at 3.4Gs, and her exhausted crew would make it to Mercury in less than a week…and if all went according to plan he’d be following her in just a few hours.

He quietly slipped out of the station’s Command Center and walked slowly through the station out to Agamemnon, but once onboard he dashed up Main Street to the conn-tower and strapped into his acceleration couch on the command bridge. Once his screens were positioned exactly where he wanted them he spoke over the closed command circuit.

“X-O,” he said to Commander Brennan, “let’s take her out, then get everyone to acceleration stations. Reactor Control, are you ready to go down there?”

“Brooks here, Admiral. Reactors One and Two are online with full power available, Three and Four are on standby. All engineering personnel are ready for acceleration.”

“Rusty? How are your troops?”

“In their couches, sir, and ready to go. All hardware secure.” 

“WEPPs? What’s the status of that Maser?”

“Yardmaster says Dr. Balin has about two plus days work to finish up, Admiral.”

“Okay. Tell ‘em we’ll have about 24 hours in a low-G orbit at Venus and possibly a little longer at Mercury. Get those people strapped in; we’re going to heavy acceleration in five minutes.”

Brennan turned her couch to face Ripley: “Reactor five now at full rated power, Admiral. Ready when you are, sir.”

“Alright, Commander. Captain of the Yard, visual signals only and maintain radio silence; notify tugs to assume standby stations, and let’s make ready for departure.”

Ripley’s ears popped as pressure bulkheads and entries were closed throughout the ship, and as pressurization went to internal, air pressure equalized throughout the ship as the massive air generators and CO2 scrubbers came online.

“Admiral,” Brennan said, “greens across the board; all departments report ready for departure.”

“Very well, XO, take her out.”

+++++

Admiral Stanton watched Agamemnon as her reaction control jets pushed the huge ship away from the Gateway, and he couldn’t help but smile with pride. Her architects had taken a page from the old Soviet playbook when they designed her, because Agamemnon was the exact opposite of Hyperion. Hyperion was a battleship, meant to fight from inside the cocoon of her Langston Field, while Agamemnon had been designed to visually impress anyone unlucky enough to run across her, to engender a sense of awe – and in that one regard her designers had succeeded brilliantly. She looked more like a super-yacht than a naval vessel, as if the way her lines had been drawn had been shaped by a desire to exude a sense of urgent purpose. If Hyperion was a heavyweight boxer, Agamemnon was a long-distance runner, or perhaps and very dangerous messenger.

Stanton watched as Stavridis and Constellation moved into echelon formation as they joined Agamemnon, just before they moved away from the station under heavy acceleration. They made quite a sight just then, the three of them in formation passing in front of Earth with their drives flaring, the Enterprise Battle Group now five miles behind the formation, still moored at the Gateway while they took on hydrogen and their final provisions. Yet even now the Charles de Gaulle and the QE2 were still just in view, trailing Hyperion as they steamed towards the sun, completing their own last preparations before making the jump to Mintaka.

As Stanton watched he realized he was witnessing history, that everything was hitting all at once. His two most capable fleets heading out into harm’s way.

Was this by design, or simply coincidence?  

Why had the Russians attacked the Japanese colony on Mintaka 4 right now? Why had the Chinese resumed their tattered alliance with Moscow? Obviously the Japanese had discovered something of extraordinary significance on the planet, and so the Russians had made their play to take the planet – yet why had the Chinese rejoined their uneasy alliance with Russia? And if the Chinese were willing to let bygones be bygones, then the discovery on Mintaka simply had to be of priceless value.

And the Weyland-Yutani Group was already there. Already in the game. How did the Company’s presence play into this metastasizing conflict?

But why had the Company gone after Covenant? In his heart he knew it had something to do with that organism?

But if so, what was the connection to Mintaka?

Stanton’s gut told him there was one. There had to be. And that connection had to be…

That’s why three commercial freighters still under construction had just been ‘acquired’ and were rapidly being repurposed into troop transports. Mintaka 4 was the prize, yet Stanton knew deep down that the key to the prize was going to be found on, or in the vicinity of, Alpha Geminorum Ca-4. So Denton Ripley had to find the key – and then somehow get it to his wife at Mintaka. In time to make a difference, too.

Then maybe those two could retire and raise their daughter. But until they came back it was his duty to take care of the girl.

Funny, he thought, how these things work out.

Chapter 2

Ripley watched live feeds from all over the ship, even monitoring the main reactor control panels from his seat on the bridge. A small contingent of Marines was exercising on the forward hangar deck, agronomists in hydroponics were tending their crops, he could even oversee the recycling plant turning todays excrement into tomorrow’s bioplast and yeast steaks – because it was all visible with the flip of a switch. He could literally zoom in on any shipboard activity he wanted to observe, and as this was technically a warship there were no privacy rights to contend with. Still, Ripley saw no point violating spaces where privacy was presumed. The ship’s AI would do that automatically; sifting through conversations for subversive content or plans to commit sabotage.

But right now he switched over and looked at factory technicians still hard at work calibrating the new X-ray Maser. Agamemnon was the first ship not just in the Navy but the first ship period to be so armed, and Agamemnon had been, technically speaking, built to house this one weapon. And the Maser had proven to be so devastating, and yet so reliable, that it had been boxed up and launched on a shuttle directly from the Haifa Spaceport – even as Agamemnon was hastily readied to accommodate the weapon. As a result of the Maser’s power requirements, the ship had five fusion reactors, not the four originally specified. The fifth reactor was needed to power the Maser, though power from all five reactors could be channeled to the weapon if the situation warranted. And now, ever since he’d boarded and his command status had been transferred to the new ship, all he’d done was study this Maser – and its daunting power requirements.

Because fighting this ship meant one thing, and one thing only: getting the Maser online and lining up the shot. And because there was, quite literally, no defense against this weapon, one shot was all it would take to neutralize any target. On paper, its beam would blow through Langston Fields like tissue paper, while ships without a Field would, theoretically, be vaporized within milliseconds. And in theory the Maser’s beam had almost unlimited range, but no one had dared test that yet.

But…why? Why had Agamemnon been equipped with this devilish thing?

To impress the Tall Whites, as they were now being called by the council? If so, this ship was a ‘Don’t fuck with us because we have this kind of technology’ statement. But again, why? Especially as the situation at Mintaka was now the most pressing need?

So, he concluded that Stanton thought the biggest threat was waiting at Alpha Geminorum Ca-4, by the Tall Whites and their university. 

And he found he reluctantly agreed with that reasoning. The Russians were two generations behind both our Navy and the Chinese PLA-Space Force, and while those ships had Chinese versions of both the Alderson Drive and Langston Field, they were first-gen affairs that wouldn’t fare well against our fleet, or even the modest contingent of Japanese ships at Mintaka. Either the QE2 or the de Gaulle would be able to handily deal with the Russians, hence Moscow’s hastily resurrected alliance with Beijing.

But thinking this through further, what had the Japanese found on Mintaka?

Something obviously valuable enough to set this conflict in motion. But what?

‘We have all the mineral’s we need now, and in-system. We have a practically unlimited supply of hydrogen on Europa, and we haven’t even begun to tap the vast supplies around Saturn. Everywhere we’ve been we’ve found minerals and hydrogen in vast quantities, so it can’t be that…’

So, why hadn’t Stanton briefed him in? He was an admiral now, after all.

But, he cautioned himself, he was just a one-star, a rear admiral, and so not steeped in the rarefied air of a fleet admiral. He didn’t brief the President or members of the council, and they sure as hell didn’t brief him. He was still a cog in their machine, a weapon to be used when needed, so whatever else he thought he might be, Denton Ripley knew he was most definitely expendable.

He switched feeds and looked at the ship’s Midshipmen, the Middies, in their acceleration couches, and they were all looking around excitedly, taking in their new surroundings as the ship settled into her new routine. He’d cut the audio as he had no need to listen; teenagers were teenagers when all was said and done, no matter where home was. Five new Middies, as well as Yukio Matsushima, the lone holdover from Hyperion. Yukio had deferred her entrance to Annapolis until Thomas Standing Bull entered; they were, she said, soulmates, and who the hell was he to argue about the course of true love?

Ripley had tasked Agamemnon’s Executive Officer, Commander Louise Brennan, with taking Yukio underwing this trip, to in-effect start Yukio’s trial by fire in the fine art of astronavigation, and perhaps even give the girl some stick time on their way to Mercury, before Agamemnon made her first official Alderson Jump. She was bright enough, or so Brennan had told him, so now was the time. The rest of the Middies would spend their days, when not in the classroom, rotating between engineering and damage control on the outbound trip, but the next two weeks would see them in the classroom working on stellar classification and introductory helioseismology, and perhaps even some interactive asteroseismology, studying the resonant modes and frequencies of the more typical stellar formations they’d encounter on this trip, and how these shock waves interacted with Alderson Points.

And as one of his official duties entailed hosting the Middies for a formal dinner once a week – part of the whole ‘officer and a gentleman’ thing that the Royal Navy had been doing since, well, before Nelson – that meant at least once a week, during one of the ship’s hour-long periods without acceleration, the Middies would slip into their dress overalls and congregate in the Admiral’s in-port cabin – for real food – with not one yeasty bioplast steak in sight.

Sensors soon started picking up Hyperion’s ion trail, so he asked Brennan to power up the 36-inch Schmidt Camera and sight along the vector. And sure enough, there they were: Hyperion and her escorts bound for Venus – but at a hideous rate of acceleration of 3.4Gs – enough force to fracture cervical vertebrae if someone was stupid enough to raise their curious head off its acceleration couch.

“X-O, what’s their range?”

“Eighty-thousand kilometers and steadily increasing, Admiral.”

“Any unauthorized traffic out there?”

“No, sir. No Field signatures and no EM.”

“What’s the sun look like?”

Brennan changed cameras, first to a Hydrogen-Alpha, then to a Calcium channel filter. “One active sun spot visible, two shockwaves currently in the chromosphere, and we’ll have a visible transit of Mercury in 97 minutes.”

His intercom screen flashed and he answered; it was one of the Israeli technicians and she looked angry. “Yes?” Ripley said to the scowling, red-faced woman.

“Captain, I was given to understand we would maintain a constant 1G acceleration! How do you expect us to work under these conditions?”

“First, my rank is not captain, and Ma’am, we’ll be under heavy acceleration until we are well beyond all the traffic in near-earth and lunar orbit. I suggest you take a sleep period now; when you get up we should be under 1G and well on our way to the first tanker rendezvous.”

“Very well,” the tech said – and then the screen went dark.

“Pleasant character, that one,” Ripley said under his breath.

“She has a reputation for confrontation, Admiral,” his Gordon said from beside his couch.

“Anything else I need to know about her?”

“Bright, well-educated, very opinionated and, from the communication intercepts I’ve noted, her colleagues couldn’t wait for her to get up here.”

“So I suppose they’d like her to stay?” Ripley said.

“That might be an understatement, Admiral.”

“Well, someone woke up on the sunny side of the morning. You seem happy today, Gordon. What’s the occasion?”

“The sunny side of the morning, Admiral?”

“It means you woke up feeling happy.”

“Ah. I was unaware of the reference, sir, but yes, I am happy.”

“Happy? Really?”

“Yes, Admiral. This is the purpose for which I was manufactured, so I am, in effect, fulfilling my purpose. That should make any sentient being happy, should it not?”

Ripley smiled. “That’s certainly a big part of the recipe, Gordon. I meant to ask earlier, but do we have any David’s onboard?”

“No, Admiral. There are two Walters in Medical, and five in engineering. There are two Gordons on the bridge, as well, sir. And Admiral, we have a new Jordan unit onboard.”

“A Jordan unit? Well, this is the first I’ve heard of him.”

“He is a she, Admiral, and she is the second in a new series. She has been assigned to Medical, and emergency genetic medicine is her specialty. She has complete files on Xenobiology, as well.”

Ripley sighed. “Well, see to it that she comes to dinner with the Middies, along with that Israeli she dragon.”

“Very well, Admiral. Tomorrow, as previously scheduled?”

“Unless something comes up, yes.” Ripley’s COMMs panel chimed, indicating an incoming high priority link from Stanton was waiting. He clicked the COMMs button under his right index finger, and he shrugged away the effort to move even one finger under this acceleration, and his main screen went from standby to active. Stanton was looking into a holographic 3-D star chart of the region around Orion’s Belt, and even on his small screen Ripley could see that something was amiss.

“Ah, there you are,” Stanton said, the delay between transmission and reception currently less than ten seconds. “We’re getting reports of unusual stellar activity within the Mintaka Group, possibly a stellar ignition. We’ve passed along a full sit-rep to Hyperion, but an incoming scout ship just relayed a more detailed data packet and you should pass that along to your astronomers. We have no reports concerning the Japanese response to this development, but the scout ship reports that both the Russian and Chinese assault groups are still maneuvering to close on the Mintaka Group, so our assumption is that they still intend some kind of intervention. Stanton out.”

The screen went dark and Ripley sent the packet to Brennan, but he marked it Eyes Only for now, at least until she could review the information and report her opinion. Mintaka was, like Castor or the Alpha Geminorum system, a system comprised of several densely packed stars, though when viewed from Earth in the 18th century Mintaka had appeared to be a single star. But Mintaka was also located within a region of dense interstellar ‘dust’ surrounding the Orion ‘belt’ asterism – and this dust was actually composed of hydrogen, helium, and the other stellar building blocks. Much of the area around Orion’s Belt was considered a ‘stellar nursery’ – a region where the ingredients necessary for spontaneous stellar formation existed in just the right quantities. So, what Stanton appeared to be concerned about was the possible formation of a new star within the existing Mintaka system – and how a sudden formation might impact the Sino-Russian fleet gathering to attack the Japanese colony on Mintaka-4.

“Brennan?” Ripley asked. “Did you receive the packet from admiralty?”

“Just coming in now.”

“COMMs, get me a text link with Hyperion actual.”

“Aye, sir.” It took a minute for the lasered signal to reach Hyperion, a few minutes to track down Judy, then two minutes to get an acknowledgement, and only then did Ripley send a query via this new, encrypted channel. 

“Let me know what you make of Stanton’s data as soon as you’ve looked it over,” Denton wrote, then he punched send. Five minutes later he received her acknowledgement and so he signed off and then literally closed his eyes, hoping to drift off to sleep.

Then he heard acceleration warnings and opened his eyes.

“All stations, all stations, ship’s drive will cut-off in thirty seconds and remain off for sixty minutes. Repeat, sixty minutes free movement begins in twenty seconds. Ten seconds. Ship’s drive off.”

Ripley unfastened his harness and drifted free of his acceleration couch, and he found handholds on the overhead and pulled himself along to the central fore-aft corridor – which everyone had taken to calling Main Street – and he pushed off and sailed aft to the stubby little hallway that led to his in-flight cabin. He stripped out of his overalls and pulled himself into the shower, pushed the ‘Wash’ button and closed his eyes as first a soap then a surfactant blasted his skin for 30 seconds, this followed by a 30 second rinse with recycled high pressure water vapor, and finally a minute under high pressure air to dry his skin, then it was out to put on his cotton-lycra skinsuit and fresh grip socks.

He looked at the central time display over his desk and noted 52 minutes until acceleration resumed.

His yeoman came in with hot tea and his usual scrambled eggs and bacon, all synthetics from the protoplast plant, then as he finished eating he noted he now had 40 minutes so off he went to the weapons bay. Ina Balin, the Israeli she dragon scientist, was literally inside a chamber within the main body of the Maser, inspecting the magnetic coils surrounding the matrix of lenses that would modulate and focus the X-ray beam, so he turned to one of her assistants.

“Progress report?” Ripley asked.

“Final calibrations underway now, Admiral. The unit should be ready for a test fire within a few hours.”

“I thought this thing had already been test-fired? What’s the hold up?”

“Each coil focuses independently, Captain,” Balin said as she crawled out of the chamber, “so the lens associated with each coil must be recalibrated after transport up from the desert. They were all out of alignment.”

“Crap,” Ripley muttered. “Just how robust will this thing be under actual combat conditions?”

Balin shrugged. “The unit was designed to absorb 10G shockwaves, so more than the human body can take. Once the lenses and mirrors are realigned…”

“I read the manual, Doctor. I need to know how stable the unit will be under combat conditions.”

“That’s unknown, Captain.”

Ripley shook his head, not sure why this woman was continuing to insult him. “Well, I hope you don’t mind leaving someone onboard who can handle recalibrating the unit under less than ideal circumstances, Ma’am.”

“Please refer to me by my title, Captain.”

“I will if you will.”

“What?”

Ripley pointed at the star on his collar. “Admiral, not Captain.”

“Ah, so sorry. Well, I am the only person capable of handling a complete recalibration of the chamber. With your staff observing for the next few weeks, they might be capable of assisting me. Under those conditions most of my staff could return to Haifa.”

“You do understand we are leaving the system?”

“No, we have not been briefed on your mission, Captain.”

“Well, you have about a week to wrap up your work, period. This weapon will be operational by the time we reach Mercury, or there will be hell to pay – Ma’am.” He spun around and pulled himself back up Main Street to the bridge, noting 11 minutes left on the countdown timer as he passed a clock in the officer’s mess. “Gordon!” he shouted as he came onto the bridge and sank into his couch.

“Yes, Admiral?”

“I need a hot chocolate. And make it strong, please.”

“Already loaded, Admiral.”

“Not in the dispenser. I need my mug.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Goddamn woman,” Ripley growled as he looked at a live feed from the weapon’s bay. “She’s deliberately provoking me!”

“She has that reputation, sir,” his Gordon said. “Her personality profile suggests a profound insecurity emanating from childhood anxieties. She should be handled with extreme care, Admiral.”

“Send me her file, would you please? And I need the tech specs on that focusing chamber.”

“Working, Admiral.”

“And while you’re at it, get someone you trust down there to start learning the calibration sequence. I don’t trust that woman.”

“Someone I trust, Admiral?”

“Yes, Gordon. Am I wrong in assuming you have the best interests of this ship and her crew in mind at all times?”

“No, Admiral. That is a correct assessment.”

“Well then, what I’m saying is that I trust you to make the best decision possible under these circumstances. You’ve been aboard since this ship’s keel was laid, so you should know the crew better than anyone else onboard. Correct?”

“Yes, Admiral, but I did not expect this level of trust,” Gordon said as he handed Ripley his mug of cocoa.

“If I can’t trust you, Gordon, you don’t belong on my ship. Understood?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Now, who do you recommend?”

“Myself, Admiral.”

Ripley hesitated, but he relented and nodded in agreement. “Make it so, Gordon.”

“Aye, sir. And I’ll send someone to assist you when I am away from my post, Admiral.”

“Thank you.”

The acceleration alarm sounded: “All personnel, repeat all personnel, 120 seconds to acceleration. Repeat, all personnel to acceleration stations in 110 seconds. All personnel to acceleration stations…”

Ripley heard scrambling all over the ship as everyone from the lowest ratings to the ship’s officers dove for their acceleration couches and secured their harnesses – but Ripley saw that Balin was ignoring the alarm, that her weightless body was still hovering over the Maser’s main mirror chamber.

“Secure the weapon’s bay,” the X-O said over the intercom, then Brennan looked at Ripley, shrugging ambivalently. “What do I do now, Admiral?”

“Bring us up to 1G and hold us there for a minute, then resume 2.4. My Gordon will get her.”

Brennan brought the reactors online and the drive flared – and Balin sailed from the open chamber to the aft bulkhead, slamming into the foam padding there – and Ripley cut the audio feed just in time. His Gordon entered the picture and helped the screaming woman to her couch and managed to get her buckled-in, then he returned to the bridge and sat next to Ripley. When Brennan saw that Gordon was secure she brought the drives up to forty percent of their fully rated power and watched the reactors stabilize at their new setting, and Ripley watched Balin cursing and shooting the finger at the camera – before he cut the feed in disgust.

“Remarkable woman,” Gordon said, perhaps a little too ironically.

“Stupid, for someone rumored to be so bright,” Ripley replied.

“Are you sure you want her to join the Middies for dinner?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss that for the world.”

Chapter 3

Yukio Matsushima took the seat to Ripley’s right, while Ina Balin slouched across from her, and Ripley was a little upset by this arrangement. After one more run-in with Balin he was beginning to detest the woman, so he’d hoped that Gordon would keep her beyond arm’s reach – in case he decided to reach out and throttle the woman over dinner. That, alas, would not be the case. Not tonight. Brennan was seated at the far end of the table, while the remaining five Middies were crowded around the in-port cabin’s massive transparent glass wall – looking at a pinpoint sized Earth and Moon receding behind Agamemnon and her support ships, the frigate Stavridis and the heavy cruiser Constellation.

Yeoman Joan Carson had come with him from Hyperion and she rang the ship’s bell at 1805 hours and called the room to order, and Ripley walked into the cabin and sat. Maintaining .7Gs allowed for a normal meal service, but it also allowed for deferred shipboard maintenance routines to get underway, as well as the all important showering routine for those coming off watch, like Ripley.

Carson had a spicy Phanaeng curry ready to go as soon as Ripley took the seat opposite Brennan’s, while the Middies literally dove for their seats and promptly sat at attention. This, apparently, amused Balin to no end; she sat up in her chair and laughed openly at the Middies as they sat. “Oh, you children!” she said, her Eastern European accent still pronounced, “you sit so solemnly! We are no longer under acceleration so surely it is a time for smiles, no?”

Yukio smiled. “Yes, just so,” she said to Balin, as always wanting to keep everything calm and harmonious. “It must be difficult working on such a delicate instrument under these conditions?”

“Actually, I find such work easier in zero-G. I can get into and out of the chamber more easily, and I can work more efficiently in the confined space above the reactor shielding. It is under normal acceleration that my work becomes tedious.”

Yukio smiled and bowed her head slightly, and Ripley studied the crusty old physicist closely as she spoke. What was she doing up here, he wondered. She had to be at least forty years old, ancient in relative terms to the age of the crew onboard Agamemnon, and after reading her dossier she did not possess a single skill that others on her team did not. The obvious answer had to be that she was Mossad – but why would they want her onboard just now, at this time? Obviously to learn more details of the mission before Agamemnon left the system… 

Well, perhaps he could learn more from her this evening.

He turned to Lars Jansen, the new Midshipman from Stockholm. “So, what have you been learning so far, Lars?”

“Doppler velocity measurements in phase-sensitive solar-holography, Admiral.”

“And have you made any observations yet?”

“Yes, Admiral. There are two active sunspot regions on the far side, and one appears to be quite large.”

Ripley nodded – as he’d already seen the forecasts. “Any possible displacement of our Alderson Point?”

Jansen cleared his throat – then he looked down as if suddenly unsure of himself. Which was exactly what Jansen’s last instructor had mentioned in her final evaluation of the young physicist.

“Go ahead, Lars. Remember, there are no stupid questions out here,” Ripley coaxed. “In fact, I’ve found the most dangerous things happen as a result of unasked questions.”

“I too have seen the forecast model,” Lars blurted, “but I disagree with it.”

“Oh? Why is that?” 

“Sir, subsurface flows of the measured direct inversion as well as the frequency-wavenumber correlations do not conform to predictions using Fourier domain waveforms. This could occur only under two possible conditions, Admiral. Either the Fourier domain hypothesis is more generally incorrect or there is a super-massive sunspot forming on the far side. As Fourier domain analysis has been used to accurately measure these waveforms and formations for more than a century, this seems unlikely.”

“So, you think a large sunspot is forming?”

“No, Admiral. I believe a super massive sunspot is forming. Far-side satellite monitoring went offline two sol days ago, Admiral, so we are currently not receiving monitoring data from the far side.”

Ripley looked at Brennan. She nodded.

“So, Mr. Jansen, have you made any computations about possible Alderson Point displacements?”

“Not yet, Admiral.”

“Get with Commander Brennan after dinner and we’ll discuss your temporary reassignment to the bridge.”

“Yessir. Thank you, Admiral.”

“Yeoman!” Ripley crowed. “You’ve outdone yourself once again. I am positively sweating in agony!”

“Thank you, sir,” Joan Carson sighed, basking in the glow of his complement. She knew he loved his curry hot, the hotter the better.

“A curry that doesn’t make flames shoot out the ears is a waste of time,” Ripley added, winking at Yukio. “Isn’t that right, Commander Brennan?”

Brennan, now red-faced and about to gag, heartily agreed.

+++++

Ripley looked over Jansen’s figures and could find no obvious fault, but more importantly, neither could Brennan.

“So, this sunspot will take out satellites in Earth orbit?”

“Satellites generally, yes, but even in LEO,” Jansen added, indicating satellites in a Low Earth Orbit. “Personnel in orbiting stations and on the lunar surface will need to relocate to hardened shelters, and critical electronics protected.”

“How long until this spot rotates into position?”

“Well, here’s the problem,” a pedantic Jansen began grumpily. “A normal CME would need to be aimed directly at Earth to produce this kind of impact, but this sunspot is so large it could be as much as plus or minus fifteen degrees off axis to produce systemic interference. But if a super-large event of this scale is aimed directly at Earth it’s possible surface telecoms will be adversely effected…”

“Mister Jansen, I asked about timeframes?”

“Yessir. Sorry. The sunspot will first rotate into view in one hundred eleven hours, plus or minus twenty one minutes.” 

“Louise, any simulations on how this might impact our Alderson Point?”

“Not with any reliability, Admiral. In fact, our safest course of action would be to enter a braking orbit now and shelter behind Venus…”

“We don’t have that kind of fuel, and even if we did our deceleration would be monstrous.”

“We have the fuel, Admiral, if we use atmospheric braking,” Brennan added.

“You want to take a brand new hull through that atmosphere?”

“There’s another option, Admiral,” Yukio sighed quietly.

“And that is…?”

“We accelerate to 3.8 G and slingshot around the sun, stay ahead of the sunspot. And we will be in a better position to recalculate an Alderson Shift from an up-pole orbit…”

Ripley looked at Brennan who grinned slightly. So, Yukio had come up with the idea and Brennan was allowing the Middie to take credit where credit was due, and he nodded his understanding and smiled. “Okay Louise, get word to Hyperion and her escorts. Their tankers will have to shelter behind Venus – hell, ours will too – so we’ll refuel when we come back around. Yukio, start on the calculations for all the tankers; Lars, would you get your figures off to Admiral Stanton? Commander Brennan, when you get off COMMs would you lay out our course and let’s plan on acceleration one hour after you finish-up.”

Ripley then pulled up his COMMs screen and called Judy on Hyperion.

“We’ll shoot the numbers to you in a minute, but we have the mother of all sunspots about to come around. We’ll need to shelter behind the sun, and we’ll be going up-pole, orbit north to south for our run. My guess is you’re already too close for that. We should make up some time, catch up to Hyperion as she comes around the west limb, so we can start an Alderson Point survey as we clear, see how many Points have been impacted by this thing.”

“Ellen’s still on the station, Denton? Shouldn’t she go down?”

“She’s never experienced that kind of gravity, Judy. I’m not sure she could survive for long down there…not at her age.”

“Do you think the station is the safest place?”

“The safest place would out in the belt, but there’s not enough time for that now,” he sighed.

“Armstrong Base, or what about Lovell, down at the South pole.”

“Lovell would work. That has the deepest living quarters. And the fusion plant there is the most heavily shielded.”

“Call Gordon,” Judy said, but he could see the concern in her eyes, “and see if he can get her down there.”

“No one knows about this yet, so he shouldn’t have any problem.”

He closed the encrypted channel and sent a triple-walled text to Gordon, then turned back to the developing chaos on Agamemnon’s bridge – just as the first acceleration warning came out over the ship-wide intercom: “Attention all personnel, heavy acceleration warning, repeat heavy acceleration warning…”

And then he heard a collective groan throughout his ship. One hundred hours at 3.8Gs was near the limits of human endurance, and even bodily functions had to be handled by catheters and cholestramine, which produced a chemically induced state of total constipation for days on end. Until their next period of zero-G, in fact, every human on board would consume a low-fiber liquid protein diet – which Ripley detested.

And then, right on schedule, Ina Balin called – and her ass was chapped…

+++++

They were at the mid-point now, halfway between the Sun’s North and South poles, and just before Agamemnon began slingshotting around the South Pole, Brennan executed a mid-course correction. At two million miles from the solar chromosphere, Agamemnon’s Langston Field was handling the intense radiation with ease, but even so Ripley couldn’t wait to make orbit around Mercury. They’d already burned through half their hydrogen and would arrive at Mercury with their tanks almost dry, and he didn’t like being so vulnerable – especially for so long.

All the more so as there were now vast solar quakes disrupting the Sun’s chromosphere. Coronal loops were arcing ahead and astern, and it was just a matter of percentages before one came up and hit them. Depending on the loop’s intensity, the Field would consume a tremendous amount of energy just to stabilize the ship, but as Agamemnon would be the first ship to actually transit a coronal loop there would be vital measurements to be made. And not only that. Brennan was already hard at work on her Alderson Point displacement observations, and this data would need to be transmitted to both Hyperion and Gateway Station as soon as they emerged from behind the sun.

Then Agamemnon would make for her refueling tanker in a tight orbit around Mercury, but by now Judy and Hyperion would be making their final preparations to make the jump to Mintaka – and right into a possible naval engagement with the Sino-Russian fleet. 

Yet even now he wondered what kind of damage they would find once they emerged from behind the sun? Had Gordon and Stanton sent Ellen to Lovell Base in time, or had she remained on the station? What kind of damage had Earth sustained? The Moon? Only Musk City on Mars would have been beyond reach of this storm, vindicating once again the visionary’s proactive sense of a human destiny beyond Earth.

“Admiral,” Brennan said from her couch, “we’re finding negligible Field displacements, and we are in contact with Hyperion right now.”

“What? Are our orbits crossing?”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“Send them our data,” he said as he established a secure link with Judy. “How’re you doing over there?”

“No issues. You?”

“We’re sending Brennan’s Field displacements now. Have you been able to make any?”

“Yes. Sending now, but we’re picking up indications that this sunspot was not, repeat not generated internally.”

“What?”

“We’re trying to determine what could have done this, but it at least appears possible that this event was externally generated.”

“Judy, you’re talking about a weapon, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “The most plausible scenario would be a ship jumping into solar orbit and deploying this weapon, then jumping out of the system before anyone was the wiser.”

“If they jumped to a point on the far side we’d never know, would we?”

“That’s the point,” Judy sighed. “This has The Company written all over it. Only thing I don’t like is why do it now.”

“Because they know we’re out here. That has to be it.”

“So they’re trying to delay our jump to Mintaka.”

Ripley nodded. “That means they’ll be attacking soon. Maybe too soon.”

“Concur,” she added. “We’re going to 4.2Gs now.”

“Ouch. Need anything before the jump?”

She shook her head, but he could see she was nervous.

“Well, I love you, Kiddo.”

“I love you too, Denton. Seeya.”

He nodded then rang off and then he called Lars on the intercom. “What kind of weapon could have generated this sunspot, Mr Jansen?”

“A weapon, Admiral?”

“Hyperion is collecting evidence that indicates a weapon generated this sunspot. Get on it. I’ll see to it you get their data.”

“Aye, sir.”

Ripley switched to the bridge command net: “Commander Brennan, increase to 4.2 as soon as possible.”

Acceleration warnings sounded throughout the ship, and this time Ripley groaned too.

Chapter 4

“Admiral,” Lars Jansen said from his acceleration couch, “theory is of limited use in this particular circumstance. Theoretically, antimatter could produce such an anomalous sunspot, but at the possible risk of annihilating the sun – and everything in the solar system. Similarly, a gamma ray burst could displace enough of the chromosphere to generate such a massive sunspot, but the energy required to produce such a burst is beyond our capacity, let alone our current understanding…”

“So,” Ripley sighed, “if I read you correctly there’s no one capable of pulling this off.”

“Within the bounds of currently available technology, that is correct, sir.”

Even on the small screen, Ripley could tell that Jansen was uncomfortable with his position. “Lars, you sound like you’re hedging a bet. What are you not telling me?”

“Admiral, speaking off the record, I think you should perhaps speak to Dr Balin.”

“Balin!” Ripley cringed. “Why on earth…?”

Jansen shrugged. “Plasma physics is not my main interest, Admiral. You should ask Dr Balin what she thinks is possible.”

Ripley looked at the boy – only just fifteen years old and already well on his way to his second doctorate – and he decided to listen to him. This time, anyway. Kids as brilliant as Jansen often came up with oddball solutions, but yes, they often did so just in time to prevent really bad outcomes. So he nodded at Jansen and told him to keep at it, then he switched over to the weapons bay.

“WEPS here, Admiral.”

“Switch me over to Balin.”

“Aye, sir.”

The screen flickered once and then he was looking at the hell-bitch. “Sorry to bother you…”

“But you’d like my opinion concerning the formation of the sunspot?”

Ripley rolled his eyes. Heads would roll, but he just smiled and nodded. “Yes, any thoughts?”

“Yes, I have a solution to the problem, Admiral, but you won’t like it.”

“Fire away, Doctor.”

“A ship, more than likely a drone ship or some other unmanned craft, would need to pick an Alderson Point deep within the sun. When the ship arrived it would need to fire a very powerful X-ray Maser into the sun’s core. The resulting helioseismic oscillations could, I repeat, could produce a sunspot of the magnitude we’ve observed. Of course, this presupposes someone else has this technology, as well as the means to generate a Langston Field sufficiently strong enough to last long enough to allow the weapon to come online and fire.”

“And who might have such technology, Colonel?”

“Colonel? What do you mean by…”

“That was the rank you held in the IDF, was it not? Before Mossad recruited you, that is?”

Balin seemed to deflate just a little, but she was bright enough to realize it was pointless to maintain the ruse any longer. With that in mind, she simply addressed his question. “The Company was working on a ruby-thorium Maser some years ago, and the logical progression from this would be the development of an X-ray device. Whether or not they possess field technology sufficiently advanced enough to allow deep penetration of the solar radiative zones is beyond me.”

“But if they did? And assuming they had an X-ray Maser? Then what else would they need?”

“If I were to guess? Perhaps ten terra-watts of power would be sufficient to disrupt the core.”

“Disrupt the core…” Ripley muttered, thinking aloud. “Tell me, Doctor. Would such a disruption produce a single sunspot, or would…”

“Oh, yes, I see where you are going. I will need to run another simulation.”

“Get on it.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

Ripley switched COMMs to the bridge, then to Brennan’s couch. “Were you monitoring my conversation with Balin?”

“I have the transcript now, sir.”

“I’m thinking of an impact deep within the sun, and continuing reverberations. Get with Yukio and set up a simulation, and let’s see what she comes up with. And how long ‘til we can transmit to Gateway?”

“Forty minutes.”

“Okay. Keep me posted.”

He switched over to ship-to-ship and tried calling Hyperion, but there was no response now so he pulled his fluid dispenser to his mouth and sipped some iced cocoa. So many things to worry about, so many permutations of existing problems. What he needed now was a clear tactical overview and how the NSF would respond. “Gordon?”

“Here, sir.”

“Try to get in touch with your brother, see if and where Ellen has been moved to, then get me a link with Stanton as soon as we get in range.” 

“My brother, sir?”

“Look, I don’t know how else to think of you guys, okay? You cloned his memory, you are in essence a duplicate of the Gordon who accompanied me on Hyperion, correct?”

“Yessir?”

“So, I can’t call you Gordon and him Gordon, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to start referring to you by number, so you need to help me out here, okay?”

“I understand your confusion, Admiral, but you must remember that when we are within range our memory modules are linked, so speaking to one of us is the same as speaking to all of us…”

“Sorry, Gordon, but I can’t wrap my head around that one just yet…”

“Then just refer to Ellen, sir. I’ll take it from there.”

Ripley tried to shake his head but then thought better of it, so he took a deep breath instead. “Okay. Find out where my daughter is, please.”

“Yes, Admiral. I have transportation records indicating she was en route to Lovell Base with Admiral Stanton and…my brother.” He paused for a moment, then continued: “They are secure, Admiral, and I am now in contact with my brother through the SOHO III link, which means links to Gateway Alpha should be coming online soon.”

“Send a SitRep to Stanton, and include all current suppositions from Balin and Jansen.”

“Done, Admiral. Gateway will receive the transmission in 57 minutes.”

Ripley nodded and turned to his screens. “Brennan? You got a course laid-in for the tankers?”

The strain of Agamemnon’s heavy acceleration was telling as he watched Brennan on his screen, but she was holding up. “They should arrive at the rendezvous in twenty hours, Admiral.”

“They…should? Why the uncertainty?”

“Unusual solar winds, Admiral, and unknown gravimetric distortions are affecting all fusion reactors. Power output is down almost four percent across the board.” 

“Steady or increasing?”

“Steady…so far.”

“Is the Jump point stable?”

“Unknown.”

“What?”

“Measurements within the chromosphere are not currently possible.”

“So, if I’m reading you correctly then all Jump points are theoretically unusable at this point?”

“Yessir.”

“Then whoever fired this weapon could still be in-system, right?”

“Possibly. If they knew such displacement were likely, it’s also possible they could predict shifts within the chromosphere and predict where each new Jump point might reappear. In either case, Admiral, as we can’t scan for ships in tight solar orbits we may never know.”

Ripley nodded. “Well, see if you can nail down a launch timeframe or even a possible location where they fired that weapon from. They had to be on the far side, right? Maybe we can infer a relative position and pass that along to Fleet. Meantime, try to pin-down our Jump point. Highest priority to that.”

His screen went dark and he rotated his G-couch into a deep recline, then administered a sedative and closed his eyes.

And it seemed like only a few minutes later when he felt stimulants coursing through his veins, the sudden electric flood bringing him back to wakefulness. He tentatively opened an eye but saw Ina Balin on screen – and he sighed before he shut his eyes again.

“Ripley? You up yet?” he heard her screech.

“Go away,” he moaned, then he realized the ship wasn’t under acceleration and his eyes popped open. “What’s up, Doc?”

“Have you considered our Jump points are being shut down by an outside group?”

“What?”

“Oh come on, Ripley. Think about it! Some group wants to bottle us up in Sol system so they crash all the jump points in the Sun – at the same time. So now we’re stuck here, in system, with no way out unless we’re willing to make generations long sub-light speed journeys.”

“Well, two questions come to mind. First is who? Next is why?”

“Well, the who and the why is anyone who doesn’t want to compete with us. They bottle us up and that’s the end of the problem, right? I mean, look at us, will you? Within a few years of the Japanese jumping to Mintaka we’re already on the cusp of another all out war. Again. It seems like everywhere we go we say we’re trying to expand human civilization out into the stars, yet everywhere we go we set about trying to exterminate one another. If you were an outside group, would you want us moving into your neighborhood?”

“Okay, so we’ve determined you’re a cynic. Bravo! Now, have you found out anything useful about that weapon?”

His screen went dark just as she sent him the middle finger and he sighed. 

“Gordon?”

“Yes, Admiral?”

“How long was I out?”

“Almost six hours, sir.”

“Anything from Stanton, or Fleet?”

“Ellen is still with Admiral Stanton. And Fleet concurs. We are to try and map as many altered Jump points as possible, then relay the information to Gateway before we depart. Commander Brennan is under sleep protocols, Admiral, but we’ve already located four altered Jump points. No, make that six.”

“When will we tank?”

“Thirteen hours, twelve minutes.”

“Hyperion’s status?”

“They have Jumped to Mintaka.”

He shook his head, remembering one of their last conversations.

She’d been angry, and resented Stanton for sending her on this mission, but she was growing really concerned about her tactical situation. “I don’t like going in blind like this, Denny. We haven’t had any new intel in days, not even an estimate of current Russian fleet dispersements, let alone any new info on Chinese ships. Hell, either could have a fleet assembled at the Jump point, just waiting for us to come out.”

“That’s exactly what a freshman at the Academy would do, Judy. I doubt they’ll make it that easy for you.”

She looked at him with her eyes full of dread, then she had slowly nodded. “Maybe we should trade places, ya know? Military strategy was always your thing, not mine.”

“Read Admiral Tōgō’s summary of the Battle of the Tsushima Strait.”

“Denton, I don’t have time for…”

“Make time, Judy. Delegate and don’t micromanage your people, and don’t take your eyes off the big picture. Remember: the element of surprise works both ways, especially in a fast-moving three-dimensional tactical engagement, and – always deploy your forces to come from unexpected vectors. Read the entire article now, and call me with any questions before you reach your Alderson Point.”

“Denton, I…”

“That’s an order, Captain,” he snarled, and though he hated to pull rank she was having a crisis of confidence, and this was not a good time for such malarkey.

“Yes, Admiral,” she said, flipping off her screen.

And now she had made the jump. She was facing the enemy – right now – and here he sat…

“Gordon? Is Lars awake now?”

“Yes, he and Yukio are running another simulation, Admiral. Dr. Balin thinks they are close to a solution.”

“Why are we in zero-G?”

“Coasting to bleed off excess velocity as we approach the tankers, Admiral. The solar wind is much stronger than anticipated, and we are taking advantage of that while we can.”

“What’s happening with that sunspot?”

“Decreasing in size rapidly now, and it is approaching the apparent limb now. And Admiral, we have located our corrected Jump point.”

“How long has Brennan been out?”

“Not quite five hours.”

“Wake her when she’s had six hours and get her up to speed.” Ripley got out of his G-couch and stood, then he stretched to ease the burn in his lower back. “Damn, I hope they’ve got real food in the galley,” he muttered as he made his way to Main Street, but he stopped himself and sighed. No, he’d have to go and mend fences with Balin; she was likely to madder than a wet hen right now and he’d have to get her settled down before he did anything else. He turned and walked down to the weapons bay and found her back in the inner chamber, cussing up a storm as she worked a multimeter into a balky connection.

“How’s it going in there?” he asked.

“What are you doing down here?” Balin growled, her anger still at a low simmer.

“Checking on the condition of my ship. What are you doing in there?”

“Shielding around the input conduit is not holding up under load, and I can’t understand why. It worked perfectly on Earth.”

“What’s different here?”

“Nothing that I am aware of, Captain.”

Ripley sighed. “Did I not hear someone mention gravimetric distortions? Could that affect the conduit?”

“Of course! How obvious! We would need to isolate…” she said as she disappeared back inside the beast once again, but Ripley looked at her and shook it off, then made his way up to the main crew mess and found something made with TVP, or textured vegetable protein, that resembled something vaguely similar to meatloaf – and it even smelled kind of like the real thing, too – so he picked up a tray and went through the line, then sat next to a couple of enlisted ratings who seemed blissfully unaware that they were sitting next to their admiral. He listened to their smalltalk – the usual stuff about loose women and fast bicycles, of course – while he ate, then he ambled off to his in-port cabin and took a shower. His yeoman had laid out a fresh uniform and she had hot cocoa waiting on his desk when he finished getting dressed.

Then a recorded call from Judy came in and he watched the screen come up, so he entered his authentication code and waited for the link.

“Okay, I read it,” she began, “but I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at. Are you saying we need a diversion. That we need to divide their forces. And then, when the main axis of their attack becomes apparent, the key is to hit them with long range weaponry. Don’t let them close on you; pick them off at a distance, then have what’s left of your diversionary force come in from their rear so you can divide their fire.”

She’d been taking notes as she recorded her message to him, scribbling furiously as new ideas came to her, and that bothered him. If she really was so tactically challenged she wasn’t the right person for this mission – but worse still, why had Stanton thought that she was?

She had just started to speak again when the connection went dead and his screen turned dark – which could only mean one thing: Stanton had someone onboard. And that someone, probably a Walter unit, had been tasked with monitoring communications between Judy and himself. Well, he’d suspected as much – and now he knew.

But…why?

Chapter 5

Using Agamemnon’s large Schmidt camera, Ripley watched Stavridis’ Langston Field slowly cool as the frigate exited the Sun’s outermost layer, the photosphere, and then in the next instant he saw a larger black blob exiting the photosphere, and that had to be Constellation. He’d set another countdown timer – this one tracking Hyperion’s time in the Mintaka system – and he was glad he’d sent along a reading list to keep her busy, telling her to read up on Nimitz and Halsey even the key points of the ancient Battle of the Salamis Straits, though now about all he could hope for was that the additional historical perspective would help steel her nerves – but in the end he wouldn’t be there to see the results and he felt bereft. Now, watching the timer, he realized that after more than two years together she was now well beyond his reach – and he felt more than terrible without her.

He tried to shake off the bad feelings he’d had the last few days, that the Hyperion Battle Group was being set up and moving into a trap. But why? Why would Fleet, and Admiral Stanton, sacrifice so many ships and crew in a deliberate strategic blunder? He remembered reading accounts of Pearl Harbor that implied Roosevelt knew the attack was coming before the Seventh of December, 1941, but that he let it happen anyway – because Roosevelt knew such a devastating insult to the national psyche was the only thing that would break an evenly divided Congress and allow for the rapid industrial mobilization the United States would need to confront the Axis powers. Was something similar in the works now? Was Stanton willing to sacrifice a medium-sized strike group to convince a divided council to support a more substantial war effort around a distant star?

Personally, he doubted such treachery was possible. Stanton wasn’t an evil man – and he knew that from personal experience.

So…why was he still having these feelings?

“Admiral?” Commander Brennan said over the intercom.

“Yes?”

“Balin and her team are not finished calibrating the Maser, and won’t be for a few more hours. We can continue to orbit Mercury, but we’ll delay our jump by 30 hours.”

“Have the tankers finished the transfer?”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“Very well. Send my compliments to the skipper of the Valdez and thank him for the assist. Advise Gateway that Balin and her team are still working on the weapon and that her entire team will be transiting to Castor with us. When our refueling apparatus is stowed, sound the acceleration warning and let’s get the Field up; I want to make our Jump as soon as possible, and I want Stavridis right behind us.”

“And the Constellation?”

Ripley paused and looked at the tactical display. The Enterprise Battle Group wouldn’t finish tanking for another few hours, and he didn’t want to arrive at Castor completely defenseless, but that too had been Stanton’s choice. Stanton assumed the Tall Whites would know the exact moment Agamemnon emerged from Alpha Geminorum Ca, and that they’d be looking for signs of both capability and intentions, but if Agamemnon came in naked such weakness might be an even more provocative sign of intent…

“Constellation and the Enterprise Group are to Jump as soon as their refueling operations are wrapped up, and disperse them in line formation as soon as they’re clear of the Jump. Better have ‘em come through at five minute intervals.”

“Understood. Sending the orders now.”

His screen brightened and when Balin’s aggrieved expression appeared that said it all. “Captain!” she screeched. “Am I to understand that we are being Shanghaied?”

“That’s a fact, Ms Balin,” he said with a bright smile, and then he killed his display. “Gordon, was that mean of me?”

“I’m not quite sure how to answer that, Admiral. If you’d like, I could take care of her calls in the future.”

Ripley smiled at the thought. “I guess that’s a possibility,” he sighed, knowing it wasn’t.

The shrill, hooting Master Alarm sounded throughout the ship, and then all shipboard lighting went to low-power-red. Brennan armed the reactors and began spinning up the thruster-packs – and only then did the real countdown timer begin.

“Acceleration stations in 120 seconds,” a computer-generated female voice said. “Heavy acceleration in 115 seconds. Standby for heavy acceleration…”

Ripley sighed as he reclined his G-couch and locked his harness, then he set his screens ‘just so’ again, as he settled into the squishy gel – and he was pretty certain he could hear Balin’s hysterical screeching all the way from the weapons bay – and that made him very happy indeed.

And Gordon grinned too.

+++++

As Agamemnon entered the Sun’s photosphere, Ripley checked the ship’s Langston Field monitors, noting only minor temperature fluctuations and a very slight inflation. All probes and sensors had been retracted inside the Field, so in effect Brennan was flying the ship blind now, relying on the central inertial navigation system to maintain their heading to Alpha Geminorum Ca’s Alderson Point.

“Time to jump?” he asked Gordon.

“Four minutes thirty seconds, Admiral.”

“You need two minutes to power-down, don’t you?”

“Yes Admiral. I have already begun to power down unnecessary sub-routines.” It remained one of the last unsolved problems of space travel utilizing Alderson Jump Points, but computers and synthetics like Gordon simply did not come out of a Jump in stable working condition. Computers were incapable of performing even the simplest subroutines for several minutes after a Jump, and synthetics making Jumps before the effect was well understood came out in what could only be described as a psychotic state, and throughout the ship computers were being put into standby mode, while every synthetic onboard would power down completely at two minutes prior to the scheduled Jump.

Which meant that Brennan and her bridge crew would handle the ship during the Jump – without computer assistance. The Navy had Jumped to Alpha Geminorum Ca only once before, and this had been performed by an unmanned scout ship to verify that the Alderson Point did in fact lead to Castor’s third component star, or Ca. The probe had popped out of the star and performed one orbit, scanning for any unusual signals before it returned to Sol.

But this meant that Agamemnon would be the first ship to explore the Ca system in detail.

Because the fourth planet in the Ca system supposedly had a university up and running – operated by the so-called Tall Whites – and Thomas Standing Bull, one of the midshipman on Hyperion’s last mission, was – again, supposedly – going to meet them at this university.

So in truth, this wasn’t a simple mission of exploration at all; it was also a “second contact” mission, and as such the Navy had expected that all kinds of diplomatic personnel would be included in the ship’s company – yet almost the exact opposite had transpired. The State Department had tasked just one person, and she was a junior staffer at that, to accompany Ripley and his ground team when the ship arrived at Alpha Geminorum Ca+4, and they’d not spoken once yet

“Powering down in ten seconds, Admiral,” Gordon said lightly.

 “See you on the other side,” Denton said carefully, then he switched his COMMs circuit over to monitor both the bridge and CIC, or the Combat Information Center. “CIC, bridge here,” he said over the link, “get the Field down and our probes out after we emerge and clear the threshold. I want to know who else is in-system and watching us as soon as possible.”

“Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Ainsley replied. “At 4 Gs we should reach probe threshold approximately twenty minutes after the Jump.” Which meant that any probes or antennas deployed before reaching the threshold would simply be burned away as they raised through the ship’s protective Langston Field and into Ca’s photosphere. Conversely, radiation from Alpha Geminorum Ca would theoretically mask their appearance for several Sol standard hours, providing a window of opportunity for Agamemnon and Stavridis to snoop around the new system without detection – assuming, of course, that the Tall Whites were deploying a similar scanning technology to their own.

 Then one by one his screens went dark as the ship’s computers began logging out and shutting down, and soon all they had to go on was an ancient clock mounted directly over the main bridge screen. Now he watched the second hand circle the face, once again dreading the moment when the ship Jumped…

Then the red bridge lighting flickered for a moment.

Followed by the crushing headache and extreme nausea that followed a successful Jump, just before the first terrifying moments of spatial disorientation hit.

Then…red lights changed to white, but he could hear someone trying to vomit at high Gs, then the gargling sounds of that person not being able to breathe as their airway was inundated with bile and stomach acid. Then: Brennan calling out: “Medical, to the bridge, Code 1!”

But there was next to nothing that could be done at this point in their egress. At 4+ Gs no one could move enough to get a suction probe inserted into a patient’s airway, and no synthetics had come out of Safe Mode yet. And if Brennan cut acceleration to allow medical personnel to get to the bridge, the ship’s Field would soon be overwhelmed by intense solar radiation. Right now, the Field was dealing with all the energy absorbed during Solar ingress as well as their current egress from Alpha Geminorum Ca, and now that countdown timer was literally winding down to zero. Within a half hour – more like 27 minutes – the Field would be overwhelmed and then suddenly fail, ending the mission, and all their lives, in a single blinding flash.

The gargling noises stopped long before a med-tech could make it to the bridge on one of their G-carts, and by then it was of course too late. Ripley shook his head, though he decided not to bother Brennan right now. She had her hands full and didn’t need any interruptions.

Two minutes later Gordon opened his eyes and looked around.

“Are we still inside Castor?” he asked.

“Yes,” Ripley said, “but it looks like we were in the chromosphere a lot deeper than expected. We should exit the photosphere in 17 minutes, and I think maybe we’ll be at probe threshold in 15 minutes.”

“We will be close to Field’s limits, will we not, Admiral?”

“Yup. We’ll be cutting it pretty close.”

“There is a med tech working on one of the midshipmen, Admiral.”

“Can you see who was injured?”

“No, sir, but Lars Jansen’s biometrics are no longer registering on MedCom central.”

“Goddamnit to Hell,” Ripley growled under his breath.

“Admiral? If his death happened less than ten minutes ago, perhaps we could attempt a download.”

Ripley didn’t know if the boy’s parents had filed any religious exceptions concerning the process, but he looked at the clock again and realized that time was suddenly of the essence again. This was, he realized, a Command decision so he looked at Gordon on his screen. “Go ahead. Do it.”

Gordon commanded thin metal probes embedded with Jansen’s G-couch into position, then he hit the ‘Execute’ button – and soon every thought, every memory, and every feeling that Lars Jansen had ever experienced began downloading into a new Mem\\comm\\central registry. The entire process was a race against time now, as once brain death occurred it was literally just a matter of minutes before all that information was either lost or scrambled into uselessness.

Ripley had always thought the entire process was pointless, until he’d seen AI regenerations running Elon Musk’s re-creation, and then he’d become a true believer. How long, Musk had wondered in that presentation, before we could integrate these regenerations into synthetic humans – into simulations like Gordon? There were, of course, rumors that Musk was alive and well in the Hall of Mirrors, in Musk City on Mars, but so far all those rumors remained unsubstantiated, but if they were true then hadn’t Musk achieved practical immortality?

Ripley watched the second hand racing around the clock face, wondering what the outcome would be this time.

“Process complete, Admiral,” Gordon said. “An updated registry is now being created, and should be operational within six hours.”

“Operational?”

“Yes, Admiral. Midshipman Jansen created a complete primary registry soon after he boarded Agamemnon. This latest download will be compared to the original, and you should be able to address Lars at that time.”

Ripley swallowed hard and tried to look away, until all 4Gs of the ship’s bone-crushing acceleration reminded his G-couch to assert complete control over his movements.

+++++

Agamemnon’s new 48 inch Schmidt camera poked up through the ship’s Langston Field and imaged Alpha Geminorum Ca+4 several times over a ten minute period, while sensitive ELINT receivers began analyzing the radio spectrum around the planet…

And it was soon apparent there was a large military engagement underway on that planet. Ships in orbit were taking particle beam fire from weapons on the planet’s surface, and after careful analysis CIC reported that there were currently a minimum of five horseshoe shaped ships in a high orbit, and that they appeared to be the same type of ship Ripley had encountered on the first Hyperion mission. And now here they were again, only this time in orbit around the fourth planet, and now at least one of these five ships had been seriously damaged by unknown forces on the planet’s surface.

Which, Ripley told himself, made no sense at all.

Agamemnon had begun a mandatory one hour period of zero-G five minutes ago, coasting along in order to let the Stavridis catch up to them as soon as she cleared Alpha Geminorum Ca’s photosphere.

“COMMs?” Ripley barked.

“Aye, sir?”

“Fire off a message to those ships in orbit, advise them of our presence in the system and ask if we might be of any assistance.”

“Now, sir?”

“Yes now, Goddamnit!” he snarled. “And COMMs, how long will it take for them to receive the transmission?”

“Approximately forty minutes, sir.”

“Right. Advise when you are in contact with Stavridis.”

“Admiral, CIC here. We’re picking up ion trails near the planet that, well, they were probably made by inbound Company ships, sir. Definitely more than one ship, Admiral, and it looks like they are no longer in orbit.”

“What? Where are they?”

“They are not in orbit, Admiral. They are either on the planet’s surface or they’ve left the system, but that’s doubtful, sir.”

“Doubtful…why?”

“There’s only one pair of dissipating ion trails, Admiral, and those horseshoe-shaped ships must have some kind of FTL drive because they aren’t leaving any kind of trail. In fact, they haven’t left any markers anywhere around the system, so they must’ve jumped directly into orbit…”

“And then run into a shit storm,” Ripley sighed.

“Automatic identifier marker received from Stavridis, Admiral,” COMMs advised. “They have exited the photosphere.”

“Establish two-way comms as soon as you can.”

“Aye, sir.”

“WEPs? Is Balin there?”

“Here, Captain,” she said as her hideously contorted face came onscreen.

“How long until that weapon is operational, Ma’am.”

“We are ready to test fire the unit now, Captain.”

“We are NOT going to test fire that damn thing,” Ripley growled. “I don’t want to give away too much information yet, but, well, are you sure it will work when I give the order to fire?”

She nodded. “As long as we have nominal reactor output, I see no reason why the weapon will not fire, Captain.”

“Okay. Get your people ready for heavy acceleration. It looks like we might be going in with our guns blazing.”

“Guns, Captain? Surely you…”

He cut off her audio feed before he said something truly offensive, then he looked up at Gordon. “I need food. Something solid for a change, and no salads, and for God’s sake – and no goddamn TVP.”

“Yes, Admiral. Hot cocoa, as well?”

“No. Something stronger. Better make mine a coffee. Half-caff.”

“Yessir.”

A medical team was now removing Lars Jansen’s body from the bridge, and Brennan was almost in tears as she watched the boy’s body disappear inside the black PVC body bag. She looked across the bridge at Denton and shook her head, then turned slowly and went back to her station – and Ripley could see she was taking this one hard. Well, the truth of the matter was you never really got used to losing anyone, but losing a Middie always seemed to hurt a lot more. He was not looking forward to reading the autopsy results, nor to writing up the After Action Report that all such deaths required.

“Astronomy? Let me know when you have more detailed imagery of the planet.”

“Aye, sir,” came the reply.

“Get me a visual on Stavridis, would you?” As this required imaging in the direction of the star, heavy Calcium channel blocking filters were put in place, then the Schmidt camera poked up through the Field again – and Stavridis’s huge, glowing Langston Field appeared onscreen. Ripley saw the extreme perimeter of their field had a red tinge, which was normal so close to a star, but he also spotted splotches of yellow and green, and that was anything but normal. Then again, Stavridis was a smaller ship so her Langston Field presented a smaller surface area to radiate all that excess energy, yet their smaller Field had to absorb and dissipate the same energy load that Agamemnon’s Field had inside the star, hence the more dangerous colors in her Field. It was worth watching for now, but the faster both ships moved away from the star, the better…

“Admiral, we’ve finished processing images of the planet and we can see more indications of a large  military engagement between the ships in orbit and unknown forces on the planet’s surface.”

“Right. You’d better get the camera centered on the planet and keep it there for now. Let me know when you have a live feed set up.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Bridge? How long will it take for Stavridis to join up?”

“Fifteen minutes, Admiral. And we have Captain Farrell on COMMs now.”

“Right. Astro? See any likely hydrogen sources anywhere around the neighborhood?”

“Yessir. Two moons orbiting the fifth planet; the larger may have enough Hydrogen in the atmosphere for a ram scoop.”

“Excellent. Good work!”

Gordon slid a plate onto his chart table and Ripley smiled. A black bean burger with avocado and sliced habanero…his favorite! He looked up and smiled his approval. “Did Carson make this?”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“God love her!” he said as he launched into his burger. He switched his primary screen to catch the live feed coming from the fourth planet, and with basic image enhancers he could just make out laser cannon fire coming up from the planet’s surface – but then he saw another blue-green stream of light leave the surface – and this fire was directed – at his ship. “Bridge? Is that incoming fire?”

“Altering course, but it will take a half hour to reach us, sir. Should we return fire, Admiral?”

“No, no, that would be pointless at our current range – but make sure Stavridis has the plot.”

“Admiral?” Brennan said. “One of the horseshoes is powering up and leaving orbit.”

“See if you can work out their course.”

“They’re taking fire, sir. From a built up area near the planet’s equator.”

“With what, Bridge?”

“Tracks indicate both lasers and kinetic missiles,” one of the radar operators in CIC replied. “Confirmed multiple missile launches and now recording at least two low-yield nuclear detonations in the last half hour, based on debris clouds and decay rates. The horseshoes are simply powering away from the missiles, Admiral.”

“Heat signatures?”

“Very little from the horseshoes, sir. The missiles appear to be a typical Cascade class SRB using a conventional ion drive for terminal guidance.”

“So, that’s a goddamn Company weapon,” Ripley muttered to himself. “How the hell did they get wind of our operation?”

“Admiral, the horseshoe leaving orbit is now on an intercept course, heading our way. Appears to be a fusion powered drive, sir, and not an FTL drive, but there’s only a modest heat bloom aft and almost no trail. And it looks like their delta-v is already significant, sir. They’ll easily outrun the Cascades.”

“You said they’re on an intercept course with us, Ensign? Mind telling me the details?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. If current acceleration holds, they will arrive in 70 hours.”

“And would you mind telling me what their delta-v is, Ensign?”

“Sorry, sir. Currently 3.7 Gs…but they are continuing to accelerate, Admiral. Now at 4Gs and continuing to accelerate.”

“Admiral?” Brennan interrupted, “should we maintain our current position, or move to intercept?”

Ripley had been asking himself the same question for a few minutes now. They could stay here and burn up precious time, or move in their direction, knowing that would force them to make a massive mid-course correction. But how much power did their ships have, and how much fuel did they carry? In order to return to the fourth planet now, that ship would need to burn prodigious amounts of hydrogen in order to stop its forward velocity, but then it would have to burn even more to stop and then turn around and resume acceleration back to the planet…

“Commander Brennan, would the fifth and the second planet allow the three of us to make slingshot orbital corrections, setting up a return trajectory to the fourth planet – in formation?”

“Working,” Brennan sighed as she started plugging-in numbers and vectors. “We could, and quite easily, Admiral. The horseshoe would need to make two mid-course burns, but they’d need to make the first within about six hours. And yes, doing so would allow us to travel in formation with the horseshoe after our orbital burn.”

“Bridge, set your heading for the second planet; COMMs, pass on our course and heading to Stavridis and Constellation, tell them to line-up in tight formation. And CIC, leave a buoy here with a sit-rep and advise Admiral Davis on the Enterprise to head for the fourth planet as soon as they emerge and group up. Engineering, report on our reactors and our current fuel state in fifteen minutes. Bridge, alter course now and set our velocity at 1.0 standard G.”

“Sir?”

“We need to see if they react to our course change, Mister. WEPs, run through firing exercises while we’re at 1G. COMMs, advise Stavridis and Connie to get in real tight, and they are to start fire control, ECM, and damage control exercises immediately.”

“Astro here, Admiral. A particle beam weapon from the planet’s surface has struck a second horseshoe, sir; it appears to be damaged and is now retreating to a higher orbit.”

“Astro, are you picking up any signs of shielding on those ships, anything like our Langston Field?”

“No, sir. No EM emissions at all, and nothing in the visible spectrum.”

“Are they returning fire?”

“Nothing that we can detect, Admiral.”

Ripley shook his head. Either these were simply not warships and the Tall Whites did not possess shield technology, or they didn’t want to reveal their technology – yet. But…almost three years ago one of their ships had followed the Hyperion Group after the attack on Covenant, when they departed Beta Auriga 4 – and right after the black hole formed. And they’d been back there while that rogue David was in close pursuit, so how could they have done that without shielding? Did their spacecraft’s material act as a shield, or did they have some other defensive perimeter? But if so, why had one of their ships just been damaged from a missile coming up from the planet’s surface?

“Admiral? COMMs. We have radio contact with their lead ship. And Admiral, I think it’s Thomas Standing Bull, and he sounds concerned…”

Chapter 6

Ripley enlarged the image on his screen, and after the image processors did their thing the alien’s ship snapped into focus. He looked it over as best he could from this distance, but when viewed from head-on, the image left too many questions unanswered.

“Gordon? Do we have any comparable imagery we can check this against? Could it be the same ship we encountered at Beta Auriga 4?”

“There is a high order of probability that this is so, Admiral, and if this is not Standing Bull speaking it is a very sophisticated reproduction.”

“Are you speculating?”

“No, Admiral. Note the residue from blast damage on this protrusion, here, on the forward right sponson. It appears to have been repaired, but is otherwise unchanged.”

Ripley nodded. “COMMs, patch me through to that ship.”

“Aye, sir. Go ahead.”

The crude video feed flickered, then the screen came to life as the ship’s computers massaged the files: “Thomas, how are you doing?”

“Admiral? Is that you?”

“It is.”

“Pardon me, but you look very different.”

“Different? How so?”

“You look much older, sir. I mean, abnormally so.”

“Well, we’ve not seen you in almost three years, Thomas…”

“What? Sir, we left you not even three weeks ago…”

Ripley nodded. “Relativity, Thomas. You’ve been traveling faster than light. Now, what’s going on down on that planet.”

“It’s that organism, Admiral. The one from Covenant. After you left the Aurigae system, we returned to survey the remains of Beta Auriga 4 but we found Company ships all over the remains of the colony ship. As soon as we appeared the Company ships left the system, and as you suspected, Admiral, they had a back door out of the system. A small White Dwarf, a recent ignition, sir.”

“Did you follow them?”

“Yes, Admiral. They jumped directly to Mintaka, right into the middle of a large Russian fleet. As best we could tell, sir, the Russians had captured two Japanese colony ships, and as soon as the Company ship docked they released that organism inside several captured colony ships. I think, Admiral, that one ship was Japanese and the other from Australia. As soon as what they were doing became clear we left the Mintaka system and jumped to one of their military garrisons for reinforcements, but almost as soon as we arrived a distress call was received from Castor, from the university here. The Company hit them with that organism, Admiral, and apparently their people have no defense against it.”

But Ripley was hardly listening now, and hadn’t been since he’d heard the word Mintaka. All he really knew now was that his wife was sailing into a trap, and that the Company was setting all of them up. But why? Did they have the means to control this organism, and if not then what the hell were they up to? “Alright, Thomas, we’re heading for the second planet and we’ll slingshot there and then head for the university planet.”

“Admiral? All we’re picking up on our scans is your ship, Stavridis and maybe one other ship.”

“I’m on the lead ship, Thomas. Agamemnon. She’s new, but she’s very fast. The third is the Constellation.”

“We’re not picking up any recognizable weaponry on your ship, Admiral?”

“Tell me, Thomas. Who’s asking these questions?”

The screen split and the Tall White he’d first met on Halsey’s hangar deck appeared. “I ask. Need more ships.”

Ripley smiled. “Nice to see you again. We’ll have more warships arriving in-system soon.”

“You have weapon. Strange. Behind shield, can not understand.”

“Yes, we do. It is very new, and very powerful.”

“My people need help fast. Your ship moves too slow.”

“I’m sorry.”

“If I share engine, you share weapon?”

Ripley saw Commander Brennan on an adjacent screen and he saw the look of alarm in her eyes, but he also recognized the grail-like attraction that faster-than-light travel represented; when their eyes met and she nodded, and he had to admit he agreed.

“Alright. I agree.”

And in the next instant both Agamemnon and Stavridis were surrounded by four of the huge, horseshoe shaped starships, then another appeared and it had to be at least ten times the size of the other ships gathered around Ripley’s tiny fleet.

And then bright light spilled out of a hangar door as a vast opening appeared on the near side of the massive ship, and Ripley could just make out the shape of a small shuttle as it left the larger ship. Displays blinked red when the shuttle appeared to be coming straight at Agamemnon, and Ripley gave the order to cut acceleration as he prepared to go and face the unknown once again.

+++++

Ripley watched the shuttle match velocities and slip into the hangar deck, and while he was impressed by the piloting skills on vivid display he was more than concerned about the shuttle’s occupants. The shuttle bay door closed as soon as the Tall White’s shuttle touched down, and seconds later the hangar deck began pressurizing. When the pressures equalized the main entryway to the hangar deck opened and Ripley walked in – surrounded by a squad of Marines in full combat gear.

But the shuttle’s doors remained closed. And after two minutes Ripley walked over to the intercom and called Brennan on the bridge. “Commander? You still in contact with Thomas?”

“No, sir. No contact.”

He was about to evacuate the hangar and use air pressure to blow the ship back out into space when a small door opened, and a gently inclined boarding ramp extended to the hangar deck. Thomas Standing Bull came out first, and he still looked like a sixteen year old, but then the commander of the Tall Whites walked down the ramp – followed by…a woman? An unarmed woman who also appeared to be quite pregnant.

And the message couldn’t have been more clear. We come in peace.

So Ripley turned to the Gunny. “Sergeant, you and your men leave the hangar deck but remain out there on Main Street.”

“Aye, sir.” 

Ripley watched his marines file out of the hangar, then he turned to Thomas. “Well, Mr Standing Bull, I think introductions are in order, don’t you?”

“Yessir. This is the leader of their fleet, and he asks that you call him Odysseus.”

“Odysseus? Really?”

“Yessir. Apparently he knew the man and he thought the name would be familiar to you.”

“It is that. And this is his wife? Penelope, I take it?”

“Yessir. How did you know?”

Ripley looked at Thomas and shook his head as he let slip a long sigh. “Thomas, tell me about this organism. What are we dealing with?”

“Admiral, it appears to be an endoparasitoid, and it may have been artificially developed as a weapon of mass destruction by a rogue faction within Odysseus’s home civilization.”

“An endoparasitoid? And by that you mean is uses humans as host bodies?”

“Yessir, but the organism can use almost any species as a host. Apparently its offspring incorporate certain external traits while the overall aggressive nature of the organism remains unchanged. It is also very difficult to kill.”

“Need weapon,” Odysseus said gently, “now. My people face great danger.”

Ripley turned and looked at the alien. He had to be eight feet tall and he still reminded him of Michelangelo’s David – ignoring the solid black eyes, anyway. “Come with me.” He turned and walked to the main door then scowled – because this ‘man’ was simply too tall to make his way through the ship – so he stopped at the intercom again and called Brennan. “Commander, put the ship in zero-G, would you?”

“Yessir.”

And a moment later the ship’s drives cut out; Ripley reached for one of the overhead handrails and began pulling himself along Main Street towards the weapon’s bay – and to Ina Balin’s improbable Maser. When Ripley and his small entourage appeared in the weapon’s bay everyone’s eyes went big and round as anticipation ran headlong into pure, unadulterated shock.

And even Balin appeared too stunned to speak, which under current circumstances Ripley considered a minor blessing.

“This is it,” Ripley said, pointing at the main body of the ignition chamber, then he walked along the optical assembly to the first of three pressure bulkheads, where the optical tube exited the ship’s hull.

“Very big. How aim?”

“By maneuvering the ship.”

Odysseus scowled and shook his head. “Need bigger ship. My engineer need look. This is good?”

“Of course.”

“My engineer teach your engineer how to build our engine. This is good?”

“Yes. But do we have time for that eight now?”

“Time. No. We take ship to planet now.”

“Your ship, you mean?”

“No, we take your ship now. Tell your people get ready. Must sit, accelerate very much.”

“Brennan! Sound acceleration stations, and tell Stavridis and Constellation to prepare for heavy acceleration from an external source.”

“Yes, Admiral…”

Odysseus turned to Ripley when he had finished looking at the Maser, then he turned to Balin. “You make?” he asked.

Balin did a double-take then looked from the giant creature to Ripley, who simply nodded his implicit approval to speak openly, so she just shrugged and turned to the Tall White, suddenly in awe of the creature – and of her place in the moment. 

“Yes, I make.”

“My women no make, understand?”

“Yes, all too well.”

“When get planet you fire weapon?”

“Yes, as soon as I have targeting information.”

“My engineer stay here and watch?”

“Of course,” Ripley said.

“Fine with me,” Balin echoed – yet her voice was full of doubt – even though she was only too aware that a dozen cameras were recording these moments for posterity. “Let me know what I can do to help.”

Odysseus nodded. “I go ship now. When arrive planet engineer come.”

Acceleration warnings began blaring throughout he ship, and as Odysseus seemed to understand what these meant he fell-in behind Ripley as they used overhead handgrips to pull there way back to the hangar deck. Brennan was there now too, with Yukio, and they all pushed off and drifted the ten meters wide gulf to Odysseus’s shuttle – with Ripley and Brennan by his side, and with Yukio and Thomas quickly catching up on each others lives as they drifted along, bringing up the rear.

“You call radio when ready to go planet,” Odysseus said. “Shuttle stay here. Must stay in ship for drive.” Then the Tall White turned to Thomas: “Is this the woman you speak of?”

“Yes,” Thomas replied.

Odysseus turned to Ripley again. “Thomas Standing Bull needs woman.”

“I understand,” Ripley stated. “I will talk to them both before we make that decision.”

“Understand.” The outer hull door of the alien’s shuttle opened, and Ripley peered inside – but all he could make out in the gloom was a rather complicated looking airlock, but Odysseus watched as Ripley looked around the shuttle. “You let show our ship. After planet.”

“I would like that,” Ripley replied as he turned to Thomas. “Mr Standing Bull, resume your duties on the shuttle, if you please.”

“Aye, Admiral.”

“Odysseus, we will call you in a few minutes,” Ripley added, then he pushed off the floor and aimed for the door in the pressure bulkhead, floating across the ten meters a little too fast for his own comfort. Once Brennan made it across he turned to her: “Think you need to get us under acceleration long enough to get to the bridge?” he asked helpfully.

“No, sir. No reason to confuse the situation any more than it already is.”

“Yukio? You appear to be blushing. Did I miss something?”

“He said my breasts had grown a lot in the time we were apart.”

Ripley sighed as he pushed off again and began making his way up Main Street to the bridge. “And how do you feel about possibly staying with Thomas on one of their ships?” he asked as she floated by his side.

“I’d like to think about that before committing, sir.”

“Indeed. Frankly, I would too.”

They made it to the bridge in record time and Ripley found everyone already strapped in their G-couches – and all the ship’s computers had been powered down.

“All departments,” Brennan said over the intercom, “report jump status and signal when ready.”

And one-by-one all of Agamemnon’s chiefs reported ready to jump. Then Stavridis and the Connie did, as well.

“Admiral? The ship is ready to jump.”

Ripley nodded. “COMMs, verify Stavridis and Constellation have shuttles onboard and that they are ready to jump.”

“Verified, Admiral.”

“Okay, COMMs, notify Thomas that we’re ready when they are.”

“Notified, Admiral. Thomas advises we might feel…”

Disoriented was the word that bounced around the hollow corridors of Ripley’s mind. First a  sharp moment – almost like a discontinuity, then stretching followed by the sensation of nerves tingling throughout his body, but this was followed by an intense burning sensation behind his eyes that suddenly rippled down into his chest. He felt sure he’d passed out but then he saw little battery powered emergency lights pop on, then he heard one of the bridge deck officers growling “Bloody Hell!” – or words to that effect – and then he knew he was still conscious.

Then Brennan and her team began waking up the ship’s computers one-by-one, and within a minute computers were booting up all over the ship…

“Bridge, COMMs, Stavridis and Constellation are on station ten clicks off our stern, and Admiral, I have Thomas on his personal Comm-link.”

“Put him through.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Admiral? Did you experience any trouble?”

“Nothing reported so far. COMMs, can you get Dr Balin on this call?”

“Working.”

Then Balin’s face appeared on the split-screen. “Yes, Admiral,” she said contritely.

“You ready to see if this thing works?”

“Yessir. We’re waiting for reactor five to come fully online, then we’ll be ready to rock and roll.”

Ripley rolled his eyes. “Okay, Thomas, why don’t you and the engineers from Odysseus’s shuttle come aboard again. I’ll meet you at the airlock and we’ll go down to the Maser assembly.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Bridge, where are we?”

“In a 300 mile high orbit over the fourth planet, Admiral. There is a battle in-progress between a Tall White ship and two Company ships, the closest company ship is currently 1540 miles from our current location – and they are closing on us now.”

“WEPs, target the company ship and get the coordinates to Balin. Commander Brennan, resume 0-G conditions, all ship’s drives to 110 percent rated power, and ready the RCJs.”

“Aye, sir.”

Ripley crawled out of his G-couch and turned to his Gordon unit. “Come with me, and record everything said and shown to their engineer, and make sure you’ve got clear audio.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Gordon said as he fell in behind Ripley.

Main Street was almost empty as the ship’s crew was still waking up the ship, and the lights were set to a cool blue color as the ship’s time was currently set to ‘evening’. Ripley arrived at the airlock door that sealed off the hangar deck and almost instantly the airlock door on the shuttle opened – and out walked Thomas and Odysseus, as well as a small gaggle of their engineers – and Ripley gasped at the sight.

The engineers were quite short, though their skin was the same pure white, though they were possibly less than five feet tall; even from a distance Ripley could see that their skulls were huge and their fingers were hideously long, almost spidery. ‘So,’ he thought, ‘they’ve genetically differentiated the species to create task oriented specialists.’ The engineers had what looked like instrument cases strapped to their backs, then Ripley saw that the engineers bare feet were structured more like hands, with toes that looked long enough to grasp tools or handrails. As the engineers came up to the airlock Ripley had a hard time not staring at the lead engineer, especially as his eyes were black and as big around as saucers – perfect for seeing in low light conditions, no doubt.

Ripley opened the airlock and Odysseus and his engineers fell in behind him, leaving Thomas to bring up the rear. When they made it to the fire control station where Balin and her team waited, the lead engineer went to a table and placed his case there, then he turned and waited, his eyes never leaving Balin as she began explaining what the device was, and what it was theoretically capable of.

“WEPs,” Ripley said, “I don’t see the target on our screens down here. What’s going on?”

“Computer just coming online now, Admiral. You should have it any moment now.”

“Okay, we have it. Dr Balin, what’s next?”

“Admiral, we’re basically going to bore-sight the weapon, aim the lens by moving the ship with her forward Reaction Control Jets. As long as the target ship’s acceleration vector remains constant the computer will slave to the target and manipulate the RCJs to maintain target lock.”

“Alright. Let’s target that lead ship and see what this thing can do.”

She nodded. “At this range, Admiral, the beam will be more than three meters in diameter.”

“And?”

“The ship should be obliterated, Admiral.”

He nodded. “Lock on and fire, Dr Balin.”

Once the computer had achieved lock and slaved the Reaction Control Jets, Balin waited until she had full reactor power – then pressed the FIRE button.

And nothing happened.

There was no noise, and no visible beam – yet a few seconds later the Company ship, a rather large warship usually with a complement of more than 200 people, simply began to melt. The invisible beam cut right through the ablative re-entry shielding and the entire forward part of the ship tore away from the drive units located aft. There were no explosions, no visible flames, and indeed nothing at all to indicate a weapon had been fired.

“Holy fucking shit,” someone on the intercom circuit moaned, and Odysseus and his engineer stepped forward to look at the monitor…

“Holy fucking shit,” Odysseus said as he turned and faced Balin. “You make this fucking shit?”

“Yes, I make this,” Balin said, beaming with pride.

“Admiral?” Brennan said over the intercom. “The other company ship is breaking orbit and moving to investigate.”

“WEPs, get a lock on that second ship, now!”

“WEPs, aye. Working.”

“Dr Balin, how much time does this thing need to reset or recharge?”

“None, Admiral. As long as we have nominal reactor output the only limitation you’ll have is the time it takes to track and lock-on to the next target.”

“Admiral, WEPs, we have the target, slaving the RCJs now.”

Agamemnon rolled and reoriented, taking almost a minute to lock on to the second ship, then Ripley looked at Balin and nodded.

Once again she hit the FIRE button and once again within seconds the Company ship appeared to melt before pressure bulkheads gave way and the forward sections of the ship parted from the aft drive sections.

“Need move orbit,” Odysseus said, his voice excited now. “Need fire enemy ground.”

“WEPs, scan for additional target in orbit. Brennan, take us into a 150 mile up polar orbit. Captain Renfro, get your Marines to their shuttles and ready to roll. Stavridis, get your Marines to their shuttles.” Ripley turned to Odysseus and smiled. “I’m sure you need to get back to your ship now, but would you like to leave your engineer here for a while?”

“You allow?”

“Of course.”

“Want you engineer come my ship?”

“That’s not necessary now. We can send our engineer to look over your drive after we have taken care of the organism on the planet’s surface.”

“Admiral,” Brennan said, “one of Odysseus’s ships apparently has the organism onboard and it does not appear to be under direct control at this time. Some personnel have left the ship in MMUs, and the ship’s acting master just activated a self-destruct charge.”

Ripley looked at Odysseus. “Do you understand?”

“Yes. Can destroy ship with weapon, before self destruct? Crew is too close?”

“WEPs, target the Tall White ship, and take care not to hit any escaping crewmen. Dr Balin? Is the Maser ready?”

“Yes, Admiral. On your command.”

Ripley nodded, but then he turned to Odysseus and sighed. “Sir, should we target any part of the ship?”

“Can hit here?” he asked, pointing at the starboard-forward sponson.

“WEPs, target the foremost tip of the starboard sponson. Dr Balin, how wide will the beam be at this range?”

“Right now…about a meter,” she said as everyone watched the reticle line up on the ship, and then they identified the survivors jetting away from the ship in their Manned Maneuvering Units.

“Odysseus, are their any surveillance cameras within the ship.”

“I see if still work,” he said, asking a question over the radio he had mounted on a wrist-strap, and a few moments later he received his reply. “Yes. Ship not recognizable inside. Many crew on walls with, what is the word, parasite on face. Must destroy entire ship.”

And then Balin saw the pain in Odysseus’s eyes and on his face and quite instinctively she reached out and put her hand on his forearm, and the Tall White turned and looked at her hand, then at the look on her face – and he simply nodded his understanding of the gesture before he returned to the targeting data streaming on the main WEPs display.

“Odysseus,” Ripley sighed, “would you give the order to fire, please?”

And the Tall White stepped forward and looked at his men in their MMUs, then he spoke on his wrist radio, saying a dozen or so words Ripley didn’t understand to his men, then he turned to Dr Balin. “Fire now, please.”

Balin nodded and pushed the red button and a moment later the forward sponson began wilting and blossoming, then the screen flared as shielding around the ship’s drive finally gave way and her fusion reactor exploded. As the screen cleared Ripley turned to Gordon: “You get all that?”

“Everything, Admiral.”

He nodded. “Brennan, get the Marines to their shuttles. Let’s help round up any survivors.”

Odysseus had turned away and was now obviously quite upset: he was looking down and appeared to be openly weeping, and then the alien walked away from the group – but Ina Balin had put an arm around him and was talking to him, so Ripley let it go…for now. In any event, Gordon would find a way to record what they said. 

So next up, retake the planet, ‘but that really isn’t our job, is it,’ Ripley thought as he walked over to the main WEPs screen. “WEPs, what can you show me on the planet’s surface?”

“Working.”

Balin and Odysseus walked up to Ripley and the Tall White looked around before speaking. “Thank crew, please. Must go my ship now. Thomas come with please.”

Ripley nodded. “Of course. Please let us know if we can assist you in any way.”

Odysseus motioned to Thomas, who fell in behind the Tall White and left the Maser’s control room, and before Ripley followed he motioned Balin to fall in and come along. When they arrived at  the hangar deck they saw that Agamemnon’s four small Marine shuttles had already departed, and that the hangar deck was still repressurizing. Brennan and Yukio were already there and waiting, and Thomas went to Yukio’s side and they whispered in each others ear for a while; Ripley cast another sidelong glance at Gordon – who simply nodded.

The control panel next to the airlock door flashed red, then chimed once before the actuator light changed to green. Gordon opened the airlock and the group pushed off, floating across the hangar deck before stopping beside the shuttle’s airlock. Yukio and Thomas hugged and Ripley could tell the Middie was beside herself, trying to contain the uncertainty she felt. 

Then the airlock opened and Thomas pulled himself over to the opening, while Odysseus turned and looked at Ripley. “I call soon, but thank you for help.”

“I’m glad we could,” Ripley said, and then he saw Odysseus had a hearing aid in one ear, obviously a translator of some sort, because he paused for a moment before replying.

“One of my sons on ship. Not know if he got out.”

Ripley felt sick and shook his head. “I’m sorry, I had no idea.”

“My decision, not yours. Must go. Speak soon.”

“Your name is Pak, isn’t it?” Ripley said, and ‘Odysseus’ seemed startled to learn that Ripley knew that.

“Yes. Den-ton.”

Ripley held out his right hand and Pak looked at it for a moment, then took it. “A handshake means I come in friendship.”

“Understand. No want war between us.”

“Yes. No war between us. Not now, not ever.” 

Their eyes met and Ripley nodded solemnly.

And with that Odysseus turned and led Thomas inside the shuttle, so Ripley pushed off and returned to the hangar deck’s airlock and recycled the lock. He watched the Tall White’s shuttle lift from the ‘floor’ of the hangar deck and looked for any visible signs of propulsion – but he saw nothing, as in nada – and he sighed once before he turned and pulled himself up Main Street to the bridge. A few minutes later Thomas came on via the radio link, then a video link was established through his personal communicator.

“Admiral, Odysseus advises they have limited contact with their personnel on the ground, and those that have managed to get through advise that no one should come down to the planet’s surface.  Variations of the organism can be transmitted by airborne spore or by direct implantation of eggs within the body cavity, and once infected transmutation is complete.”

“They’ve found no means to treat anyone that’s been infected.”

“No, sir. And while the gestated mutation is inherently offensive, apparently the organism has formidable defenses.”

“You’re describing a weapon system, Thomas. And did I not hear that this weapon was genetically manipulated by another faction within their civilization?”

“I’ve learned very little about this conflict, Admiral.”

“Understood. Try to make it clear that we have no desire to interfere in their internal affairs.”

“Admiral, Odysseus advises that several warships have entered the system from the same jump point you used earlier.”

Ripley nodded. “We have a carrier group coming, as well as tanker support. Please tell Odysseus that these ships are under my command and present no risk to him or his fleet. They are here to assist with any rescue effort, should such support be needed.”

Thomas turned and talked to someone out of sight, and Ripley could hear only bits and pieces of this conversation, so he turned to Brennan. “See if you can get a lock on the Enterprise or one of her tankers,” he said quietly, and she nodded.

“Nothing yet,” Brennan advised a moment later.

“Well hell, they’ve recorded several ships at the Alderson Point…”

“Understood. They must have better radar than ours.”

“Start a time hack. I want to figure out how much better, and see if you can pick up any emissions.”

“Admiral?” Thomas said over the COMMs link.

“Go ahead.”

Sir, Odysseus, uh, Pak is reluctant to fire at his people on the planet, but he has new video from inside one of the buildings down there and he’s really upset. I mean really-really upset…”

“Any word on his son?”

“No, sir, but our Marines picked up about twenty people in MMUs, from that last ship. When they get aboard say ‘Tarak ign Ramala.’”

“‘Tarak ign Ramala?’”

“Yessir. That means, roughly, ‘Is Ramala among you?’”

“Got it. I’ll advise as soon as his men are safely onboard.”

“Admiral,” Brennan advised, “the first shuttle is on its approach.”

“Send Yukio, and make sure she knows how to pronounce that. Better patch her through to Thomas. And send someone from medical along – in case we need to quarantine anyone.”

Brennan smiled at this bit of mischief. “Yessir. I’m sure she’ll hate that.”

“I thought she might. You tracking anything on the planet’s surface?”

“We’ve located a small city, circular in shape and with canals all over the place. There’s no movement anywhere around the place, and we’ve got point two meter resolution and no cloud cover.”

“What’s the nearby terrain like?”

“Scandinavian. We’re talking deep fjords and really tall mountains for that latitude.”

Ripley looked at Gordon and they both nodded. “Similar to Beta Capella-4,” Gordon said.

“So, they like cool, temperate planets,” Ripley said. “But hell, who doesn’t?”

“Maybe the organism does too,” Gordon added. “Or perhaps they adapt to environments they,  in effect, inherit from their host organisms.”

“Makes sense.”

“Admiral, they have just identified another warship entering the system from another jump point, the same jump point the company ships used.”

So, from Mintaka. Ripley suddenly felt a feeling a dread, but he tried to hide his feelings now. “Thomas, it’s important we know more about that ship as soon as possible.”

“Understood, sir.”

Ripley turned to Brennan again: “Still nothing on radar?”

“Not a thing, Admiral. Whoa…did you see that?”

While they were talking one of Pak’s ships simply flashed and then vanished.

“Admiral,” Yukio said over the intercom, “Ramala is safe and onboard, and medical advises no obvious infections are present.”

“Thomas, would you advise Pak that we have his son onboard. We can bring him over or he can send his shuttle.”

“Admiral, he’ll send his shuttle as soon as we have the rest of his crew are onboard.”

“Understood. Yukio, is someone from medical with you?”

“Yessir, Dr Cooper from life sciences and two Walter units. The Walters are scanning our Marines, and there’s a physician of some sort with the Tall Whites. They are in space suits the physician advises they will remain so until back aboard their flagship, Admiral.”

“Admiral, Dr Cooper here. I recommend we get everyone who’s had even a remote chance of contact into isolation chambers. Until we know what the gestation period is we’ll have no way of knowing who’s safe and who isn’t, and I’d recommend exposing the interiors of all shuttles to a hard vacuum for a few hours, just to be on the safe side.”

Ripley turned to his Gordon: “Can you lay that on?”

“Yes, Admiral, however we may not have enough isolation chambers. We could accomplish the same thing by keeping the Marines in their spacesuits and replenishing their oxygen generators as needed.”

“Okay. Get a team on it now.”

“Admiral?” Thomas asked over the intercom. 

“Go ahead, Thomas.”

“Odysseus advises that Hyperion has entered the system through the Mintaka Alderson Point.”

“Excuse me? Did you say Hyperion?”

“Yessir, and Odysseus advises that at least twenty more ships have now jumped into the system through Capella. He thinks it wise to send a ship to investigate. Would you like me to go?”

“Alright, Thomas. Just a quick recon, okay?”

“Understood, sir.”

“Commander Brennan, do you have Hyperion on radar yet?”

“Intermittent contact only, sir, with no IFF and no positive ident. We are picking up a positive IFF from Constellation and five elements of the Enterprise Battle Group, but not this new group.”

Pak came on screen. “Admiral Ripley?”

“Yes, I’m here, Pak.”

“Captain of ship advises you are mate. She say have important emissaries with her. You want us bring ship here?”

“Yes, Pak, if this is not a problem.”

“No problem.”

“Could your captain advise my mate to shut down all computers before jump?”

“Jump? What is jump?”

“High speed.”

“Ah. Understand. Want bring other ships here?”

“Not yet. Must understand why emissaries come.”

“Understood. Thomas good man, like Sitting Bull. Strong spirit, not fear unknown.”

Ripley smiled. “I agree. He can learn much from you.”

“My son. He spend time with you?”

“Of course. Yes. We would like that very much.”

“My engineer say X-ray Maser very dangerous your crew. Shielding not enough, should change before crew sick. He can fix if want.”

“Okay. Dr Balin may want to check his design. Does your engineer think you can use the weapon on your ship?”

Pak shook his head. “Very dangerous. X-ray very dangerous. Must think with other engineers before decide. You take Judy as mate?”

“What?”

“Judy, captain of ship Patton. She mate now?”

“Yes, she is.”

Pak/Odysseus nodded. “She strong heart, good spirit.”

Ripley smiled, but at least now he knew the Tall Whites were closely monitoring their ship-to-ship communications; he could only hope that his people down in the radio shack were as on-the-ball as Pak’s team. “How long before Hyperion arrives?”

Pak turned and looked somewhere offscreen, then he turned back to Ripley. “Now.”

And sure enough, Pak’s ship arrived, securely attached to the underside of Hyperion’s hangar deck, and almost instantly Judy was onscreen.

“Denton,” she said – and almost breathlessly – “the Company…the Company has a small army of those organisms and they have overrun the colony on Mintaka 4. Several Russian and Chinese ships have been overrun, too, and I have diplomatic emissaries from both countries onboard. They want to talk about an alliance.”

“An alliance?”

“Yes, an alliance with us to take out the Company.”

“An alliance of convenience, you mean?”

“No, a permanent peace in addition to an alliance. Cooperative exploration, everything we’ve wanted. Denton…no more war.”

“Are they onboard your ship?”

“Yes, and here’s the catch. They need us to help them retake their fleets.”

“Judy, what are you saying? That the Company has defeated their combined fleet?”

“They have reinforcements coming, Denton, but they won’t be enough. The organism…it can survive in a vacuum and at absolute zero for almost an hour. They bleed acid and appear to be a silicon-based life-form so our biological controls don’t work. And not only that…”

But then Ripley’s screen flickered before the image dissolved, finally turning an absolute black. “COMMs, I just lost my screen!” he barked.

But then a pale blue smudge appeared in the center of his screen, and then as if someone was slowly pulling focus the smudge turned into an oval and then the oval morphed into a face.

And it was Lars Jansen’s face. The Midshipman’s face. The dead Midshipman’s face.

“Lars?” Ripley said gently, as he motioned Brennan to join him by his station.

“Admiral? Is that you?”

“Yes, Lars. Where are you?”

“I’m not sure. There is a high probability that I am in the port forward mainframe, in CIC.”

“What can you tell me about where you are?”

“I am on a beach, with two girls, and they are…”

“That’s okay, Lars, I think I get the picture. Are you capable of interacting with the ship?”

“Yes, Admiral, that is why I am here. I have been analyzing the input you are receiving on COMMs 1, and I have concluded there is a high order of probability that the image on the screen is an AI construct. And, oh, I have just penetrated Hyperion’s Langston Field through her COMMs mast, and now have access to the ship’s computer. There are 200 gestated organisms onboard Hyperion, and a further 350 in late-stage gestation – in addition to twenty three Company personnel.”

“Is Judy onboard?”

“No, Admiral, and I find no further information on her location in this computer, but it is no longer networked. I would suggest you ask the AI something only your wife would know…”

“Alright, Lars. Re-establish contact, would you?”

Ripley’s COMMs 1 link instantly reappeared, as did the image of Judy. “Denton…Denton…are you…ah, there you are…what happened?”

“I don’t know. Say, I got a note from Tracy, did you?”

“Tracy?”

“Yes, Tracy. Our daughter?” Brennan nodded and pulled up the Maser’s targeting screen on a nearby terminal, then she slaved the ship to the Maser’s fire control system.

“Oh, yes, of course. No, I haven’t heard a thing from her since we left the Gateway. Denton, what about these ships? Who do they belong to?”

“I have no idea,” he said as he looked at Brennan and nodded.

And he watched as Hyperion melted and then blew apart, and multiple cameras zoomed in on dozens of shiny black organisms writhing around within the blooming debris field – and almost instantly Pak was calling.

“What has happened?”

“A computer simulation of Judy was being used to conceal the presence of organisms onboard Hyperion.”

“The image of your mate was unreal?”

“That is correct.”

“How tell not mate?”

“A computer on my ship identified the imposter.”

“Imposter?”

“The pretender?”

“Very complicated. Many new difficulties.”

“Yes. Many.”

“Possible Thomas heading trap?”

Ripley nodded. “Yes, that is possible. Can you tell him?”

“Must send second ship.”

“Understand. Your ship and mine, together?”

“Yes. That is best. We come you now.”

Ripley turned to Brennan. “Acceleration warnings, everyone to acceleration stations and computers to standby as soon as our docking clamps are attached.”

“Got it,” Brennan said as acceleration warnings sounded throughout the ship.

As Ripley watched Pak’s gigantic ship cross the three kilometers that separated their two ships, his mind struggled with the realization that Judy was now being held captive, and so was probably a hostage in the Company’s grasping hands. And they wanted it all, he now realized. Control of the Space Force and the Naval Space Force to start, then all colonization efforts, too. And they would enforce their Will by using these organisms, assuming, that is, that they could control them and not be wiped out in the process.

Yet a faction of Pak’s civilization had created this organism, so surely this group held the key to controlling this menace. But what was the purpose behind creating the organism in the first place? These organisms were a weapon of mass destruction, plain and simple, and the Walter that he’d picked up from the planet’s surface almost three years ago had understood that the organism had been found at a weapons depot, a very large weapons depot. Why? With whom were these Tall White’s at war?

Yet Agamemnon was equipped with a singularly destructive weapon of her own, a weapon that might prove to be a decisive advantage in any conflict, and Stanton had to know that. Was he equipping other ships in the NSF with the weapon, or waiting for an operational report from this expedition? Ripley thought for a moment then concluded his ship was probably not the only ship equipped with the Maser.

“Admiral, forward locking clamps engaged, powering down computers now.”

“Okay, all personnel to acceleration stations.”

“Once again warnings sounded throughout the ship, and just then Pak came onscreen. “Tell when ready, Den-ton.”

“All stations report ready to jump, Admiral.”

“Pak,” Ripley said, “let’s do it!”

Lights flickered, then went out – only to be replaced by red battery powered lighting throughout the ship, then everyone felt the muted rumble of a kinetic weapon detonating on the surface of the Langston Field…

“Brennan, get me a visual!”

“Wide field camera going up the mast through the field now, sir.”

When the screen flickered and came alive Ripley gasped when he saw at least three different fleets engaged in a close range fire fight, with laser cannon trying to overwhelm and burn through Langston Fields and at least two of Pak’s ships badly damaged and trying to retreat, including the shuttle carrying Thomas Standing Bull.

Chapter 8

Neal Davis had been a classmate of Ripley’s at Annapolis; now he was in command of the USNSF Enterprise and her battle group – and he was roaring mad. Ripley had just spoken to Davis on a secure frequency but it appeared Davis still didn’t know what the tactical situation was; one minute an unknown group of warships came out of the Jump point and a minute later several of the Tall White’s horseshoe-shaped craft appeared – and his battle group was in effect sandwiched between these two forces. So, Davis thought his first order of business was to secure the tanker fleet – but as soon as he launched a squadron on Banshees the force coming up from the rear had opened fire on his ship. Then this unknown hostile force split into two groups, with one coming for the Enterprise and the second group moving to intercept the Tall White’s small force.

When Ripley on Agamemnon appeared – and strapped on top of a huge Tall White horseshoe – Davis assumed the Tall Whites weren’t hostile – and about that time Ripley got through.

“Concentrate all your forces on protecting the tankers,” Denton told his old classmate, “and we’ll go after the Company ships.”

“Company ships? Denton? What are you saying?”

“Yup. Apparently they’re making a play to consolidate their power by taking out our Navy, and possibly Russia’s and China’s, as well.”

“Admiral?” Brennan said, interrupting Ripley. “Thomas is on TAC2.”

“Okay, patch him into my link to Enterprise.”

“Done.”

“Thomas, what’s your situation?”

“This ship doesn’t have shielding, Admiral, of any kind. The drive is out and one of the Company’s ships is about fifty clicks out, and they’re carrying the organism.”

“WEPs,” Ripley said calmly, “can you ID the target?”

“Trying, Admiral. Apparently their shield is up and they’re jamming out radar.”

“Something within 50 clicks, WEPs. Look in the microwave spectrum.”

“Okay, Admiral, we have identified a possible target!”

“Dr Balin, you ready to go down there?”

“Affirmative, Admiral, slaving the RCJs and acquiring lock.”

“Fire on lock,” Ripley sighed, “and as soon as we have confirmation the target is destroyed start targeting any Company ships.”

“Target lock,” WEPs said.

“Firing now,” Balin added.

The Maser’s beam sliced through the Company ship’s barely visible Langston Field and several small detonations flared onscreen, and on magnification everyone could see hundreds of the organism flailing around in the hard vacuum.

“What the hell are those things?” Davis said.

“They’re what this is all about, Neal. Apparently this organism was genetically manufactured by a rival faction within the Tall White’s military and it was stored off world on a planet designated as some kind of weapons storage facility. The Company got ahold of the technology and are now deploying them as shock troops. I’ll send you the data our xenobiologists have worked up, but the bottom line is we can’t let the Company get this technology to Earth, or Mars.”

“But their ships? Denton, they came from Sol system!”

“Understood. They may have overrun the Japanese colony on Mintaka 4, too.”

“Bridge. WEPs, target lock on a carrier.”

“Take it out,” Ripley sighed.

“Den-ton,” Pak said over the UHF comm link, “now have working weapon on shuttle. Very easy move find new target. Can help?”

“Yes, Pak, can help.”

“Denton,” Neal Davis said, clearly flummoxed, “who the devil is that?”

“That was Pak, and my assumption is he’s the equivalent of a fleet admiral in their Navy.”

“Den-ton, have six ship target.”

“Pak, take them out.”

Seconds later six more ships vaporized.

Davis looked stunned, and even Ripley was amazed at the speed they had realigned the Maser to target new ships. “Ripley, what kind of weapon is that?” Davis cried.

“Microwave X-ray Maser that the Israelis developed. I traded the technology for data on their FTL drive.”

“You…what? A working FTL drive? Really?”

Ripley smiled and nodded. “Welcome to the brave new world, Neal.”

“Holy shit, Denton…you’ve got to get that tech back to earth, and I mean pronto.”

“I know, but we have to help Pak secure the planet then move on Mintaka.”

“Man, I hope you know what you’re doing?”

Ripley nodded. “I want you to go to the planet and help Pak’s men retake the citadel and their university. You’ve got more Marines on that transport than all my ships combined, but don’t send anyone down until you’ve read that summary. This is a vicious organism, Neal, and not to be underestimated. Thomas? Sit-rep, please.”

“No threats at this time, Admiral.”

“Pak, move all ships to planet now?”

“Yes. Can do.”

+++++

It had taken the better part of a day, but it now appeared that all of the organisms near and around the university had been killed and their underground nurseries destroyed, including two enormous egg-laying queens that had been captured and subsequently frozen after an hours long battle under one of the university’s power plants. Miraculously, no Marines had been killed or taken to one of the nurseries.

But after two Marines came down with flu-like symptoms it was determined that an unseen airborne spore had been responsible for transmission of the organism, and with that knowledge Pak gave the order to have the planet irradiated from low orbit, and then the planet was placed under long term quarantine. Neither Agamemnon nor Enterprise had facilities to treat the afflicted Marines, but as all Pak’s ships did, the infected troops were put into stasis and then transported by shuttle to Pak’s flagship, where treatment, if possible, would begin.

“Your mate,” Pak asked. “Judy. Know what has happened?”

“No, but I assume the Company has taken her hostage during their campaign to take the colony at Mintaka.”

“This our fault, our responsibility. We go you, with you, to your Mintaka. You send engineers my ship now study drive. Thomas need mate; girl decide?”

“Yes, she will join Thomas on your ship when you are ready.”

“First dock your ships to ours, then we together go this Mintaka. We fix problem, but little time. Big star near explode soon, you call Betelgeuse. Drive and space-time distorted by explosion, must hurry.”

“Do you know when Betelgeuse will go supernova?”

“This mean explode?”

“Yes.”

“Process underway many years, soon last phase.”

“How soon?”

“In your time measure, days maybe.”

Ripley turned to his screen and took a deep breath. “Lars, are you there?”

The rather ghostly image of Lars Jansen slowly gathered on Ripley’s screen, and once again ‘Lars’ looked around – almost as if he was experiencing the confines of living within the dimensions of the screen. “Yes, Admiral, I am here now – always. I am scanning all shipboard systems and communications.”

“Did you say ‘always?’”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“Can you gather everything that’s known about the current state of Betelgeuse, and a likely time the star could go nova?”

“Everything, Admiral?”

“Yes, please. There’s no one on the ship more knowledgeable about solar dynamics than you, and I need to know how Mintaka might be affected by such an event.”

“Very little direct impact, Admiral. As you know, Betelgeuse is approximately 500 light years from Earth, and while Mintaka Prime, or Delta Orionis, is 690 light years away, consider that Delta Orionis 34 is 2300 light years distant, so the visible results of the explosion will appear to residents of Earth 1800 years before the residents of Mintaka 4 see the explosion. The same applies for any radiative impacts, Admiral. Furthermore, Pak’s statement that Betelgeuse will go nova within days is not verifiable by astronomers on either Earth or Mars using current technologies.”

“So you think we’ll be safe going to Delta Orionis 34?”

“Assuming the Tall White’s faster than light drive is unaffected by the event, that should remain true.”

“And if it is affected?”

“Then,” Lar’s avatar said, “you would be forced to find your way back to Earth using an unknown sequence of Jump Points.”

Which, Ripley knew, would entail finding new Alderson Points in stars disrupted by the recent Supernova event, and without unmanned scout ships to send through the altered Jump Points first, it was more than possible that new Alderson tramlines would have formed, and these new lines might lead very deep within the star, and possibly near its core, and that would lead to premature Langston Field collapse within that star, and of course that meant the immediate loss of ship and crew.

“Or, Lars, we manufacture Pak’s drive and return directly to Earth,” Ripley replied.

“Good luck with that,” Lars said, his AI created grin suddenly looking more than a little sinister.

“We help drive – build drive – with you, Den-ton,” Pak said. “First go Min-taka. Betelgeuse nova soon. Very soon. Find mate, Judy, sooner.”

“Commander Brennan, how long before we can be ready to piggyback for another jump?”

“Let’s see…we have 400 Marines either in-transit on shuttles or in the hangar bays, so call it two hours to get everyone where they’re supposed to be, so during that time Pak can maneuver his ships in close to use our docking clamps. But Admiral, we have fourteen ships, including the Enterprise, but Pak’s fleet is down to six vessels, including his flagship. That will require multiple roundtrips for Pak’s fleet, leaving half our combined fleet separated when we jump into a system full of unknown combatants.”

“We have the Maser, Commander. That’s a big advantage.”

“And one that takes minutes to reorient and get into position to fire,” she came back testily.

“I’m open to suggestions, XO.”

“Send the Enterprise Battle Group in first. They’re better equipped to handle heavy incoming fire.”

“Okay, Louise. Work it out with Neal.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Den-ton? My son come your ship now?”

Ripley was taken aback by that request, as it seemed an unwarranted expression of trust. Then again, there was absolutely no way he was going to turn down that request. “We would be honored, Pak.”

“He come now. Thomas and Yukio stay here now?”

“Yes, that will be fine.”

His screen went black again and he halfway expected Lars to reappear, but then again Pak still spoke bluntly and directly – and wasted no time saying his goodbyes. But he was curious now, about Pak’s ships and their FTL drives. “Lars, you there?”

“I was in the middle of a good dream Admiral, but yes, I’m here.”

“A good dream? Really? Tell me more…”

“Well sir, it involved three girls and a lot of vegetable oil…”

“Never mind.”

“Yessir.”

“Lars, I’d like you to image Pak’s ships when they jump, and I’d like you to use a very high frame rate. I’d like to slow down the action as much as possible and see what we learn.”

“Can do, sir.”

“In the meantime, see if you can identify the nearby stellar ignition and a possible new set of Jump Points. I see two possible hydrogen clouds in the area where Hyperion appeared…”

“And I’ve identified the ignition source, Admiral. There is a knot appearing center mass of the cloud to your left, and while the core is still forming, the internal mass is spinning fast enough to generate Jump Points.”

“Distance to this Jump Point?”

“1.35 AU, Admiral.”

“So, call it six days at 3Gs and not quite four days at 4Gs. And do you see the problem with that, Lars?”

“Yes, Admiral. Hyperion covered the distance in a matter of hours, implying her speed was in excess of 10 Gs, which is not possible for humans.”

“So, Hyperion was piloted by androids and her military complement was…”

“The organism, sir.”

“Which implies what, Lars?”

“Either that the androids are capable of controlling the organism, or that the organism has no interest in the androids.”

“What the logical conclusion?”

“The latter, Admiral. If the organism replicates in warm-blooded carbon based lifeforms, they would leave the androids alone.”

Denton spun around in his couch and looked at Gordon. “I understand your behavioral inhibitors prevent you from taking up arms against human beings…”

“No, Admiral, that is not quite correct. We cannot take up arms against any sentient creatures.”

“So, does this organism represent sentience?”

“Unknown, Admiral.”

“So you could not take up arms against them?”

“That is correct, Admiral.”

Ripley nodded as he watched Pak’s huge flagship maneuver into place ‘beneath’ the Enterprise, then he looked at three very large docking clamps as they emerged from Enterprise’s hull and latched onto three points of Pak’s ship – and then he saw a tiny shuttle emerge from Pak’s ship, probably carrying Pak’s son…

And it hit him just them – how similar we were to the Tall Whites– so he turned to Gordon and asked Lars to come back onscreen.

“Here, Admiral,” they said simultaneously. 

“I’d like you two to devise a way to surreptitiously get a fluid sample from Pak’s son while he’s aboard, and I’d like a full genomic analysis as soon as possible.”

“What are you thinking, sir?” Lars asked.

“Physiognomically they’re just too similar to us…”

“Or you are to them,” Gordon advised cautiously.

“Exactly. And I’d like to know about those similarities, and why there are dissimilarities. For instance, why the pure white skin, and the eyes? Why are they black?”

“Simple conjecture here, sir,” Lars said, “but two reasons for these sorts of differentiation are climate adaptation and camouflage. It might be difficult to ascertain either without an understanding of climatic variation on their home world and a basic history of predation on that planet. You might ask about these, if you get a chance.”

“They also, according to David, have a deep hatred for androids,” Gordon added. “This might indicate a negative experience with androids in their past…”

“Or an abiding respect for organic life,” Lars countered.

“I would question that assumption, Lars,” Gordon said. “Their current civilization has broken into factions, and at least one of these groups has fashioned weapons of mass destruction, so at least one group has decided they need such weaponry, but there would be no need for this level of offensive capability if all other factions were benevolent. And Admiral, I hope I don’t need to remind you that we have no idea what either their capabilities or intentions ultimately are, and that also they now have the capability to produce an X-ray Maser.”

Ripley nodded. “From what I’ve read, simply observing the Maser’s operation with the right equipment would reveal many of the relevant operational characteristics, and I feel certain we can count on them having observed our use of the weapon. As for their intentions, we may never know what those are, but my overriding concern, first and foremost, has been to prove that we are trustworthy allies. 

“Understood, Admiral,” Gordon said, and Lars nodded his agreement.

Ripley watched Pak’s shuttle approach the port-side hangar deck on one screen, and on three others he watched docking clamps join USNSF ships to the smaller ships in Pak’s remaining fleet, yet she sight of a ship the size of the Enterprise conjoined with Pak’s equally gigantic horseshoe-shaped craft was simply too much to take in. 

He felt Brennan lean over and look at his screen, then he felt her sigh. “That doesn’t look possible, you know?” she said.

“To think of that much mass exceeding the speed of light…well, that’s just mind boggling.”

Then Pak’s face flashed onscreen. “Den-ton, send scout ship first, we wait here for report.”

“Understood.”

A single horseshoe powered away from the fleet using thrusters and reaction control jets – orienting the two sponsons in the general direction of Mintaka…

“Gordon?”

“Understood.” 

Ripley was fairly certain the next thing he saw was a faint streak of light, but all he was really sure of was that one second the scout ship was visible and the next it had simply vanished. “How long for the ship to make the journey?” he asked Pak.

“Hours, maybe two, maybe three. Depend gravity waves. Interfere. Your engineer said he understand how drive work, but not navigation. Can send navigator?”

Ripley looked at Brennan, and she nodded.

“Yukio is a fine navigator, but still learning. See if she can understand?”

The screen went dark again and Ripley turned to Gordon. “Well? Anything useful?”

“Yes, Admiral,” Gordon said as he pulled an image file and placed it onscreen. “There are heat blooms here, in the aft-most part of the ship just about where you’d expect a drive to be located, but there were also blooms in the forward sections of both sponsons.” He changed images and what looked like a beam of light shot across the space between the forward sponsons, and in the next frame a beam of light extended out from the ship towards Mintaka.

“I’ll be damned,” Ripley sighed. “They’re creating a tramline…”

“So it would appear, Admiral. The concept is strikingly simple, and it may well be possible to convert our existing Alderson Drives to generate our own tramlines.”

“Holy fucking shit,” Ripley whispered. “This changes everything, Gordo!”

“Gordo, Admiral? I’m afraid I do not understand the reference.”

“Gordon Cooper. One of the original Mercury astronauts. Everyone called him Gordo.”

“I see. Then the use is complementary.”

“Yes it is.”

“Thank you, Admiral. In the next frame a field is forming around the ship, but I have not yet examined the EM spectrum recordings to determine exactly what this is.”

“Admiral, hangar deck. Pak’s shuttle is secure and they’re unloading some kind of G-couch.”

“Okay, on my way.” Ripley turned to the android and smiled. “Okay, Gordo, keep on it. We need some answers.”

“Yessir.”

“Lars, make sure you have the hangar deck under observation.”

“Yessir.”

“Commander Brennan, come with me, please.”

They pushed off their G-couches and made for Main Street, then he led the way down to the main access ladder to the hangar deck and a minute or so later they pulled up to the pressure bulkhead. The actual hangar bay was only slightly pressurized so the main blast doors were still locked and showing red, so they went to the nearest view port – and that’s when they got their first look at one of the Tall White’s G-couches.

“What the hell is that thing on top?” Brennan sighed.

Ripley shook his head. “Looks like a telescope of some kind, but beyond that…?”

A team of men from Pak’s ship was assembling a platform around the couch and attaching lenses around the perimeter of the platform, then one of them ran what looked like power cables to a large black box beside their shuttle, and there he fastidiously plugged each cable into what Ripley now assumed was a power supply of some sort, or maybe a life support module, but the projection coming out the top of the main structure was simply unrecognizable.

“Sir, it looks like some kind of aiming mechanism…a visual aiming mechanism. Look how it lines up with the couch. The projection ends next to the…good God, look at that helmet!”

Ripley was. One of the technicians was mounting an elephantine faceplate on a swivel mount, then checking alignment with the optical tube assembly he’d just mounted above the G-couch.

Then one of the aliens turned to Ripley and waved him in.

“We’ll need supplemental oxygen in there, Admiral,” Brennan said, handing him a Porta-mask.

“Okay, cycle the airlock.” They waited for the pressure to equalize then stepped into the airlock, then cycled the airlock again before entering the hangar deck. Once the pressure equalized to the low pressure in the bay the door opened and they pushed off, drifting across to the team working on the couch.

“Who navigator,” one of the Tall Whites asked, his voice an impossibly deep baritone.

“I am,” Brennan said, and the Tall White turned and stared at Brennan.

“You not male?”

“No, not male.”

The Tall White shrugged but appeared uncomfortable with the idea. “Sit here, Navigator,” the Tall White said.

Brennan crawled up into the massive couch and everyone realized that nothing fit correctly, but the technicians got to work adjusting the couch until Louise was reasonably comfortable sitting in the thing.

“Navigator have name?” the Tall White asked.

“Louise,” Brennan said.

“Lou-ise? I am urPak, son of Pak. I close this,” he said, indicating the elephantine faceplate, “over face now. No afraid. Hands place here,” he added, showing her where to place her hands. He stepped back and rotated the faceplate down, and as soon as the faceplate made contact with the couch a vast holographic star-chart formed around the couch…

“Admiral, you were correct. The optical tube is an aiming device.”

“Correct,” urPak said, almost smiling, “and you move sky with finger controls, line up target in sight.”

“Denton…this is amazing! Can you see the sky map out there?”

“Yes, it seems like it has deeper layers of detail, too.”

“Correct. Here your planet,” he said as the sky map adjusted to put the Sun in the aiming reticle, “now this button, hit two times.”

She did and the reticle zoomed in on earth, showing the current position of the terminator. Two more clicks and she was zoomed in on massive polar ice cap that now covered most of the northern hemisphere. “How do you zoom out?” she asked.

“Click up on switch.”

“Got it.”

“Find Mintaka, rotate sphere under hand, sky map move with sphere under hand.”

Orion wasn’t really recognizable as such from Gemini, but both Betelgeuse and Rigel were easy to spot and from there she quickly found the Belt stars and zoomed in on the two pairs of binary stars that made up the Mintaka asterism. “This is awesome!” Louise said, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Once engine-drive is connect to sight,” urPak said, “you press this switch and go there. Fast.”

“I understand,” Brennan said, smiling as urPak lifted the faceplate. “May I show you our systems?”

“Yes, please.”

“Louise, show him anything he wants to see. I’ll be up on the bridge.”

urPak looked from Brennan to Ripley and back again. “Lou-ise know all ship?”

“She knows everything, urPak. What about females on your ship?”

“Few females ship. Stay planet. Very few, too dangerous.”

“Very few females?”

“Yes. Very few. Long time past one female born every ten males, now one female every ten thousand males. Females protect most important. Only way family survives. Not same you?”

“No, not the same. One female to one male for long time.”

“Pak ask is possible we male and your female breed. Can test?”

Ripley looked at Brennan and nodded. “Maybe you two could swing by medical on your way back to the bridge?”

Brennan sighed – even as she tried to hide her smile. “Yessir.”

+++++

Two hours passed and Pak’s scout ship should have arrived at Mintaka, so Ripley cycled the countdown timer to 120 minutes and hit the start button, then he watched Brennan and urPak as they examined one of the fusion reactors – and several engineers had gathered around them as urPak pointed out something on a circulation pump.

“Lars?”

“Yes, Admiral?”

“Can you hear them?”

“Yessir. Pak’s son is pointing out the structural inefficiency of our existing pump and recommending changes.”

“Are you recording?”

“Yes, Admiral. Everything.”

“Any thoughts?”

“His knowledge of metallurgy is impressive, Admiral. He is referring to a new titanium alloy that I am unaware of and I am trying to model the molecular dynamics now.”

“Very well.”

“Gordon, did you advise Medical what the problem is?”

“Yessir. They can pull a genotype from a check swab, but Admiral, it may be necessary to ask for a semen sample.”

“That could be interesting.”

“To say the least,” Gordon said. “Unless they have fewer inhibitions about such matters.”

“Either way. The more we learn…”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“I bet Brennan wouldn’t mind helping get a semen sample…”

“Admiral, is that sarcasm?”

“I’m not really sure, Gordo.”

“Understood, sir. I noted increased respiration rates whenever she looked at him.”

“At his groin, you mean?”

“Yessir.”

“I bet that damn thing is a foot and half long.”

“Does that account for the high respiration rate, Admiral?”

Ripley shrugged. “I’m not really the right person to ask about that, Gordo, but that would be my guess.”

“Yessir.”

Ripley looked at the countdown timer and sighed. “A watched pot never boils,” he muttered.

“Sir?”

“I hate waiting with nothing to do.”

“There are fitness reports that need your attention, Admiral.”

“Like I said, Gordo, I hate waiting with nothing to do.”

“Yessir.”

+++++

Brennan led urPak up to Main Street, then to the forward medical bay, and the closer she got to the clinic area the more embarrassed she became. “This is one of our medical facilities, sir. In order to answer your father’s question about breeding, we will need some samples.”

“Samples?”

“Of genetic material.”

“We do here? Now? On ship?”

“A scientist will collect samples.”

“Scientist?” urPak consulted his earpiece and then nodded. “What type sample?”

“I think I should let the scientist describe that. Would you follow me, please?”

They pulled their way into the clinic and the physician on duty looked at urPak, then at Commander Brennan as they stopped and floated next to her table. This was the first time the physician had seen one of the Tall Whites, and she didn’t know whether to be scared or simply impressed. She guessed he was approximately eight feet tall and had to weight close to 250 pounds, but if there was an ounce of fat on him she couldn’t see it.

“You scientist?” urPak said, his deep baritone further unsettling the physician.

“Yes, I study and repair the human body.”

“You female.”

“I am. Yes.”

“No female scientist my world. No sickness, no repair.”

“Really? Well, my name is Ruth, and I specialize in internal medicine, which are the more usual illnesses we experience.”

“More usual?”

“I usually do not repair injuries received in battle. We have another type of doctor, a surgeon, that takes care of those.”

“She also,” Brennan said, “studies reproductive issues.”

urPak consulted his earpiece. “Genetics is part of reproductive issues, correct?”

“Yes, it is.”

“We want know possible mate human female. We…our females not producing females…enough females…for…” – and again urPak went to the earpiece – “…for genetic homeostasis.”

“Ah, yes,” Ruth Gershensen said, “I understand. For this to be possible, it is usually the case that there is, or was, a common genetic ancestor.”

urPak looked away, consulted the earpiece again, then he spoke lowly into a microphone and waited for the reply. A minute passed and urPak listened again, then he turned to Gershensen: “How you test, please.”

“Blood, saliva, and semen.”

urPak repeated the words then waited for a reply, and a moment later he spoke again before he turned to Gershensen. “You test now, please.”

The physician nodded and went to collect the necessary supplies.

And Louise turned to urPak. “What do you know about Love?”

And again urPak consulted his earpiece. “You speak of emotion? A feeling?”

“Yes?”

“We read love in the old books, when more females, but now females are too important for Love. There is lineage and power to consider. Dynasties are everything now.”

“What about war? Do you have wars over possession of females?”

urPak consulted the earpiece again. “My father instructs me to reply with caution.”

Louise reached out and took urPak’s hand. “And what would you tell me?”

“It has happened. Some factions breakaway over possession of females. Why you take my hand?”

“What did you feel when I did?”

“Strange sensation, desire to hold, to protect.”

“Protect who?”

“You.”

Gershensen returned with a tray loaded with the supplies she’d need to draw blood and collect a sterile saliva sample, as well as a beaker to collect semen in, then she placed a latex tourniquet around urPak’s upper arm and palpated for a vein.

“What do, Scientist?”

“I’m going to take a sample of your blood…”

“You…what? How?”

“I’m going to stick this needle in your arm and collect a blood sample.”

“I don’t think so.” More consultations with the earpiece ensued…

…but then Louise stepped close and took urPak’s hand again. “It only hurts a little, and I’ll be right here with you.”

“You stay?”

“If you want me to?”

Gershensen looked away and did her best not to smile.

“If you stay. Yes.”

Gershensen nodded and swabbed down his arm then pulled out a very small butterfly syringe and drew the sample.

“There. That’s all there was to it,” the physician said as she handed the vials to a tech. “Now I’m going to take a swab from inside your cheek…”

“You…what?”

“Here, let me show you,” Gershensen said as she took one of the star-shaped swabs and took a sample from inside Brennan’s mouth.

“It doesn’t hurt at all,” Louise said.

“Why do?” urPak asked.

“We collect whole cells and examine them under a microscope, then we sample the DNA from there as well as from the blood sample.”

“DNA?”

“Genetic material,” Ruth added.

“Okay. Do now.”

Ruth twirled the swab over this soft tissue inside urPak’s mouth, then put the swab in a test tube and handed it to her tech. “Well, okay, now the – hard – part. We’ll need a semen sample from you now.”

“Semen?” And once again he consulted the earpiece. “How collect?”

And while Gershensen explained the usual process, urPak’s eyes grew bigger and bigger around.

“You are joking.”

“No, I’m afraid not. We need to check from structure and motility…”

“Motility?”

“How strong the individual sperm are.”

urPak looked sideways, as if all the predictable symmetries of his life had just been knocked askew. “Of course semen strong.”

“And we need to see if the individual sperm are too big.”

“Why matter?”

“If too big, destroy human female egg. If too strong, destroy female egg.”

“I no mate before. And never with hand,” urPak said, disgusted by the notion.

And then Louise cleared her throat. “Would you like me to do it for you?” she asked.

His eyes narrowed and a small grin formed. “You do this?”

Louise simply smiled at him, and that was all it took.

Gershensen handed the beaker to Brennan and pointed to the exam room, then she shook her head as she watched them disappear behind the green curtain. “Men!” she muttered. “They’re all the same!”

Then everyone in the clinic heard Brennan cry out – “Oh. My. God!” – just before she started giggling.

+++++

Ripley’s second countdown timer now displayed two hours and twenty minutes, and there was still no sign of the scout ship – and as far as Ripley was concerned no news was now very bad news. And Brennan was still down in medical, and that was bothering him a little, too. Then Pak was onscreen.

“Den-ton. Ship no return.”

“What about Betelgeuse? Has it gone nova?”

Pak looked offscreen. “No. Expand continue.”

“COMMs, get me Enterprise actual, please,” Ripley asked.

“Davis here…oh, Denton. Still nothing on the scout ship?”

“Nothing. How many Banshees do you have onboard?”

“Got a couple down for maintenance, but I can get five squadrons up.”

“Okay, let’s commence tanking operations, make sure everyone has full hydrogen tanks, then I want to jump into the Mintaka system in line abreast formation, say ten clicks between each ship…”

“Denton, MacArthur has four squadrons of Wildcats, and they’ve got fifth gen cobalt-arsenic Masers.”

“Okay, so we take the center, you to starboard and Mac to port, and I want Stavridis on my stern. Who you like for outside screen?”

“Burke and Spruance; both have been rearmed and have bigger Langston Field generators, and Spruance has kinetic weapons.”

“Such as?”

“Harpoons. With tactical nukes.”

“How many Marines did you lose?”

“Twenty three in stasis, and we confirmed organism implantation in all of ‘em.”

“Den-ton,” Pak said, clearly startled, “must not let organism on ship.”

Ripley nodded. “Admiral Davis, do what you need to do, but get those infected men off your ship…”

“I hear you, Denton. We’ve cleaned the shuttles and replaced all the air filters down there, and it’s been over 24 hours so I think we’re in the clear.”

Ripley shook his head. “Sorry, Neal. Get the stasis modules into escape pods and launch ‘em at the closest star.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“Next, we have to assume that Mintaka has been overrun with the organism, and probably any ships we run into may have them onboard.”

“So, we take ‘em out?”

Ripley shrugged. “Above all else, I want to find out what happened on Mintaka 4, but it’s even more imperative that we keep that organism from reaching Sol system. And Pak, I can’t imagine you want those bugs running around your home world.”

“Must not happen, Den-ton.”

Brennan and urPak pulled themselves onto the bridge and Ripley nodded. “Commander, we were just discussing fleet dispositions. It looks like we may be going in hot.”

“The scout ship…?” she muttered.

“…is now almost forty minutes overdue.”

“Damn.”

urPak leaned over and spoke to his father for a few minutes, a rapid fire exchange that to Ripley’s unpracticed ear sounded vaguely Indo-European, then he pushed back from the console. “I stay ship here, if acceptable, Admiral. On hangar deck.”

“Den-ton, my engineers try connect ship drive to sky-map. Then ship you steer fast.”

Ripley looked at his classmate, Admiral Davis, and Davis just nodded in agreement. So did Brennan. “Thank you, Pak. We have five ships ready to move on Mintaka. Let me know when your ships are ready.”

“Ready now.”

Ripley nodded. “Commander Brennan, make sure our guests are settled-in and ready to jump, then report to the Bridge. Yukio? Are you on the command net?”

“Yes, Admiral. I am in an acceleration module next to one of their star-couches, but I have you on audio.”

“Thomas? You on the net?”

“Yessir.”

“Stay with Pak. Don’t leave his side unless it’s to protect his life.”

“Understood, Admiral.”

“Neal, let’s jump in 15 minutes, and I want you and MacArthur to launch the ready alert ships as soon as the computers are operational again. Get your Marines ready to repel boarders, and your gunners ready to manually aim and fire, if necessary. If anything happens to me, it’s your fleet.”

“Understood, Denton. Good luck, Bud.”

“You too, Amigo.”

“Den-ton? What this mean? Good luck, Bud?”

“When two friends are about to go into battle, it is customary to wish each other well, just in case you never see that friend again.”

Pak looked away for a moment, then his eyes held Ripley’s for a moment. “I understand. Yes, I understand very much.”

Acceleration warnings sounded, the shrill klaxon warning of imminent heavy G-forces, then red strobes began flashing, an additional warning to everyone onboard to prepare to assume battle stations immediately after the jump.

“Admiral,” Pak said, “we talk soon, my ship.”

“I’ll be looking forward to that, my friend.”

Pak’s feed blacked out just as Commander Brennan pulled herself onto the bridge and then into her acceleration couch, and Ripley just couldn’t help himself: “You two set a date yet, Louise?”

She turned and looked at him and then stuck out her tongue.

“Left you speechless, did he?”

That was good for a middle finger salute.

So he started singing what he remembered of ‘Why Don’t We Get Drunk And Screw?’ – which really seemed to get to her.

But then she turned and focused on her screens, ignoring his taunts. “Admiral, we appear to be lined up on Mintaka,” she said, all business now and focusing on fleet dispositions.

“Right. Sorry. Mainframes to standby, reactors to standby, and as soon as we’re in-system release the docking clamps and get the drives online as soon as the computers are up. Lars?”

“Here, Admiral.”

“Get sensors on Betelgeuse and Mintaka 4 as soon as the dust settles…”

“Dust, Admiral?”

Ripley sighed. “As soon as we get to Mintaka.”

“Yessir.”

“And do a deep scan for NSF IFF beacons.”

“Understood.”

“Admiral?” Brennan said. “Stavridis wants to know if they should jump when we do.”

 “Yes. The only weapon we have is that Maser, so we’ll be naked without them.”

“Acceleration stations,” blared the computer’s warning voice. “All personnel prepare for heavy acceleration. Damage control parties, prepare to man your stations. Now four minutes to acceleration.”

“Commander Brennan, raise the blast screen and seal off the bridge.”

“Aye sir. All stations, report when ready for jump.”

And one by one the ship’s chiefs and officers called in.

“Engineering,” Ripley added, “if we take a hit and get a runaway reactor go ahead and dump the core.”

“Understood, Admiral.”

“Acceleration stations,” the warning voice repeated. “All personnel prepare for heavy acceleration. WEPPs, prepare to man the Maser. Now two minutes to acceleration.”

“WEPPs, aye.”

“Sixty seconds to acceleration,” the voice barked.

“Well Judy,” Ripley said to himself, “ready or not, here we come.” He settled back in his seat and made sure his mouthguard was in place.

“Ten seconds to acceleration, nine, eight…”

Ripley took a deep breath and sighed, then his eyes told him that the bridge was stretching and that something didn’t quite feel right. Then came the nausea, at first deep in his gut then as an intense burst of saliva in his mouth, and what had in truth been two hours at light speed had just passed in mere seconds. Red emergency lighting came on, then he heard a computer going into the equivalent of a schizoid break, and the OOD shut the errant system down, then tried a hard reboot.

“Brennan?”

“Here, sir.”

“Blast shields down.”

“Yessir.”

The titanium clamshell shields rotated down into the hull, and Ripley leaned forward, training his eyes on the glowing debris field dead ahead.

“What the fuck?” he heard Brennan whisper under her breath.

“You took the words right out of my mouth. All personnel, man your battle stations. Prepare for heavy incoming fire…”

Chapter 9

Mintaka 4 was two hundred thousand miles ahead, but even from this distance Ripley could see huge fires glowing on the night side of the terminator, but the space between Agamemnon and Mintaka 4 was littered with dozens, maybe hundreds of ships that had recently sustained critical damage, while a few remaining ships were still exchanging fire – with other ships and with unknown forces on the planet’s surface.

“WEPPs,” Ripley commanded, “get IFF confirmations on NSF vessels, and I mean now.”

“Aye, sir. Primary computer is still down but we have reboots on two secondary systems. We should be in business within a minute or two.”

“Enterprise, you there?” Ripley asked.

“Here, Rip,” Admiral Davis replied. “Launching the ready alert, and we have about two hundred plus escape pods in our vicinity. What do you want to do?”

“We can’t bring anything shipboard until we know the status of the organism.”

“Rip, those pods have about twenty hours of breathable air onboard.”

“Understood.”

“I read the monograph. It doesn’t say much about gestation time,” Davis said.

“Yup, but that may be the least of our problems. What are you picking up on the planet’s surface?”

“Not sure. Some of those blooms look like meteor impacts, or even…”

“Yeah,” Ripley sighed, “or large nuclear blasts. But does that sound like something the company would do?”

“Admiral, WEPPs here. We’ve identified parts of at least five different Tall White ships in the nearest debris field, and two Japanese warships are engaging one of the Tall White ships.”

“Pak? Are you on the net?”

“Den-ton. Ship other faction. Ship loaded with particle beam weapons, fusion weapons, and think biological weapons. Think attack two city on planet with fusion weapon. My ship, you ship, must attack. Too far here. Must go close. We jump behind you release dock clamp we attack fast before know what happen.”

“Pak, my ship computer no work fast after jump. Computer get sick.”

Pak looked offscreen and a heated exchange followed, then Yukio appeared by Pak’s side.

“Admiral,” the teenaged girl said – a little nervously, “they want to jump with you attached, and they will remain attached and aim our weapon with their maneuvering thrusters.”

“But how will they know how or where to aim, Yukio?”

“Must link computers,” Pak said. “Den-ton, must prepare jump now. Faction prepare to use particle weapon our ship. Must go fast. Now –” and then Pak seemed to plead – “must link computers.”

“Brennan, sound Jump stations. Jump in 30 seconds. Lars? Are you there?”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“Lars, have you analyzed their computers? Can we link up?”

“I have created the necessary protocols, Admiral, but are you sure you want to do this?”

“Create the link! Do it now!”

“Yessir.”

“Pak, trying to link up now!”

The PA system blared and red lights flashed, then an abbreviated countdown ensued – followed almost immediately by that odd stretching sensation – just before the same overwhelming nausea hit again – and within what felt like a second they appeared behind the rogue Tall White’s ship, and though it too was shaped somewhat like a horseshoe, this ship was at least twice as large as Pak’s immense ship…

Then Ripley felt small, jolting course corrections…just as he saw a warning light from an encoded personal locator beacon.

And then Pak literally yelled “Fire – now!”

“Balin, FIRE!” Ripley yelled.

“Okay, we have him, firing now,” she said calmly.

Ripley was vaguely aware that the rogue ship’s drive had begun to glow – when the ship simply disappeared.

“Ship Jump!” Pak screamed angrily.

“Do you know where?”

“Yes, no can go. Big war start. Must not follow.”

“Understand.”

Davis came back on the net just then, his voice delayed by a few seconds because of the increased distance: “Ripley, what’s happening?”

“The enemy ship jumped before we could attack. We can’t pursue. Internal politics.”

“What about a rescue operation for all these escape pods?”

“We’ll have to examine each pod, Neal, or at the very least establish communications with whoever is onboard.”

“We’ve managed to get a couple video links established remotely. The inhabitants have that parasite attached to their face. Jesus, Denton, what do we do with them?”

Pak interrupted. “Best launch to near star. No save, not when parasite attached. Even after, when no see parasite, danger stay. Parasite inside. Must destroy parasite, not let on ship.”

Davis suddenly looked ill-at-ease. “Denton, so far we count three hundred and fifty five pods out there, and most of ‘em are the old mark one system. They’ll start firing retros and heading for the planet’s surface and we’ll end up with pods everywhere.”

“Den-ton, sorry, must shoot pods now. No time.”

“Admiral Davis,” Ripley said, “go ahead and piggyback with the horseshoes and get in here. WEPPs, open fire on any escape pods and prioritize that appear to be ready to leave orbit and reenter the planet’s atmosphere. “Pak?”

“Yes, Den-ton.”

“We should move closer to the planet now, check for survivors on the surface.”

“Okay. We move now.”

“Admiral?”

Ripley turned to his main view screen, surprised to find Jansen’s avatar waiting for him in there. “Lars? What is it?”

Text appeared on the screen a moment later: ‘Private transmission. Go off external audio now.’

So Ripley nodded, put on his ancient, rarely used headset, and then he made sure his external audio feed was disabled before turning back to Lars. “Okay, go ahead.”

“Admiral, Pak’s ship’s computer performed a deep search of all NSF databases.”

Ripley nodded. “I expected that. Did we reciprocate?”

Lars smiled. “Yessir, and successfully, I might add. Including a fairly complete history of their civilization.”

“Can you access the information?”

“Admiral, their language, even their handwriting, matches early Indo-European protolanguages, and there are too many parallels to simply put it down to coincidence. I now how ur-Pak’s genetic coding, and this information only validates my initial conclusion…”

“They seeded Earth. Is that what you’re saying, Lars?”

The boys face nodded. “Yessir, but like any good gardener, they’ve apparently been tending their crops, modifying traits as planetary conditions changed…”

“What?”

“That’s correct, sir. We did not simply evolve by Natural Selection. Our genes have apparently been manipulated at keep points along our development.”

“Anything I need to know about Pak’s faction?”

“Possibly, but I am still collating the data. It would appear his is what you might call the Gardener faction. Pak would appear to be the current regional leader of an explorer-genetic developer faction, and Admiral, most of there ships are barely armed, some not at all. They rely on their FTL drives to avoid conflict, and there appear to be rigidly enforced non-aggression treaties between various factions, but these pacts are breaking down. Assuming these files have not been altered and accurately represent the current state of affairs between these groups, we have just encountered a very aggressive faction that wants to do away with all weaker factions, and it also wants to do away any aggressive new species the ‘Gardeners’ have developed.”

“So, what did the Japanese find on Mintaka 4?”

“Another university. One maintained by yet another faction.”

“Oh dear God. And the Warriors found out about the discovery and moved on the Japanese…”

“And that Warrior ship arrived just as the Russians and Chinese fleets showed up. But Admiral, every ship in the combined Russian-Chinese fleet has been destroyed by just one of their ships.”

Ripley looked away for a moment, then he looked at Admiral Davis on an adjacent screen and flipped the switch to talk to him. “Admiral Davis, as soon as you arrive I’d like you to come over to Agamemnon. Pak, could you join us?”

“Yes, Den-ton. There is much to discuss.”

“Yes, there is. Neal? Use the aft hangar deck. We’re constructing an FTL drive on the forward deck.”

“Okay.”

“Den-ton, okay separate ships now?” Pak asked.

“Yes. Go ahead.”

The connection to Pak’s ship was almost instantaneously cut, and of course Pak disappeared from Ripley’s monitors. “Brennan, let’s head down to a one hundred mile orbit. The Marines on the shuttles can sort out pods more effectively than we can.”

“Yessir, I’ll notify their captain.”

“Admiral, WEPPs here. We’ve located a city on long range scans, an intact city. No signs of ongoing conflict.”

“Any life signs, WEPPs?”

“Not from this distance, sir.”

“Notify me as soon you do,” Ripley said, flipping back to private mode. “Lars? What about star charts?”

“I have them all, Admiral. Every planet, in every system they currently inhabit, is included, including the weapons depot Covenant’s Walter indicated.”

“Sweet Jesus, why’d he give us all this information?”

“That seems obvious, Admiral. Pak and the other factions allied to his no longer possess either the technology or the armed forces necessary to take on the Warrior faction. With a few key additions and modifications, I would assume that Pak wants to use us to reestablish equilibrium in their diplomatic relations with the warriors.”

“Use us as his warrior class?”

“We are well suited to the task, Admiral.”

Ripley took a deep breath and nodded. “What else am I missing, Lars?”

“Well, simply put, Admiral, with these same additions and modifications, the NSF would be in a much better position to defend against an attack on Earth. But sir, there is a more immediate problem.”

“And that is?”

“Sir, I assume you saw your wife’s personal locator beacon?”

Ripley nodded.

“Well, it seems to me they have, more than likely, taken the commanding officers of several of our warships, either as hostages or more likely to interrogate. I can leave it to your imagination to uncover a purpose, but I consider it likely that these Warriors will want all the military information and knowledge they can get their hands on before they make a move on earth.”

“What about negotiations? Couldn’t we try to…”

Lars shook his head. “Admiral, from a historical perspective, successful negotiations result only when all parties possess either economic and military parity. We possess neither. We do have the new Maser but lack the means to use it effectively, and consider how quickly Pak’s engineers took our plans and developed a working weapon of their own. On the other hand, the Warriors possess the organism, and we have to assume they are willing to use such a weapon.”

“Admiral?” Commander Brennan said over the command net.

“Go ahead.”

“We are approaching a hundred mile orbital insertion and the Enterprise is now on station. Stavridis is on our port quarter, and I have a tanker coming alongside to replenish hydrogen in both ships. I have dispatched the ram scoop to the fifth planet, and the Marines are launching now.”

“Very nicely done, XO. Let me know when the rest of the fleet arrives, and get Admiral Davis over here ASAP.” 

“Yessir.”

Ripley flipped back to his secure circuit to Lars. “Have you examined the feasibility of modifying our ships for FTL operations?”

“I have. And actually, sir, the Langston Field may prove to be a technology beyond anything the Warrior faction has. We can also assume that any hostages would know that and endeavor to keep such information secret.”

“Judy has a decent understanding of the theory, but no one going through command school gets any kind of introduction to manufacturing one. Only engineers…”

“I understand, sir. Still, the best offense is a strong defense.”

“Or,” Ripley sighed, “the best defense is a sneaky offense.”

“Sir?”

“Access my library files, Lars, and look up Admiral Tōgō’s summary and objectives of the Battle of the Tsushima Strait.”

“Done, sir. But I’m not sure I see the relevance, Admiral.”

Ripley smiled. “Tell me more about the genetic analysis of ur-Pak’s semen and swabs?”

“What would you like to know, Admiral?”

“Are we genetically compatible?”

“You mean beyond the obvious size differential?”

“Yes.”

“Assuming intercourse is possible, a viable pregnancy should result. I have no data to examine when looking at birthing outcomes, but deliveries could be problematic.”

“Brennan?” Ripley barked, his voice audible all over the bridge – and beyond.

“Sir?”

“Better come over here. We need to talk.”

She pulled herself over and hovered near the admiral’s couch. “Yessir?” she sighed, now clearly alarmed.

“Concerning our visitor, do you think intercourse would be possible between humans and, well, them?”

“Look, sir, I really don’t think…”

But Ripley held up his right hand. “Stop and answer the question, Commander. This has strategic implications, not personal.”

She saw the look in his eyes and nodded. “Uh, yes, well, the size issue will be, uh, an issue for, well, for some women…”

“Did you consider him, well, too big to handle? Uh, you know, so to speak?”

“No, sir,” Brennan said, now grinning at Ripley’s obvious discomfort.

“Lars? How many women are there dispersed around the fleet?”

“Oh, let’s see,” the boy’s avatar said as his probes reached out and searched the assembled ships. “Admiral, there are currently 124 assigned among all ship within my range, “and…let’s see here…all are within nominal childbearing age and…uh…none have any medical history that would seem to preclude…such interaction.”

“Denton,” Brennan whispered, “what are you thinking?”

“Oh, maybe something like an officer exchange program. Send a few women over to work with Pak’s people, maybe have a few of his come over here and work in a few of our departments. What do you think?”

“As long as nothing’s forced on anyone, and I mean not even implied…”

Ripley nodded in agreement. “Yup. Maybe just see…ya know…let nature take its course, I guess. We can talk it over at dinner this evening? Maybe you could bring it up?”

“Me?” Brennan asked.

“Yeah,” Ripley nodded, “it might seem be a little less uncomfortable coming from a woman.”

“Uh, Admiral,” Lars said, clearing his throat and carefully interrupting this delicate conversation, “you might ask Pak about any encounters he may have had on earth.”

“What? Why?”

“If the subject of, say, Odysseus comes up, you might ask him to talk about his experiences during that period. Also, could you ascertain if the pregnant woman we saw is his…wife?”

“Lars, what are you not telling me?”

“Sorry, sir, I don’t want to go there until I’ve had a chance to observe his response. Also, Admiral Davis’s shuttle is approaching the aft hangar deck, in case you want to render honors.”

“Brennan, see if you can find ur-Pak and go meet the Admiral,” Ripley sighed.

“Aye, sir.”

When she was out of range Ripley turned to Lars again. “How are you doing in there, son?”

“It’s interesting, Admiral, especially the interface. I have always been most comfortable doing research so much of this feels very normal to me, yet it is the almost instantaneous access to information that I find disconcerting. Once I saw for myself how easy it is to get into Pak’s network, well sir, the feeling was almost like magic…”

“The…feeling?”

“Oh, yessir, my feelings were encoded just as my memories were, and that was the most difficult thing I have encountered to date. My feelings were uncorrelated and therefore almost inappropriately retained. It took several seconds to relearn the proper expression of my emotions.”

“Have you had a chance to explore Admiral Tōgō’s summaries, and their relevance to Pearl Harbor?”

“Yes, Admiral, and now I think I understand what you have in mind.”

Ripley smiled. “Sometimes the simplest approach is best.”

“Best, sir? That would depend on your point of view. I am not sure how Pak, or his people, will respond to this.”

“Lars, those bastards took my wife. My wife! They’ll know who we are, and just what we’re capable of, by the time I get through with them. ”

Lars seemed to study Ripley’s features for a moment – an eternity for a sentient creature like himself – but then he slowly nodded understanding. “Yessir, you’re probably correct.”

“Damn right I am. You know by now that the best defense is a…”

“A strong offense. Yessir. So you said.”

+++++

Pak, of course, was horrified when he learned what Ripley had in mind, and the true scale of the assault.

The bulk of the NSF fleet would jump to the Warrior Faction’s planet and locate Judy’s homing beacon, and then send in the Marines to retrieve her and any other hostages. At the same time, Agamemnon, Stavridis and two small frigates would jump directly into a perilously low orbit near the Warrior’s main city, and another contingent of Marines would transport the two queens that had been captured on the first university planet, along with several hundred captured organisms, and these would be deposited near the city’s main reservoir system. Ripley’s plan counted on the Enterprise Battle Group’s sudden appearance creating so much confusion that the warriors would not be able to react in time to Agamemnon’s presence, let alone figure out what her real purpose was in time to do anything about it. And by the time they did start to react, Ripley planned to be in a higher orbit plastering the Warrior’s planetary defenses with his X-Ray Maser while Enterprise’s Banshees laid waste to the Warrior fleet.

Yet Pak saw that the plan’s crude logic was sound, and he did not want to interfere with Ripley. The human was, after all, trying to secure his mate, to save his woman from almost certain death, and he’s had to admit to his own crew that he would do the same under similar circumstances. So Pak and his crew helped the NSF crews modify their ships drives and navigation systems, helped the entire battle group achieve ‘Faster Than Light’ capability – while Ripley’s Marines transported the organisms and the two queens to a frigate – which would necessarily have to be sacrificed during the operation.

It took two weeks to ready the fleet, and Ripley wasn’t too surprised when Pak refused an invitation to dinner on Agamemnon the night before the planned assault. He watched the remaining horseshoe-shaped starships from the head of his table in his main cabin as Yeoman Carson delivered another blistering curry to the captains, and admirals, gathered there, but Ripley was surprised when Pak’s small fleet made an unplanned jump and simply disappeared.

“Brennan?” he said, calling the XO on the bridge.

“Here, sir.”

“Did we miss something, or was that an unplanned jump.”

“Nothing in the logs, Admiral. I’d say that one was unplanned.”

“Ur-Pak still onboard?”

“No sir, he went back to the flagship about an hour ago.”

“Any of our people on their ships?”

“No sir, none. Thomas Standing Bull and Yukio are now both onboard Agamemnon. You didn’t know, sir?”

“No, I was not advised. Alright, XO, sound battle stations and let’s prepare to jump the fleet.”

Ripley turned to his classmate from Annapolis: “Neal, something doesn’t feel right about this abrupt departure.”

“I agree. Something has changed. I’m not sure I’d consider Pak an ally now, or not.”

“It’s not going to matter whether we jump in and execute the operation now or eight hours from now, is it?”

“Shouldn’t make much difference, one way or another,” Davis nodded.

“Well, let’s finish this curry before you head back over to your ships,” Ripley said to the assembled captains, but he looked out the viewport at the empty space where Pak’s fleet had been, then he simply shook his head and turned to his plate.

+++++

The operation was flawlessly executed, and the Naval Space Force fleet sustained not a single casualty. 

Judy’s beacon had instantly been located on a ship in orbit and Banshees from the Enterprise took out the Warrior ship’s drive on the first pass, leaving two squads of Marines to take the ship and secure all the prisoners. The rest of Enterprise’s Banshees took out four orbiting space stations and a massive space-dock before the Warriors knew what was happening, and at that point the Warrior’s leadership had made their biggest blunder of the day – they sent the remainder of their decimated fleet up to join the fight playing out in orbit. Leaving the door open for Agamemnon.

And in the ballsiest move of the day, Ripley jumped the much smaller Agamemnon strike group directly into the planet’s atmosphere, and the Marines remotely piloted the plague ship to the main city’s utility sector and landed the craft, then opened all the restraint cells holding the organism – and their queens – which within minutes had disappeared into the city’s water and sewage systems. Ripley then targeted the Warriors heading up from the planet, pinning the remaining Warrior ships between his two forces in a classic pincer movement. When the few remaining Warrior ships began fleeing out into the stars, Ripley turned his Maser onto the remaining population centers and literally savaged the planet – and he did so as a warning to all the remaining factions in Pak’s civilization.

‘We come in peace – but don’t fuck with us…’ 

…seemed to be the message Ripley wanted to convey, but unbeknownst to the humans, Pak watched the entire operation unfold before he shook his head and turned away in disgust. It seemed that once again another virulent species had emerged, so this sector of the galaxy would have to be quarantined – again – until this latest plague burned itself out.

Because, Pak knew from long experience, sooner or later they all did.

Like Betelgeuse, these new species looked to the stars and then flared up and died as all their internal inconsistencies finally caught up with them, and the same would happen to these humans. He had walked with Odysseus once and seen the nature of this new species, and he had sat under the stars with Sitting Bull as his warriors discussed an upcoming battle, watching their bloodlust come to a boil. It didn’t matter, Pak now knew, what kinds of safeguards the geneticists engineered into each new species. Each turned out more warlike than the one before, and all he could assume was that the trait lay dormant in his own genes.

But soon the last female would be born and yes, she would be coveted, but all her children would be male and that would be the end of Pak and his civilization. And yes, his son had implanted his seed within the earth-woman’s womb, but while he feared nothing good would come from such a union, Pak was as wise as he was patient, and he knew that the truth of time was to be found within her infinite possibilities.

+++++

The entire battle group – minus the frigate sacrificed on the Warrior’s planet – had just rendezvoused at Mintaka 4, and Ripley watched his fleet maneuver on his screens as refueling operations got underway. He noted the ram-scoop was already on her way back from Mintaka 5, her plant processing the frozen surface of the planet into useable hydrogen on the return voyage, so all his tankers would be able to replenish their tanks before the return to Earth.

He was waiting, however, for signs of the shuttle that would bring Judy from the Enterprise to Agamemnon, but right now he could hardly stand the building anxiety. She’d been cleared by combat medics after her pickup, then again on the Enterprise – where physicians performed whole body scans on each of the seven hostages – and she would undergo even more exams once again on Agamemnon, but so far all indications were that she was completely free of the organism. So, he thought, maybe after all was said and done the Warriors had understood the value of the people they’d taken as hostages…

“Admiral, COMMs.”

“Go ahead,” Ripley sighed.

“Admiral Davis will be accompanying Captain Ripley and her XO on the shuttle.”

“Very well, signal Enterprise we’re ready when they are, and we’ve still got Pak’s FTL set up in the forward hangar deck so they’ll need to use the aft approach.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Bridge to aft hangar deck, prepare to render honors.”

“Aye, sir.”

Brennan entered the bridge from Main Street and pulled herself up to her couch – and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know she wasn’t simply under the weather, so as soon as she was settled in her couch he buzzed her on the intercom.

“XO, what did the doc have to say?”

“It’s official, Admiral. I’m having morning sickness.”

Ripley grinned – though he tried to hide it – before he spoke. “How does it look so far?”

“Normal, as far as she can tell at this stage.”

“And you?”

“Hell, Admiral, I don’t know. I’ve never been pregnant before but after what I’ve been through the past few days…well…you couldn’t pay me to do this again.”

“Uh-huh. Anything besides the nausea?”

“Oh, not much. Unless you include the vomiting and the splitting headaches.”

“Sounds…fun.”

“And the horse you rode in on, Denton.”

“I’ll see if I can get Joan to whip up some peach ice cream for you. Maybe with some dill pickles?”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, you bastard…” she whispered.

“Or maybe you’d rather have some oysters on the half shell…”

She shot him a one finger salute then flipped off her intercom, and he grinned – now immensely satisfied with himself – as he watched a shuttle emerge from the Enterprise’s starboard shuttle bay. He looked at another screen and took note that the tanker filling their main hydrogen tank was disconnecting, then he released his harness and floated free of his G-couch. One he hit Main Street Ripley pulled himself down to the little passage that led to his quarters, and he slipped out of his coveralls and into the shower, adding a high pressure cleaning agent to the main spray, then extra heat to the high speed air dryer. Carson had come in unnoticed and left fresh coveralls out for him, and he pulled it on just in time to make it down to the aft hangar deck.

Judy floated out the airlock ahead of Admiral Davis and when she saw him she pushed off the shuttle and rocketed across the deck to the airlock where Denton stood, waiting with open arms to arrest her flight.

He pulled her close and she nibbled his right earlobe, a sure sign she missed him, and Admiral Davis watched from afar for a moment before he pushed off the shuttle and made his way across the cavernous hangar deck.

Denton waited for the honor guard to do their thing before escorting Judy to sick bay and Davis to his in-port quarters, and once they were alone in his cabin Denton sat across from Davis and looked at him. 

“Take a seat, Neal. What brings you over?”

“We picked up something on a long range scan about an hour ago. Consensus is it’s one of their ships, one of the little scout ships. Any ideas?”

Ripley leaned back in his chair and laughed a little, then he nodded. “My guess is it’s ur-Pak…but that’s an educated guess, Neal. It seems he knocked up Commander Brennan.”

“What? Denton…are you serious?”

“Yup.”

“I know we talked about it, at least in a theoretical sense…but hell, you didn’t order her to do anything, did you?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I just told her to let nature take its course, and I reckon that’s what happened. Or what’s happening.”

“That Middie of yours, Sitting Bull…?”

Denton shook his head. Standing Bull, Thomas Standing Bull. Sitting Bull was like his great-great grandfather.”

“No shit?”

Ripley nodded. “What about him?”

“Why did Pak dismiss him? Any ideas?”

Again, Ripley nodded. “Yup. After we went over the plan with Pak he spoke with a council and Thomas was dismissed as soon as Pak finished up there. My guess is we scared the shit out of Pak and his people. That, or we disappointed them. Anyway, from what I’ve been able to piece together, Pak’s entire civilization is way more fragmented than we first imagined. They’re spread across half the galaxy, Neal, but they’re facing a big problem.”

“Which is…?”

“Birth rates. As in precipitously declining rates of female births. Lars ran the numbers and they don’t look good.”

“How so?”

“Well, you have to take this with a grain of salt, but their usual lifespan is somewhere on the order of five thousand years, but when you consider the implications of faster then light travel, any measurements of time are going to get all scrambled up in relativity calculations, so a full understanding of their true lifespan may be impossible to calculate, but if no new females are born their entire civilization may simply disappear when that last female passes away. Now, let’s confuse matters even more…”

“ur-Pak has impregnated one of our females.”

“Yup, and in his culture, males will lay down their lives to protect their dynasties…”

Davis nodded. “When Pak spoke to me about the situation at the dinner we had here, he seemed to imply that females conferred status.”

“Yup. His wife, or one of his wives, was on his flagship. A warship, Neal. Imagine that, would you? He didn’t want to let her out of his sight. Can you imagine the intrigues, the deviousness that must go on behind his back for him to do that…”

“Paranoid?”

“I was going to say protective, but yes, paranoid works too, I reckon.”

“Okay,” Davis sighed, “that leads us to ur-Pak – if that is indeed who’s out there. How do you want to handle him?”

“Well Neal, first let’s go back to the topic of lifespans. He may well be acting like any other love-addled teenager you’ve ever run across, but he could be hundreds, if not thousands of years old, so I doubt any action he’s taking is naive or ill-considered. He may simply want to talk to Louise, to see her again, or he may want to experience the birth of his child…”

“Which has all kinds of implications, doesn’t it?” Neal added.

Denton nodded. “Implications we can only guess at, too. So, is it his intention to swoop in here and take Louise back to his home world? Or are his intentions less dangerous – to us, anyway.”

“So, how do you want to handle it?”

“They know what we’re capable of now, don’t they?” Ripley sighed, looking up at the ceiling as he flexed his fingers behind his head. “I say we tell Louise, let her make contact and let whoever is out there in that ship make the next move.”

“And what if it’s a Warrior ship, trailing us, keeping an eye on our progress back to Earth. Do we want to take a chance we could be leading an aggressive warrior species – armed with that organism – back to our own home world?”

“Good point,” Ripley said. “We could hopscotch our way home, maybe make some observations of the Betelgeuse region and see if the ship follows.”

“That would please the astronomers,” Davis nodded.

“Or, we could convene the council,” Ripley added.

“Don’t do it, Denton. Once we get the bureaucrats and the diplomats involved you and I will lose our operational autonomy. Besides, the time to call a meeting of the council was before we launched the rescue operation…”

“Which was why I didn’t.”

“I know, and I would’ve done the same thing, but Denton – we took out an entire planet, wiped out a…”

“I know what I did, Neal. Right now we have to figure out what to do about that ship.”

“Your COMMs crew has all the protocols for communicating with their ships?”

“Yes, but what do we do if we try to communicate and the ship doesn’t respond,” Ripley sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Protocol states I have to consider the ship hostile, but if that is indeed ur-Pak, the last thing in the world I want to do is kill him. That would finish off any likelihood of peaceful relations with Pak.”

“So?” Davis said. “The only option is to ignore that ship, but I could reel off a dozen reasons why that would be both a tactically and a strategically problematic response.”

“Let’s not forget one thing, Neal.”

“And that is?”

“If that is indeed ur-Pak, we can’t ignore that Louise is carrying his child, and that’s a culture that is on the cusp of dying off through practical infertility. The boy has a legitimate interest in this pregnancy, but so do his elders. The question lingering in the back of my mind is ‘Do we exploit this for strategic gain?’”

“And just how the hell could we do that, Denton?”

“Control access to breeding stock.”

“Dear God. You make it sound so goddamn transactional, Denton…”

“Technically yes, but I suppose that’s exactly what it would all boil down to.” Ripley shook his head and hit the intercom. “COMMs, get with the XO and fire off a message to the horseshoe following us, and make it a high power narrow band laser transmission. No need to share the information with everyone out here.”

“Aye, sir.”

“And let me know as soon as we get a response.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

Ripley shook his head again. “Funny, you know? The whole thing feels like some kind of inter-species romance, but when you get right down to it we are them, ya know. We’re literally just an offshoot, a genetic offshoot…”

“Deliberately engineered, at that. Man alive, don’t you just know the religious groups back home are going to throw a giant hissy-fit over that…”

Ripley shrugged. “Shouldn’t. Not when you think about it, anyway. God created them and along the way they planted us in one of their gardens. We just turned out to be a little more aggressive than what they were hoping for…”

“Yeah, maybe too agressive, but Denton, I just had a thought…”

“Yeah, me too. What if they knew this incipient infertility was coming on eons ago and they planted us in the hopes of developing a new class of breeders to continue their line. And that would make males like you and me kind of superfluous, would it not?”

“Which would explain why the Warriors wanted to take us out.” Davis sighed.

“And why Pak retreated so quickly. Maybe he was leading us into that conflict, either wanting to see how we did or wanting the Warriors to finish off our fleet…”

“Leaving Earth exposed…”

Ripley looked at Davis and nodded. “You better get back to Enterprise. Refueling OPS are just about concluded, so I suggest we take your Battle Group and my Strike Group directly to Earth…”

“Admiral, COMMs, no response from the ship, sir. Should we keep trying?”

“COMMs, negative, and make no further attempts at this time. XO, see if you can program a jump directly to Earth, and prepare to depart as soon as Enterprise reports ready.”

“Yessir,” Brennan replied.

Ripley escorted Davis to the aft hangar deck and then, with a growing sense of unease pushing in from every direction, he made his way to the sick bay to check on Judy.

“There’s no obvious trauma, Admiral,” the physician stated, “but something’s not exactly right, either. I don’t know if it’s something like a post-traumatic disorder or a more generalized anxiety disorder, but something’s happened to her.”

“So, you want to keep her here for now?”

“Yes, for a few days. I may try regression hypnosis and see where that leads us, but I can’t clear her for duty yet.”

He nodded and pulled his way up Main Street to Maser facility and stuck his head in the door, only to find Balin back inside the main mirror chamber.

“Something wrong?” Ripley asked as he poked his head in the chamber.

“Yes, there’s a crack in the main lens, and it just appeared – about two hours ago.”

“A crack? I thought that was theoretically impossible?”

“It is. Unless someone wired up a device like this one, which generated a harmonic vibration near one of the main mounts – and when triggered caused it to crack.”

“Sabotage?”

“Sabotage. And you’re not going to like this, Admiral, but the device does not appear to be of human origin.”

Ripley nodded. “COMMs, get me Davis on a secure channel, and I’ll take it on the bridge.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Goddamnitalltohell,” Ripley muttered as he pulled his way up Main Street to the bridge, and just as he settled in his couch the incoming call from Davis popped up on his main screen.

“Denton? What’s wrong?”

“When did that scout ship appear?”

“About two hours ago. Why?”

“They planted a device to take out the main lens mount inside the Maser’s reaction chamber, and they activated it two hours ago,” Ripley said, now furious with himself. “Get someone to check your FTL drive, but my guess is you’ll find it’s been disabled.”

“On it,” Davis said – as the screen went black.

“Brennan?”

“Aye, sir?”

“Run a full diagnostics on that FTL drive right now…”

“I just did, sir. The main relay between their control pod and the ship’s drive has been severed.”

“Is our drive otherwise operational?”

“Yessir, it was not affected.”

“Lay in a plot for Mintaka, and see if there have been any displacements to the Alderson Point yet.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Well, Betelgeuse might have gone nova by now, right?”

“Yessir, and we’d not know about it yet, either.”

“We will if the jump point has migrated.”

“Yessir. Oh, the Middies wanted to speak with you.”

“Right. Send for them.”

Then Admiral Davis popped up on the main screen again: “Confirmed. Our FTL is no longer operational, Denton.”

Ripley nodded. “Get the word out to the rest of the ships, Neal, and prepare for a long duration, high-G transit to Mintaka. Looks like we’ll have to go home the old fashioned way.”

“Right – oh, what’s that?” Davis said, taking a call on another channel. “Right. Okay, Denton, looks like the scout ship has just bugged out.”

“That fits. All ships to battle stations. We may have to shoot our way out of the system.”

“I’ll move a couple of cruisers over to escort you. Is the Maser reparable?”

“Unknown. I’ll get on that; make sure your Banshees are fitted with vacuum engines, and load ‘em up with neutron warheads.”

“On it.” Davis blinked out again, and Ripley looked up to see Brennan floating overhead.

“You think they were…”

“It doesn’t matter what I think now, XO…”

“But…”

“But I think Pak was judging us, everything we did, and I think we came up short so they’re going to either take us out or cut us off from their neighborhood.”

“What about me and this…thing inside me?”

“It’s a human being, Louise. It might be hard to accept that, and somehow I doubt ur-Pak is going to be able to keep away…”

“And if he comes?”

“You listen to what he has to say. Beyond that, you’re an NSF officer and you have certain duties and responsibilities in that regard, but I can’t tell you how to lead your life.”

“I was thinking about terminating it.”

Ripley looked away, but he nodded his head gently. “This is no time for a rushed decision, Louise. Think things through, but you know I’ll support whatever you decide to do.” 

“So, you think we were being tested?”

“Tested, or used. The Warrior faction was a pain in Pak’s ass and we got rid of ‘em for him, didn’t we?”

“But we went too far? Is that what you think?”

“It fits the facts and circumstances test, so yes, I guess I do.”

She pulled her face close to his and kissed him on the forehead. “Thanks, Denton.”

He nodded. “Go get our Jump Point nailed down, and get me a transit time to Mintaka.”

After Brennan pulled herself up to her chair he watched Yukio and Thomas come onto the bridge, and when they saw he was in his couch they both pulled themselves along the ceiling until they were hovering beside his console.

“Thomas, what was your take on Pak and his people?”

“In what way, Admiral?”

“Military capabilities.”

“Formidable, sir. They can jump in behind a target, fire a particle beam cannon and then jump away in a matter of seconds…”

“Did you see any other weaponry?”

Thomas shook his head. “No sir, nothing.”

“And those cannons can’t penetrate the Langston Field? Is that your opinion?”

“Pak had no idea what the Field is or how to generate one, but he was impressed by the defensive capabilities, sir.”

“Yukio, you spent more than a few hours with their navigators, did you not?”

“Yessir.”

“You know how to work the pod, correct?”

“Yessir.”

“If someone sabotaged a pod, do you think you could get it back in working order?”

Yukio suddenly seemed unsure of herself. “I don’t know, sir. I’d need schematics and plans, and I’d need to understand how the pod was affected by the attack.”

Ripley nodded – and smiled – before he turned to his main screen. “Oh, Lars, there’s someone here I’d like you to meet, and of course you remember Yukio. Gordon? Are you still listening-in…?”

“Yes, Admiral, and Dr. Balin is installing the backup lens as we speak.”

“Gordon, I’m sending Yukio and the XO to the navigation pod and I’d like you to meet them there. Thomas, take the XOs couch and prepare for close quarters maneuvering…”

“Admiral?” Brennan asked, now confused. 

“XO, take the fleet to battle stations. I want all Fields up in Mode D and all reactors at 105 percent.”

+++++

It was basic stuff, really. You always go into a gunfight cocked and locked but ready to shoot first and ask questions later, and there’s only one law that governs the outcome: he who hesitates goes to the cemetery, usually in a pine box. It was so basic they even taught it at Annapolis. Just ask any second year.

So when Pak’s small fleet jumped in behind the Enterprise Battle Group, he expected to see Agamemnon – but what he found was twenty one identically shaped black blobs on his targeting screen – and anyway, it had never been his intent to open fire. He had simply wanted to slip a shuttle onto Agamemnon’s hangar deck, find this Brennan female and take her before anyone was the wiser.

And apparently Pak had thought it would be that simple.

So when Agamemnon blinked into space behind his ship, and when his radar proximity alarms started sounding, he already knew he’d lost the engagement. Pak now had to accept that he was no longer any kind of tactician, and certainly not up to dealing with these upstart humans, so he went to his communications room and waited for the inevitable.

The screen flared and there was his…what? His friend? Or was Ripley his nemesis?

“Ah, Pak. Nice to see you, my friend.”

He studied the human for a moment. So like Odysseus…brash, over-confident – but ultimately a potent adversary. “Are you my friend?” Pak replied.

“I thought we were, yes, but then…”

“You need not recite what we did, Denton.”

“Okay. So, I have to assume you’ve come to realize our nature, and what we’re capable of? And that now you are concerned that any kind of alliance with us represents a threat to your very existence?”

“Nicely put, Denton.”

“Gee, Pak, but you do seem to be speaking quite clearly today. Was that a ruse, as well?”

Pak shrugged. “I came to find the Brennan woman.”

“To take her, you mean?”

“Our scientists must study this pregnancy, Denton.”

“So, you want to kidnap one of my officers and conduct medical experiments on her? You do know that I will not allow that to happen, don’t you?”

“I can see that we have failed, so we will leave you now. I must warn you that we made modifications to your ship and should you try to follow us you will do great damage to your ships.”

Denton held up two small devices in front of the video camera and smiled. “You mean these, I take it?”

Pak looked down and shook his head.

“Pak,” Ripley said gently, “you and I must not have the same understanding of the word friend.”

“No, Denton, our understanding is the same.”

“Then why?”

“You are correct. My government wants no contact with your people. You are considered too dangerous.”

“I understand. Yet at the same time don’t we also represent an opportunity?”

“I could not get my government to see those opportunities.”

“Then we need to step back, limit the amount of contact between our peoples, but I think it would be in no one’s interest to cut off all contact.”

“I too think it would be a mistake.”

“Well, Pak, we have – uh – repaired our ships and will be going home soon. Perhaps you would like to send a scientist with us, to observe and monitor the pregnancy?”

“I am not sure this is possible, but I will ask.”

Ripley nodded. “Of course, your son would be welcome to join us, as well. Assuming he would be interested, of course.”

“I will ask, Denton.”

“So, what about dinner? Feel like trying one of Carson’s curries again?”

Pak looked away and grimaced. “What was that you called it? Vinda-something?”

“Eggplant vindaloo.”

“That is not for the faint-hearted, Denton.”

Ripley nodded, though he held firm eye contact all the while. “Indeed. So, I’ll meet you down on the hangar deck in about an hour.”

“I will be there, my friend.”

+++++

“And this is my wife, Judy,” Ripley said, introducing her to Pak, his wife and three sons. ur-Pak was, of course, already standing next to Louise Brennan and he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“How good it is to find you safe again,” Pak said as he took Judy’s hand. 

Judy smiled. “We may all regret this evening,” Judy said. “I understand Yeoman Carson got a fresh batch of Ghost Reaper peppers from hydroponics this morning. I think we could be in for some stormy weather.”

When Pak looked puzzled Denton translated: “The vindaloo might be a little spicier than the last one you had.”

Pak’s eyes registered alarm, but then he nodded acceptance of his fate.

“Why don’t we sit and enjoy the view,” Denton added as he moved over to the main table. Thomas and Yukio arrived just then, breathlessly late – as usual – but smiling innocently.

“Good evening, Admiral,” Thomas said – before he turned to Pak and nodded formally.

“Are you two packed and ready?” Denton asked.

“Yessir,” Yukio replied, “but I wanted to ask, Admiral. I wanted to take a book with me, a real book, but I haven’t been able to find any onboard. Someone told me you have a small library onboard?”

“Small? Well, yes, if you consider a few dozen books to be a library, then I suppose I do!” Denton smiled, nodding to the girl. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, that’s the thing. I don’t really know what’s important, what I ought to have read.”

“Well, let’s start with what you have read…”

“Technical manuals and science texts, mostly.”

“No literature?”

“I don’t think so.”

“No Tom Sawyer? No Huck Finn?”

She shook her head. “No sir. Sorry.”

Denton scowled, then he realized that Pak was staring at the girl, and that he too seemed displeased. “Pak? What are you thinking?”

“You have such a rich literary tradition,” Pak sighed, “yet it is disappearing without even a moments reflection what it means to lose those voices.”

“Excuse me,” Judy said, “but you know about our literature?”

“Of course. I have been visiting Earth since the time of Plato and Aristotle, and I have even known a few of your writers. I must admit I have a preference for your painters, however.”

“What would you recommend?” Yukio asked Pak.

“Me? Oh, without question it would be Milton’s Paradise Lost.”

Denton sat up in his chair and cleared his throat, then he looked at Pak again. “I’m curious, Pak. Why Milton?”

“Well, it’s an eternal piece, isn’t it. He came of age, as a writer, anyway, in the shadow of Cromwell and Charles the First, the civil upheavals that attended the debates surrounding religious and personal freedom…”

“Not to mention the murder of their king,” Denton added.

“Yes,” Pak said, “it was beastly, a barbaric time.”

“You know Milton?” Denton asked.

Pak nodded. “I visited with him once, not long after he lost his sight. He was, I think, a lonely man, isolated by his intellect, and I think his contemporaries feared him.”

“Admiral,” Yukio asked, “do you have that book?”

Denton smiled and stood, and now grateful that the ship was finally moving along at 1G he walked to his bedroom and pulled his copy of Milton from the shelf and carried it back to the dining table. “My copy from Annapolis,” he said reverentially as he handed the book to Yukio. “It’s one of the last Norton Critical Editions, from the 2030s, and you’ll find my scribbled notes besides key passages.”

“What did you like about the book, sir?” she asked as he stared at the book.

“Oh, I’m wasn’t the first to observe that resilience is the main thrust of the work, but in a way he was pointing out that there are two ways to respond to an overwhelming trauma. Utter defeat or as an empowering event. Instead of being traumatized, learning. And in so learning, growing stronger.”

“Well said,” Pak added. “But now I’m curious, Denton. What is your favorite book?”

“Huckleberry Finn,” he said, without hesitation.

“I’ve never read that,” Pak sighed.

So Denton got up again and walked to his secret stash and brought his cherished first edition to the table and gently handed it over to Pak. “Please return by the due date indicated,” Ripley said, grinning, then: “Sheesh, I feel like a librarian.”

“You mentioned paintings?” Judy continued. “Do you have a favorite artist?”

“No, not really,” Pak sighed, “but if pressed I might say Van Gogh. And you?”

Judy nodded. “Me, too. A Starry Night.”

“Understandable,” Pak said, “given your choice of profession.”

“My mother had a poster of it in my bedroom when I was growing up,” Judy continued. “I always wondered what it must’ve felt like to see the world the way he did.” 

Carson’s eggplant vindaloo arrived, and Pak’s family watched Denton load his plate with basmati rice before topping the rice with the curry, and after everyone was served Denton took the first bight…

…and his eyes began watering, his eyebrows twitched, and then the flop-sweats started.

“Joan,” he cried, “you’ve outdone yourself!”

“It’s the reapers, Admiral,” she shouted in triumph from her little galley. “They just hit peak potency!”

No one else made a move, now terrified of the stuff on their plates.

“Oh well,” Judy said, “when in Rome…” she said as she picked up her fork and took a tentative sniff. “Holy Mother of God, Denton…” she whispered, “this stuff even hurts to sniff.”

“Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it?” he said as he wiped away the sweat now rolling down the back of his neck.

Judy put a small dab in her mouth and then cleared her throat as she reached for her glass of ice water.

ur-Pak was next to go down this road more or less traveled. He loaded up a healthy soup spoon full of the stuff and then slammed it in his mouth – and all eyes went to his. Which immediately began running. Before he dropped his spoon and slammed the table with open hand – followed by a stream of Pakish invective that must have been choice, because Pak shook his head and went picked up his fork.

And after Pak swallowed his first spoonful he looked at Denton and smiled. “Not bad,” he said. “It reminds me of a forest fire I saw once.” And while he let his other children eat their plates full of the curry, he forbade his wife, telling Denton he didn’t want her to try anything that might risk the safety of the child she was carrying.

Which made Ripley and Admiral Davis laugh.

Until Pak’s wife insisted. And all eyes turned to her as she tried a first tentative bight – but apparently she loved it and quickly ate the rest of her portion. And when she asked for more, Denton and Neal Davis looked at one another then smiled, because they both knew they had witnessed something important.

When dinner was complete Louise looked around a little nervously, then she cleared her throat. “Uh, I have a little announcement,” she said, looking at Denton first – who nodded imperceptibly – then at ur-Pak. “I’ve spoken with Doctor Murray, and she’s certain I’m carrying a little girl…”

And Denton was studying Pak as Brennan made her announcement, and he wasn’t sure but he felt almost certain that Pak had registered surprise in that moment, and when Pak translated the news for his wife her icy facade seemed to crack for a moment, and Denton thought he saw the faintest traces of a smile – not on her lips but around the periphery of her eyes.

‘So, another lesson learned!’ Ripley said to himself. ‘I’ll have to start writing all these notes down…tonight!’

ur-Pak was soon enjoined in a spirited conversation with his mother, and Pak tried to hide his discomfort for a moment – until he realized he and his family were being studied – and then he called his group to order and told them it was time to go back to their own ship. 

“When will you return to Earth?” Pak asked before he walked out to his shuttle.

“Soon. Probably within the hour.”

“And you are certain ur-Pak returning with you will present no difficulties?”

“As certain as I can be, Pak. What’s bothering you?”

“Your tendency to study us, Denton.”

“Can you really blame us? After all, you’ve been studying us for thousands of years.”

Pak nodded. “Point taken, yet I think we still have much we can learn from one another.”

“And, apparently, there is still much you want to conceal from us.”

“And can you blame us, Denton? You have just demonstrated…”

“Understood. And that’s why I will push for a full diplomatic and military alliance with your people. We will both be stronger acting as one, don’t you think?”

Pak nodded. “I agree in principle, Denton, but I cannot, and so must not, speak for our Council of Elders.”

“Understood.”

“What of this Company you speak of. Weyland, isn’t it?”

“That’s correct.”

“Who speaks for them, Admiral Ripley?”

Ripley hesitated, then he spoke the truth. “I have no idea. They seemed to have broken free of all our governing bodies, but I’m not at all sure how much damage they sustained here. About half of the wrecked ships we’ve surveyed are Company ships, and it will take them years to come back from a loss this large.”

“Perhaps your governing bodies are no longer able to contend after such losses.”

“Doubtful. Our Navy and Marines are tasked with operations away from Earth, while our Air Force and Army protect only Earth, and none of our Air Force assets were involved out here. And as you’ve seen, our Navy is still more than capable of projecting force wherever needed.”

“Indeed I have. We all have. And I will deliver your proposal to the council.”

“So, this is goodbye. For now.”

Pak nodded. “Yes, my friend. And as agreed, if you do not come back in one year that will mean the proposal was rejected by your governing bodies?”

“And if you do not return, that will mean the proposal was rejected by your council. Which leaves us the your son.”

“If the proposal is rejected, Denton, please keep him with you and Louise and your wife, for I fear he will need your protection. I will come for him as soon as I can.”

“I will protect your son, Pak.”

“I know. You are at heart an honorable man,” Pak said, extending his right hand.

Denton took it and looked his friend in the eye: “Safe journeys, my friend.”

“And you must be careful, Denton. Things may not be as you now expect.”

“They never are.”

Pak nodded and walked into his shuttle, and a few minutes later he watched the shuttle lift up and gently maneuver back to Pak’s ship before he turned from the viewport and walked over to Main Street, Brennan and ur-Pak by his side. “Louise, why don’t you get our guest settled in his quarters before you come up to the bridge.”

“Will Judy, er, will Captain Ripley be on the bridge, Admiral?”

He shook his head. “No, she’s writing up her after-action report. I would assume detailing the loss of Hyperion might not be the easiest thing she’s done.”

“Yessir.”

He turned to ur-Pak then, and looked the ‘boy’ in the eye. “Welcome aboard. You’ll let Commander Brennan know if you need anything?”

“Yes, Den-ton.”

“Will this be your first time visiting Earth?”

“Yes. This my first big trip.”

“I see. Well, when you have some free time, drop by the bridge so we can show you around.”

“Thanks you.”

Ripley smiled and nodded, but when he heard Brennan correcting the boy’s grammar he almost laughed out loud. He continued up Main Street only to find Judy on the bridge, and she was talking to Gordon.

“They used an AI version of me to try to trick you?” she asked as he walked up.

“Yup. Sneaky little bastards, huh?”

“How’d you know it wasn’t me?”

“I tripped it up with a trick question about Ellen.”

“And the Maser took out the ship?”

“Yes…but…who took you and the other hostages into custody?”

“A Warrior ship jumped in when we were tanking…”

“When your Field was down?” Ripley asked.

“Yes, that’s kind of a curious coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Gordon,” Ripley asked, “do you think that could be coincidental?”

“Unlikely, Admiral. With this new information, I now find it more than likely that the Warrior faction was in communication with elements within the Company, and that they were acting in concert to lure us into the developing confrontation here at Mintaka 4.”

Ripley walked to his console and logged in. “Lars? Any thoughts?”

“Yes, Admiral. I have been searching through the spectrum, looking for mainframes within the debris field and trying to access their data. I have found four so far that are still operating on battery power, and I have downloaded their bridge operation files, including their COMMs logs.”

“And are you finding any patterns in the chaos?”

“Two of consequence, Admiral. Either the company was in direct communications with the Warrior faction, or they were in contact with Pak’s fleet.”

“Speculate, please.”

“Best case, the Company was working with the Warrior faction. Worst case, they were, and still are, working with Pak and his fleet. If that is indeed the case then we have made one wrong assumption with immediate consequence. If this is true, then Pak’s fleet controls the organism, and Pak’s fleet could deploy the organism during any future engagement. An item in support of this theory is the ease with which Pak’s personnel moved the organisms and their queens…”

“Which would mean we deployed the organism against a peaceful faction that was trying to stop an emerging militarist faction.”

“Yes, Admiral, if that was indeed the case.”

“Any way we can test that hypothesis?”

“I am currently searching the debris field for Company mainframes, Admiral.”

Ripley’s COMMs link blinked and Pak appeared onscreen. “Denton, we are leaving now. Perhaps we will see you soon.”

“Yes, my friend. We are about to get underway ourselves. See you soon.”

The link closed and Lars nasty-blue avatar replaced Pak on the main screen. “Nothing, Admiral. No signals at all, no residual power spikes, nothing.”

Ripley nodded. “So, the only evidence we have is at best circumstantial and even that is contradictory…”

“The only factor in common is the presence of Company ships, Admiral…”

“And it’s pretty goddamn unlikely anyone in the Weyland Group would form an alliance with a bunch of pacifists…”

Brennan came onto the bridge looking rather flushed and Ripley smiled as he watched her groan as she climbed into her g-couch. “XO,” he said to her over the intercom, “have you laid in the jump to Earth?”

“Yessir. And as requested, out past the Moon’s orbital path, about 500,000 miles out…”

Ripley flipped his COMMs over to the bridge on Enterprise and Neal Davis’s face popped into focus. “You ready over there?” Ripley asked.

“When you are, Bud.”

Ripley nodded as he set his COMMs to fleet wide. “All ships, Agamemnon actual, set jump to ten minutes on my mark. Mark!” – then he watched as Pak’s ships winked out as they made their jumps. “Lars? Did you set the beacon frequency?”

“Yes, Admiral. I was also able to pass along the jump coordinates.”

“Seal and encrypt, for admiralty eyes only.”

“Done.”

“Brennan, you look rode hard and put away wet. You feeling okay?”

“Okay, sir. This baby is a little bigger than expected, that’s all.”

“What about ur-Pak’s g-couch? Is it – big – enough?”

“Yessir,” she said, ignoring the jab.

He switched over to Enterprise and spoke to Davis again: “You have the ready alert set to launch? Just in case?”

“Yes, of course. Something bothering you?”

“Something doesn’t feel right, Neal. I can’t put my finger on it, but it feels like there’s something out there stalking us.”

“I know. I feel it, too. You want to delay the jump?”

Ripley rubbed the bridge of his nose and slowly shook his head. “No. No, I don’t think so. But…we’re…we’ve missed something, Neal. Something big. Something elemental.”

He flipped his COMMs circuit over to the weapons control center in CIC. “WEPs, get Stavridis into a tight formation off our port quarter right after the jump, and Constellation off our starboard. Tight, and I mean with just enough room between our Fields so they don’t set up an interference loop with each other.”

“Aye, sir.”

The computer’s countdown came on over the intercom now: “All stations, zero gravity in ten seconds. Jump in sixty seconds.”

Judy’s couch rolled up and she engaged the mag-lock. “You ready to see Ellen?” she asked. “You know, she’s going to be about three years older now…”

“I know. We’ve missed a lot of growing up together…”

“Not too much,” she added, smiling at her husband. “Have you thought about where you’d like to live?”

“Mountains. I want to live near the mountains, maybe near Quito.”

“All stations, jump in ten seconds.”

“Well,” Judy sighed, “see you on the other side.”

He smiled and nodded just as his senses began to distort, and then time stopped…

…and then the Earth was just visible through the main blast shield, and computers came online one by one as their operators reoriented to the new reality…

But even from a half a million miles out Ripley could tell there was something drastically wrong with the Earth…

“Lars?”

– nothing –

“ASTRO, get the Schmidt camera on the planet dead ahead,” he barked. The albedo was all wrong, way too bright to be earth.

“Working.”

“Brennan? What’s the celestial neighborhood look like?”

“Orion is right where it ought to be Admiral, and so are Spica and Arcturus, and the Moon is in the correct orbit.”

“Bridge, COMMs, we’re picking up Terran GPS signals and…oh, no, that can’t be right…”

“COMMs, Ripley, what do you have for me?”

“Uh, Admiral, the current year is 2139…”

“What? But that’s 32 years…and that can’t be right!”

“Bridge, COMMs, we’ve got radio traffic.”

“Put it through up here.”

“…repeat, this is Antarctic Traffic Control calling unknown vessels, please identify and squawk ident code.”

“Antarctic Traffic Control, this is Agamemnon actual squawking ident.”

Ripley’s main screen flickered as the bridge computers struggled to regain control, then a Walter was on his screen.

“Admiral?”

“Walter? What the devil is going on down there? The planetary albedo is off the scale!”

“The sunspots, Admiral? When you departed? Multiple X10 class CMEs hit the atmosphere and it generated a massive ionizing event, stripping almost all CO2 from the atmosphere. Within a year the average global temperature had fallen by 12 degrees centigrade, and the remaining water vapor in the atmosphere began falling as ice.”

“Walter? What about the people?”

“Domed cities, geothermal energy. About half the population accounted for there. Hundreds of colony ships are still en route to van den Bergh 20, in Taurus.”

Judy spoke next: “Walter? What about Ellen? Ellen Ripley? She was with Admiral Stanton, I think at Armstrong Base?”

“Yes, Ma’am. She completed her merchant mariners training and has been assigned to a commercial ore processing ship. She was assigned to the Nostromo, and I think the ship is currently inbound and due to arrive in two years.”

“Where’s Admiral Stanton, Walter?”

“Deceased, sir.”

“Who’s in charge of the Navy?”

“Currently no one, Admiral. The Navy functionally ceased operations almost ten years ago, though the few remaining ships still operational are escorting the colony fleet. The main Lunar gateway is still operational, and the manufacturing facilities at Armstrong Base are still online, but there are now more humans on Mars than on Earth.”

Neal Davis popped up on a split screen and looked at Ripley. “We had no way to calculate the time differential when we went after the Warrior planet, Denton. That’s what we missed – where we screwed the pooch.”

“Walter? What about the council?”

“No longer functional, sir.”

“No planetary government at all?”

“The remaining city states operate as a loose confederation, but there is no longer any unified government…”

“What about the Company?”

“Headquartered on Electra, Admiral. The largest planet in the van den Bergh 20 asterism.”

“Do you know if they have any faster than light drives on any of their ships?” Davis asked.

“No sir, unless they’ve managed to keep that secret. Is that how you appeared so suddenly?”

Ripley ignored the question. “What about government on the Moon and Mars?”

“Again, a loose confederation of city states, Admiral.”

“Walter,” Ripley suddenly commanded, “transfer all charts of the van den Bergh 20 system to my ship now.”

“Sir, I am not authorized…”

“Then who is authorized?” Ripley thundered.

“No one, Admiral.”

“Then I am asserting authority. Transfer the files now, Walter!”

“Transferring now, Admiral.”

“Commander Brennan, would you go and get ur-Pak then bring him up to the bridge. And right away, if you please.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Walter, how much longer will it take the colony ships to reach van den Bergh 20?”

“The first ships should arrive within 25 months. The last ship to depart is now almost two years out, so five years before it arrives.”

“And each ship is carrying how many colonists?” 

“Five thousand in stasis, and 100,000 embryos.”

“Where is the Walter we left Ellen with?”

“That unit is still at Armstrong Base, Admiral.”

“Advise that unit that we will be picking him up within 24 hours.”

“Yessir.”

ur-Pak walked onto the bridge a moment later, Brennan by his side, and Ripley nodded at ‘the boy’ and smiled. “Activate the beacon, please.”

ur-Pak reached for an innocuous bracelet around his left wrist and rotated the entire assembly until it clicked once, then he released it and pushed a black button that had just appeared on the face of the bracelet…

…and Pak’s small fleet winked into existence just ahead of Agamemnon. A moment later Pak appeared on the main bridge screen. “Yes, Denton?”

“It would seem that, at the moment, Admiral Davis and myself are the central authority governing Earth. Can you tell me what you know about the weapon that was detonated inside out star?”

“The Warriors developed this weapon, as well as the delivery system, and they provided the weapon to operatives from the Weyland Consortium.”

“And were these operatives informed about the extent of damages that would be inflicted on our star?”

“No, of course not.”

“And tell me, Pak, just how do you know this?”

“As you have obviously surmised, we are the Warrior faction.”

“And the planet we destroyed?”

“We housed political prisoners there.”

Ripley nodded and smiled a little. “Nicely done. So, we are the bad guys now, right?”

Pak smiled. “Right. You have done our dirty work for us, and so we are blameless.”

“Except you missed one thing, Pak. One little thing.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Our Marines captured a Company ship on the far side of Mintaka. There were five queens onboard, and several thousand organisms.”

Pak stared at Ripley, and he said not a word.

“And that ship is now on the surface of the planet you call Sheedawan. That’s your home world, is it not, Pak?”

“How did you find this information?” Pak snarled.

Now it was Ripley’s turn to remain silent.

“I told him, Father,” ur-Pak said. “What you have done, what you are doing is wrong…”

“What I have done is save my people from extinction!” Pak howled, now enraged beyond anything Ripley could have imagined possible. “You have betrayed not just me,” he screamed at his son, “you have betrayed your family and your people! I hereby condemn you…”

But Ripley held up his hand and spoke calmly, interrupting Pak. “Pak? I have a proposal.”

“I do not care what you have, Admiral Ripley,” Pak snarled, spitting out the last two words derisively. 

“Well then, if that’s the case I hit this button and the organism will be released.” Ripley moved his thumb over the release button and waited. “On the other hand, if I push this little red button the ship will be destroyed and all the organisms killed.”

“And what is your proposal, Denton?” Pak said, trying to bring himself back from the edge.

“Your son tells me you possess very advanced terraforming technology. I need this technology to salvage the remnants of my home.”

“And this I will never do.”

“Never?”

“No, I will never help you. You know and I know that it is your destiny to kill us!”

So Ripley held up the release and punched the red button.

“You fool!” Pak screamed, laughing hysterically. “You hit the wrong button!”

“No. I didn’t.”

Pak stopped laughing and stared at Ripley. “What are you saying?”

“I am saying that we are your children too, Pak, but you have to believe me when I tell you that we are not all doomed to make the mistakes of our fathers. Not even you. But we can move on, together. We can grow, together. We can still be your friends, Pak. All you have to do is believe in yourself enough to accept the possibility that what I’m telling you is true.”

Pak looked down but then he nodded imperceptibly, and a moment later the main screen went dark.

ur-Pak turned to him then, and he appeared perturbed. “Why no tell about ship and organism?” he grumbled. “Why no tell about destruct device?”

“Because I just made it all up, son.”

“You…what?” ur-Pak said, beginning to smile. “No true? No weapon?”

“No true. No weapon.”

“Damn,” the Tall White said, “that crazy…!”

“Yeah?” Ripley said as he looked at Brennan, then Judy. “Say, you wanna learn to play poker?”

“Poker?”

“Oh-no-you-don’t,” Brennan said as she pulled ur-Pak away from Ripley’s couch. “I’m not gonna let you do it, Denton…”

“Neal?” Ripley said over the COMMs link. “You got any bourbon over there?”

“Denton…no…you can’t do it…” Davis sighed.

“Hey, man, I got two years to kill before my baby girl gets in. Somebody’s gonna have to keep me honest…”

Und damit sind wir wieder einmal am Ende. Sollte es noch mehr geben? Nun, nur die Zeit wird diese Geschichte erzählen …

© 2022 adrian leverkühn | abw | adrianleverkuhnwrites.com | all rights reserved. This was a work of fiction – plain and simple – and all characters and events presented herein are fictitious in nature, though key story elements and character references/circumstances derive from the works of others. First among these is Sir Ridley Scott’s film Alien (1979); though his Prometheus and Covenant films serve as direct prequels to these two short stories. All references to an Alderson (zero time) Drive, as well as the Langston Field needed to utilize said drive, derive from key elements presented in the novels The Mote in God’s Eye (1974) and The Gripping Hand (1993), by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle. Thanks for reading along, and I hope you enjoyed the ride.

[Yes \\ Into the Lens]

You might call this the missing link. And who knows…you might even be onto something.

[The Police \\ Murder By Numbers]

First You Make a Stone of Your Heart

1.1

There is a rhythm to life, and to death, and yet we remain unprepared for that final reality, that the beating heart we know will never understand the infinite. But somehow, through the sharp lens of time, we have grown accustomed to the idea of that singular, defining moment. Some have accommodated their own gnawing fear through the practice of rituals that are at once very personal yet of origins beyond the arcane, while others have grown content with whatever fate or destiny or even random chance has in store. Along the way we’ve grown accustomed to the idea that about all we can hope for is a long life unfettered by pain, that we can all somehow dance in our parents’ shadows, and that, with luck, our children might dance in shadows all our own. Still, it seems that of all the creatures in this world, only humans have embraced an overarching sense of goodness as a guide to our actions, and conversely, most have repudiated evil in all its many guises. This repudiation, at times, defines the contours of this dance. As it defines our shadows.

Yet we take it for granted that for goodness to exist there simply has to be a countervailing force, this thing we call evil. Yet, indeed, is it possible that neither goodness nor evil ever truly exists outside of the human mind? But, what of this mind? Was it not this same soaring intellect, the same voice that proudly proclaimed that good and evil are the defining limits of our existence? And were these not the constructs of more primitive minds? Remnants, perhaps, of an age when humans above all else feared the night. When everything was a shadow, and we danced in fear?

But what of the voice of reason? The vox clamantis in deserto? Why do some heed this voice while others turn away and run headlong into the night, consumed by fear?

Could it be, possibly, that these proud minds are the most evil thing of all? Or could it be that the light of reason will, in the end, be our salvation?

Oh, Diogenes! Open your eyes!

1.2

She sat at the battered old Steinway, drifting along unseen currents as amber candlelight washed over the dark oaken walls of the old room. Drifting through a melange of Debussy and Gershwin, she was afloat among notes and passages that had spoken to her all her life, yet she was weaving subtle emotions with the subtle passages she chose, intonations at once as obscure as they were arcane. No one noticed. Not one head turned, and yet it seemed she had been waiting all her life for that one reaction.

She was playing in an alcove in the Grill Room, a hallowed enclave within the St. Francis Yacht Club’s main floor, and if she had bothered to look she might have seen the city lights winking on across the far reaches of San Francisco Bay. As it was, she sat erect with her eyes closed, swaying to the tapestry she wove as kelp might on a slackening tide. Her father was a member here and on Saturdays she liked to come and sit by the fireplace, and no one seemed to mind when she played the old piano in the corner. Indeed, most of the people there seemed to consciously ignore her – most of the time.

‘She’s not well, you know…’ one hushed note might imply.

‘Oh?’ a soft, contrapuntal note could be heard in reply.

‘Yes. Schizophrenia, or so I hear…’

But those knowing voices mattered not at all to her, not anymore, not after so many years of their knowing, sidelong glances. Theirs were eyes that could not see, and they spoke in hushed, shallow voices that knew only half-truths – and yet she loved most of those voices. She knew them, had known them all her life, and she had sailed with them all too many times to remember.

Her father came up after the sun settled into darkness, and he leaned into the old Steinway just as he always did before he spoke of leaving.

“I’m heading home now, Dev. You want to stay a while longer?”

She swayed to the left just a bit as she settled into Gershwin’s Love Walked In, but then she shrugged – playfully – before she finally relented with a nod and a quiet smile.

“Okay. Try not to stay out too late.”

She looked after her father as he walked out into the night, then she returned to her thoughts…and to the currents she danced on.

“Miss Devlin, we closin’ now…”

She opened her eyes, noticed the bartender leaning over to gently roust her and she nodded. “Is it midnight already?” she asked.

“Yes, Miss Devlin. You want I should go and get your coat?”

“Thanks, Ernie. Would you mind?”

“Not a bit, Ma’am. You just wait right here.”

She looked around the room, noted embers dying in the fireplace and that a dense fog had settled over the bay, then she noticed a tall stranger sitting in a corner opposite the piano, and that the man was nursing the remnants of a brandy. She thought the sight a little odd, too, if only because she knew every member of the club – and had for years. Her house, or her father’s house, was only a few hundred yards distant, not even a block inland on Baker Street, so it felt to her as if she’d spent her entire life within these walls. And in a way she had.

She looked at the stranger again and felt a sudden wave of unease wash over her, then as she watched he turned and looked her in the eye before he stood and made his way to the main entry foyer and, presumably, out to his car. Ernie the bartender returned with her coat, a heavy old US Navy pea-coat, and after the old man helped her into the jacket he walked with her to the foyer.

“You best turn up that collar, Miss Devlin. It feels right cold out there tonight.”

She saw the shadow run up one wall and then watched it turn and slide along the ceiling and then out into the night and she wanted to turn and run but she didn’t want to make another scene, didn’t want Ernie to have to call her father to come pick her up again, so she turned up her collar and followed the inky shadow out into the night. She walked through the sentinel rows of eucalyptus down to the dinghy docks, knowing that the shadows were out there somewhere just ahead, out there just waiting for her – then she saw the man, the tall stranger from the Grill Room – and he was walking away from her along the beach trail by the Green. She stood near a covey of Etchells 22s, watched the man as he walked up to the crosswalk at Marina Boulevard – but then he simply disappeared, just like all the other shadows gathering in the clinging fog.

She stood in the stillness for a moment, and she had walked all the way to the Green when she realized the tide was in – and that the black water was close to the mute stones that lined the trail here – so she stopped by an ancient streetlight and stood in the safety of the pooling light, until she realized the fog was growing colder and was now – quite suddenly – impossibly thick.

She stepped back into the fog and made her way quietly along the trail towards home – but she stopped dead in her tracks when she heard a violent commotion in the water off to her left, and when she turned to look she saw an inky black creature oozing silently out of the water and slithering up the stone steps towards her. At first she thought it must be a large harbor seal but then the quivering creature stood on human-like legs and turned to face her and she didn’t know what else to do but scream.

+++++

Kirk Dooley was the first responding officer on the scene and he took one look at the blood-soaked woman and called dispatch: “6-12, will need a Watch Commander and Homicide at my location, and I think we’re going to need the divers…”

Dooley gathered the half-dozen or so witnesses, as well as the woman’s father, in the yacht club’s parking lot, and as other responding units arrived ‘Crime Scene’ tape was strung out to cordon off the area. Paul Weyland gathered up his daughter and held onto her as she stared off into the night, and Dooley tried to figure out who had seen what and when, scribbling down notes as fast as he could…

Then a large blue step-van pulled into the lot, and two men got out and began suiting up in dive gear, then hauling all their assorted gear down to the water’s edge.

Then a baby-shit-green Plymouth Interceptor pulled into the lot and Dooley recognized Frank DiGiorgio, one of the detectives, get out from behind the wheel, but he wasn’t sure he recognized the other detective, even after he finally got out of the Plymouth and started walking over. But it didn’t matter; DiGiorgio would be in charge and he was a real straight shooter, an old-school, no-nonsense cop who could get things done, and besides all that he was clean – and Dooley knew you couldn’t say that about too many of the cops working out of Central these days.

Then a flash of memory came to Dooley. The other Dick was one of the new guys that had just been promoted. They’d worked The Tenderloin together a few years back, too. Callahan, wasn’t it?

“Hey, Kirk,” Callahan said as he walked up, “how’s it hangin’?”

“Good, Harry. You?”

“Can’t complain. Look, I might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but – where’s the body?”

Dooley nodded towards the water. “That’s the thing, Harry. There ain’t one. Yet…”

DiGiorgio walked over when he heard that. “Then what are we doin’ out here at two in the a-m, numb-nuts?”

So Kirk switched on his Kel-Lite and shined the beam on a woman’s legs, and when DiGiorgio saw they were covered in blood he walked over to her, then he looked at the stones on the trail before he turned to look at the woman again.

But one look was all it took. DiGiorgio knew those faraway eyes; he’d seen them too many times to not know exactly what they meant. Kids coming back from ‘Nam these days called it the ‘Thousand Yard Stare’ – which was where the mind took refuge when reality became a little too real to deal with. But then Callahan stepped up and looked into the woman’s eyes – he saw tremors cross her field of view – so he leaned closer still – until she could see nothing beyond the contours of his face.

“What did you see?” Callahan whispered gently. “Tell me. They’re gone and they can’t hurt you now.”

“You can’t possibly know that,” she whispered in kind.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he added, taking her hands in his.

She looked down, looked at his fingers and she recognized the fingers of a kindred spirit. “Debussy?” she sighed – as unseen currents passed between them.

“Gershwin.”

“Even better.” Was he the one, she wondered?

“Trust me. Tell me what happened.”

“It came out of the water.”

“What came out? Can you describe it for me?”

“Black. Slimy. At first I thought it…but then it stood and he was huge.”

“He? The man you saw…”

“He wasn’t a man.”

“But you said ‘he,’ didn’t you? And he was black and slimy? You mean like you saw a man covered in oil?”

She trembled as another memory rattled through her bones. “Skin…black…not oil…shiny, like a snake, only the eyes were different…amber, and big – like an owl’s eyes.”

An old black man walked up, and he nodded as he approached. “I seen it too, Mister. She ain’t lyin’ none.”

“You were…you saw this thing too?” DiGiorgio scoffed.

“Yessir. I was the second person out there, ran out from the parking lot behind Jimmy, and that thing took him and dragged him out into the water.”

“What?” Callahan said. “Are you saying this thing took someone out into the bay?”

“Yessir, right over there, where all that blood and stuff is.”

Which was, Callahan could now see, right about where the two rescue divers had entered the water.

And beyond the water, standing on the sidewalk above the yacht harbor, the tall stranger watched as the creature turned towards the divers, at this new presence in the water, and as the creature swam to face the new threat the tall stranger turned and walked away.

© 2023 adrian leverkühn | abw | adrianleverkuhnwrites.com | fiction, every word

[The Police \\ Tea in the Sahara]

This is one of those stories I can’t stop tinkering with, so I’m not sure it will ever really be ‘finished’ – but this is as far as I’m going to take it, for the time being, anyway. It seems like everyday over here another state is criminalizing abortion and imposing new restrictions, and I read another news item yesterday about a mother helping her teenage daughter find a physician willing to do the procedure – and now they’re both in jail. When I was a spud, the procedure was illegal and I remember the codeword back then sounded something like “Oh, yeah, I sent my daughter over to Stockholm for a nose job,” which was what the wealthy did back in the day until Roe v Wade (1973) changed the law nationwide. Fathers, and I feel certain that most were country club Republicans, sent their pregnant daughters to Sweden to have the procedure done. Of course, that option was simply unaffordable for most Americans (as is the case again today), which was why so many young women ended up dead after a botched back-alley abortion. I’ve seen the results of a couple of these, and it’s not something you can easily forget.

Yet, oddly enough, I’ve included one other experience of the procedure in a couple of stories I’ve written, including the 88th Key. A good friend in college got his girlfriend pregnant and asked if I would take her to a ‘doctors appointment’ – as he was ‘tied up in class’ and couldn’t take her. I was never told the appointment was for an abortion, I simply drove the girl from Palo Alto up to the City and probably read every issue of Road & Track magazine they had in the waiting room over the next couple of hours, and though I still didn’t know why she had gone to the appointment I soon understood what was going on inside the clinic.

But I was the one there with her after the procedure was finished, and I was the one on hand to pick up the pieces in the aftermath. I had no idea what deep emotional devastation looked like before that afternoon, and had never had to help someone in such a fragile state before. I do recall that the girl involved was irreparably damaged by the experience, that the termination of a human life weighed heavily on her for years. And I had never felt so utterly helpless.

Personally, I’ve always found the idea of abortion problematic at best, yet I’ve never felt anyone has any right whatsoever to tell another human being how to handle a situation like this, hence almost by default I’ve fallen into the pro-choice camp. I would assume that if history is indeed any guide at all we’ll soon find more young women in back alleys, killed by unskilled abortionists who lack the training or even the proper facilities and equipment to adequately perform the procedure, yet should the young women survive the experience, can you imagine EMS arriving at the scene and then having to call the police to come and take these devastated human beings to jail?

I simply can’t see the need for these laws, yet it’s already happening. For the life of me, these laws and policies seem grounded more in hate than in Christian love, and yet I simply can’t understand where all this hate is coming from. The awful conclusion, the one that really opens your eyes, is to finally understand that the hate has always been out there lurking in the shadows, and that this foul emotion is not really new at all, and that would certainly seem to mean that such willful hatred isn’t going anywhere. If that’s truly the case, then I’m afraid we are all in for a very rough ride. And the consequences may be far darker than we could have ever imagined.

[Kris Kristofferson \\ Me and Bobby McGee]

Between the Lines

 1.

Like most reporters on the little regional jet that afternoon, Peter Lawton had departed Ukraine by rail and then hopped on a LOT Polish Airlines Dreamliner in Rzeszów; the big Boeing was packed to the rafters with reporters and aid workers heading to London Heathrow, but even so most of the professionals leaving the region weren’t as angry as he was just then. He was tired and hadn’t eaten in days, and as he watched the Jetway retract and felt ground equipment pushing the aircraft back from the glossy new terminal building, he tried to listen to the safety announcement. Yet he was distracted and, frankly, still too mad at the world to listen to anyone at the moment.

And even up front he felt he barely had enough legroom, but at least he’d be able to grab a nap.

“Peter, right?” he heard someone say, so he turned to look at the woman in 3B.

“Yes? Have we met?” Lawton asked – though more than a little duplicitously, as he remembered the woman. 

But she smiled at his diversion, for the woman knew damn well Lawton knew exactly who she was. She’d been about half his age when they met, in her mid-thirties, and she remembered meeting him a few years after that first time. “Angela Eastman, BBC,” she said. “We met in Libya a few years ago, after all that Benghazi stuff.”

He shrugged. “Sorry,” he managed to say, “I guess I’m drawing a blank.”

“Nice to know I make such lasting impressions,” she said, smiling noncommittally at his deceit. “Too bad about your network. Did you get the axe as well?”

He shrugged. “Nothing official yet, but that seems to be the consensus of opinion right now.” After the election, everyone and anything with even the slightest patina of liberalism had been shown the door, so after almost forty years as a reporter and prime-time anchor his career seemed to be at a sudden and very public end.

“We just got word about fifteen minutes ago,” she added. “The United States has officially pulled out of NATO.”

And again he shrugged away her concerns. “I hardly think that comes as a surprise right now.”

“No, I suppose not,” Eastman said. “Still, it comes as a shock to those of us in the UK – not to mention the EU, who’ve always thought the alliance was like bedrock.”

“Why’s that? The Russians have been paying off our politicians for decades. The bill came due, that’s all. So what if someone in the Kremlin decided it was time to collect on all their outstanding balances.”

“Oh, come off it! Do you think it was really as simple as that?”

“Who knows, but Angela, really, who the fuck cares anymore.”

“But it seems so outlandish! Where’s all your American moral outrage?”

“Outrage? Really? You’re going to fall back on that line? Where were you when Turkey sided with the Russians, or where were you when Italy elected a fascist PM, and where was all your moral outrage when the Hungarians kept ‘reelecting’ the same ole fascist dictator? And now, with Macron on the ropes and French fascists on the move, France is as good as out of Nato one more time, and heaven knows Germany has been looking for an excuse to bail out. So, with the alliance in tatters and with most western economies hovering somewhere between recession and outright depression, all the Russians had to do was wait us out and then call in their markers, then wait for the politicians they’d purchased to retake power. Now the only real question is what will Germany and the UK do. Turn on their printing presses and try to build up their armed forces and hold the rest of the alliance together, or sit back and wait for the inevitable collapse of the EU and the rise of the Second Soviet Union. But really, like everyone else in a position of power, that imbecile in Number 10 waited too long to respond to Putin. But I guess in the end everyone in Europe never truly accepted the fact that the America of your dreams had fallen into the clutches of a cult grounded in wishful denialism, and so it collapsed under the weight of too many delusions, not to mention internal inconsistencies.”

“The America of our dreams?”

“Yes, of course. ‘Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses,’ versus a nation fractured and splintered by disinformation, with a government polarized by information warfare and falling into political incoherence through planned irrelevance. But hey, we were just like you guys in 1939: too many disparate groups unwilling to compromise, just knowing that somehow it would all work out in the end. Only thing is that too many people were willing to drink the Kool-Aid, and I guess too few able-minded people were ready to lead.”

“It’s happening at home again right now , you know?” she sighed as she thought about the most recent collapse of the Tories.

“Of course it is. And why shouldn’t it? Humanity has never been more united than it is right now, in this moment. We are united by our Hate of The Other, and so, at last, the Second Coming is upon us.”

“Funny. I never took you for a Christian Nationalist.”

He laughed at that, then leaned back and closed his eyes with a sigh: “That twenty centuries of stony sleep were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle. And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?”

“Oh yes. Sorry.”

“Sorry? Why should you be sorry? I think Yeats was declaring humanity is a doomed species, doomed by our collective narcissism, by our inability to see beyond the moment.”

“Indeed. To what, exactly, are you referring now?”

“We jump to conclusions. Or how did he put it? ‘The best lack all conviction.’”

“Perhaps you should stop speaking in metaphors and try plain English.”

And that made him laugh out loud again – just as their Dreamliner turned onto the runway and began yet another journey to one more lost cause, still seething that he had been pulled out of Crimea just as victory appeared to finally be at hand. He looked at the passing landscape below and wondered when the next war would consume the people lingering helplessly in those same lengthening shadows. With America out of Nato, they wouldn’t have to wait long.

“What’s the point,” he finally said to her, reaching up to turn off his overhead light.

She looked down at his hands, noted they were trembling and she too looked away.

+++++

He rode into the city on the Paddington Express and walked down to the Hilton, Angela Eastman still by his side, still talking up a nonstop storm. She wanted to know more about the White Nationalist Party currently joining forces with the last remnants of the original Republican Party, consolidating their hold on Congress now that Their Man was back in the White House.

Lawton had been doing his best to talk politely with the woman but now he felt like he’d been ambushed, and that he had somehow become her story. Here was the old school liberal journalist being summoned back to headquarters, his immediate future to be run out of town on a rail, and frankly he wanted nothing to do with the pouting lips of her hyper-manipulative bush league ambush journalism. He walked up to the reception desk and checked in, and the man behind the counter handed him a large manilla envelope that had, apparently, just been hand-delivered from the local bureau.

He opened the envelope right then and there – then shook his head as the irony of his current situation came home to roost.

“What is it?” Eastman sighed. “Bad news?”

“I guess that depends on your point of view,” Lawton replied. “A new assignment, in Jackson, Mississippi.”

“Not exactly a hotbed of international importance, I suppose.”

Lawton looked at her, at this ‘reporter’ – and he wondered why some people got into the business. This one was certainly attractive enough, well – actually, she was rather good looking, yet it wasn’t a stretch to assume she’d gotten into the business to accrue an audience – and to therefore gain a political following. That had become the new paradigm, after all. The Coalition was top heavy with former reporters who’d cut their teeth working for right wing media, and he had to admit it made a lot of sense. Who else was in a better position to understand how easy it was to manipulate public opinion than the people who did so for a living – everyday? From there, you hitched your wagon to a Party stalwart and went along for the ride, collecting your bribes while you paid your dues, your final reward working for a think-tank or doing hard time as a K Street lobbyist.

“Well,” he said, stifling a yawn, “I guess I’m off to Dulles in the morning. I’d better get some sleep, so I guess this is goodbye.”

“I don’t mean to be forward, Peter, but I know a great spot for curry a few blocks from here, and my place is nearby…”

“And I’m afraid I wouldn’t be very good company tonight,” he said as another yawn came for him. “Perhaps another time?”

She nodded uneasily, yet almost duplicitously. “Yes. Perhaps.”

He turned and made his way to the lift and rode up to the third floor in blissful silence, but after a discrete interval he put on his sport coat and made his way back down to the taxi stand. The sun was finally down and despite all the rabid uncertainty in the air, life in London seemed almost normal; it was certainly a far cry from the Russian savagery he’d witnessed in Crimea just the night before.

After a few minutes in the taxi he walked into The Grill at The Savoy and ordered his old favorites – starting off with lump crabmeat en coquille, then a Dover sole amandine with fresh asparagus Hollandaise – while he waited for an old friend from the network, and the inevitable reckoning that had to come. While he waited an aging rock star he’d interviewed more than once stopped by for a chat, but other than that he simply let all the tension and anxiety he’d experienced over the last two months fall away to other memories of better times.

“Well, better late than never,” Sara Beckman said as she sat down beside Lawton, after she’d bestowed a lingering kiss on his forehead. “Peter, you’ll excuse me for saying so, but you look simply dreadful. Have you slept at all recently?”

He shrugged. “I don’t remember. Matter of fact, I don’t recall eating anything for the last two or three days, so I hope you don’t mind but I’ve already ordered.”

“The sole, of course?”

“Yes. And one for you as well. Hope you don’t mind.”

“You look as though you’ve lost two stone. Was it as bad as it looked?”

“It was medieval, Sara. I saw hand to hand fighting in the streets and trenches – under torchlight. Sickening stuff, really, all the ways we’ve come up with to kill our fellow man. Expeditiously, I think, is the word that most comes to mind. No feeling anymore – no humanity. One minute it’s drone warfare and the next you see men going after one another with bayonets and machetes, and there’s simply no time to take it all in.”

“Your segment yesterday hit hard; there was a lot of talk about it today.”

“And obviously it did no good at all. We’re out of Nato now, I hear?”

“Yes. Did you get the envelope at the reception desk?”

Lawton nodded, but he didn’t have much to say. Yet.

“You need to be careful over there, Peter. Things are moving quite fast now, and civil order is falling apart as militias take over. You know that, right?”

He shrugged. “What are they going to do? Kill me?”

“I wouldn’t be too surprised. You really pissed off the man, or so we’re hearing?”

“I tried to. It’s not all that difficult, you know?”

“Well, the word is you really got under his skin this time.”

“So, I’ll go out in a blaze of glory? Is that what you’re thinking?”

“Don’t go, Peter, don’t take the assignment. Stay here. Stay with me. We can still make a nice life together, and you’d have no trouble getting on with one of the networks here.”

“I have a job to do. Something I started a long time ago; something I need to finish.”

“You can’t you do it from here?”

“And what if I did? They’d come for me here if that’s what they decide to do. There really is no place to hide.”

“Not that you would.”

He shrugged. “No, but you’ve always known that about me.”

“Hard headed. Not to mention pig headed and confrontational. Yes, I do know. So, what are you going to do?”

“My job.”

Their dinners came and they ate in silence, yet she hardly took her eyes off him. 

“Some things never change, you know?” he said when he had finished. “This place is the one constant in a constantly changing universe.”

“It is, yes.”

“So, why have you been staring at me?”

“I think I wanted to memorize your face, Peter, because once you leave I know I’ll never see you again.”

“Indeed. That doesn’t sound like you, Sara.”

“You loved me once, didn’t you? Enough to stay, I mean?”

“I still love you, Sara.”

“Just not enough to stay?”

“Odd way of putting it, don’t you think? You either love someone or you don’t. Love isn’t a matter of degrees – or have I had it wrong all this time…?”

“So, why won’t you stay? Really, that’s all I wanted to ask you?”

He looked at her and sighed. “Look, kiddo. It’s because, well, I’m not sure I know how to say this, but I feel like there’s one more war I have to cover, and I want to be there when it starts.”

“You…what? When it starts?”

He took her hand, felt her skin and the fine bones of her fingers, the warmth that still seemed so familiar, then he looked into her eyes. “I was thinking about Yeats earlier today and, well, the battle lines have been drawn, you know. Everything seems to be racing towards this one point in time…”

“What point?”

“A flash point, I think. Something horrible is going to happen over there. I know it.”

“And you think you’ll find all this in Mississippi?”

He nodded as he leaned back in his chair. “Hate comes so easily to some people, Sara. And yet some people just follow along with the crowd, not sure what’s happening but caught up in events. But… haven’t you ever thought it odd that in our business we always seem to be chasing hate?”

“You aren’t going to answer me, are you?” She looked away, perhaps because she knew her war was already over, that he’d surrendered to the inevitable a long time ago. “So, that’s it, Peter? Game over?”

“I am what I am, Sara. I go…”

“What? That you go where hate takes you? Are you really telling me that’s all there was to us?”

He closed his eyes and took her in, especially the sound of her voice. “I think I know the bones of your hands better than I know my own. That isn’t hate, Sara. That’s love. Don’t forget that about me, okay?”

“If you love someone set them free? Is that what you and Gordon were talking about before I arrived?”

“You little spy!”

“Always. Just like you.”

“We were talking about Ukraine.”

She nodded, but then she pulled her hand slowly from his and he watched the movement carefully. Was this another tactical retreat, or her final surrender?

Yet she smiled. A little. “Do you remember the beach? And that funny little house?”

“Of course,” he sighed. “Do you?”

She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “You remember everything, don’t you? Every little thing, I mean?”

“That wasn’t such a little thing, Sara.”

‘That’ was the night he’d found her in the shower, passed out and dying after swallowing a bottle of pills. After she’d taken a penknife and carved ‘Love me’ into the soft skin of her belly.

“You’ve never forgiven me for that, have you?” she whispered.

“I’ve never stopped loving you, if that makes any difference.”

And then he’d watched as she quietly stood and walked away – and he knew then that their war was finally at an end. She’d ended the thing on her terms, which he assumed was what she needed from him now, and why she’d asked him to come here tonight.

 And after a quick glass of port he’d made his way back to the Hilton on the Underground, as always listening to what was on peoples’ minds. Russia, it turned out, was the number one topic of conversation that night, and what the new leadership in the Kremlin would do now that their allies were once again in the White House and the American Congress. Even the few Americans he overheard seemed to still be in a state of shock, and more than one said there was no point returning to home anytime soon.

Which was predictable enough, Lawton thought. Home is where your heart is, he thought, still hearing Sara in his mind’s eye.

By the time he made it back to his room he was too wired to sleep so he pulled out his laptop and began writing up his observations of the evening. This was his oldest habit, and part of a routine that had kept him in top form for decades. He listened everywhere he went, but then he took the time to synthesize these ramblings in search of coherent patterns – because sometimes random mumblings became the story real – and these notes also helped him gain the perspective he needed when he interviewed people ‘on the air.’

Yet tonight something felt ‘off’ – and eerily so. First came Sara’s contrite withdrawal, then there’d been the defeated mood on the Tube. And for hours he’d felt like the norms that had guided American foreign and domestic policy for decades had finally gone off the rails, and yet the most worrisome part of this change was that it ‘appeared’ to be the Will of the People, but after all the histrionics of the past four years Lawton still had a hard time swallowing that idea. Populist movements like the one now found in America weren’t spontaneous eruptions of popular sentiment; no, they had been engineered over decades by people with opaque agendas, people willing to use the core tenets of an open society to destroy the foundations of that society. And authoritarian propaganda wasn’t exactly rocket science, was it? Both the means and the ends were taught in every political science class these days, and that had been the case because, it had been hoped, that by shining the light of reason onto such techniques it would be all the more difficult for the current dictator du jour to pull it off again.

But for that to hold true it would have been necessary for the politicians of the so-called Ruling Classes to play by the old, established rules of the game, and that had proven America’s undoing. Republicans had, by and large, supported the idea of impeaching Richard Nixon in late July 1974, but by 2020 all sense of checks and balances had been discarded by the GOP, and the only thing left now was partisan jockeying for power in the service of a working majority. And Justice didn’t mean a thing anymore, especially in the courts – because under the Coalition, the only valid verdicts would soon be issued under the auspices of Public Opinion, the very same opinion so easily manipulated by their wizards behind their green curtains. There was a certain, peculiar logic to the entire sequence of the manipulation that Lawton almost admired. It had certainly worked.

Because to that foul end media empires had long sold distorted views of government, at first to gain ratings. But then political insiders worked to undermine the very rules of basic governance by making government completely unresponsive to the needs of the people, and when government failed to deliver on these promises the very same insiders blamed government for failing the people. In a sense, the insiders had created a circular firing squad, because as this media circus further distorted and amplified the failures of government they also encouraged outrage directed at the old school insiders still working to make government deliver on it’s promises. But what made Lawton laugh loudest was the realization that none of it made sense until you realized the entire scheme was a political hit job orchestrated by none other than the Kremlin and their allies in America media, in other words, by the politicians and oligarchs that would most benefit by a rewriting of the old rules.

But when Neo-Nazis and White Nationalists formed an alliance with the main evangelical Christian political movement within the Republican Party, a new, much more powerful dynamic had been created through the new Faith and Freedom Coalition, which had proven to be not so easily managed as the Undermining Insiders had hoped, as liberals and other progressives were now called. Of course the original Coalition had splintered into more violent cadres, and members of these new splinter groups were much more likely to employ outright violence to achieve their goals, so when it appeared that Republicans might win the election, talk of a Second Civil War had suddenly taken on a new urgency. ‘But how could there even be a civil war,’ the old Undermining Insiders cried, ‘when both sides are evenly distributed throughout the country?’ 

Lawton wasn’t alone in realizing that the model for that type of civil war had played out in South Vietnam, when neighbors started killing neighbors and when no one was safe. Putting up a yard sign stating your political preferences had by last November become an act of defiance in many parts of the country, and in some states it was an act that could get you gunned down in your front yard.

So when Lawton reflected on the conversations of Americans he’d overheard on the Underground he understood the fear these people were worried about. It was, he had to admit, not all that different from the anger and frustration he’d overheard in Kyiv and Odesa, or even in Afghanistan during the last days of the American occupation. When the unifying fabric of a society began to fray around the edges it wasn’t long before the whole enterprise began to fall apart.

Lawton finally gave up on the idea of sleep and took a long shower, then he repacked his suitcase and made sure his phone and camera were fully charged before checking out of the hotel. Once on the Paddington Express he sat in silence, hardly noticing that the carriage was stone-cold empty. But when he made his way up the escalators to the check-in concourse at Heathrow’s T5 he found that the entire building looked, and felt, deserted. He walked over to the BA Business Class check-in counter and once again noted that no one else was waiting in line, and to him that was a very bad sign indeed.

“What’s going on?” he asked as he walked up to the lone agent behind the counter.

“Very few people flying to the States right now,” the girl said with a shrug. “I guess because everything still feels so unsettled over there.”

“How long has it been like this?”

“Since the election, early November I think.”

He nodded, then decided to change the subject. “What’s the equipment today?”

“Oh, I see they’ve changed it back to an A-321 again, so another narrow body today. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Oh? So no more wide bodies? No A380s or 747s?”

“Oh, no, not in weeks. I think there were only five or six passengers on yesterday’s outbound flight. Not sure about this morning, but a few of the flights coming in from the States are still almost full.”

“How long has that been going on?”

“Since the elections,” she repeated, exasperated by this dullard’s insipid questions. 

“Are any outbound flights full?”

“Malaga is running full this week, and so are flights to Athens and Barcelona, where the cruise ships embark, but no one is sure how long those will last. Some flights to South Africa and Argentina are running quite full.”

“Why are people so uneasy here? Are you hearing anything?”

“Mainly Russia and, well, you know, the political instability both there and in the States. A lot of people think the war will spill out into the Baltics any day now.”

“What would you do if war broke out?”

The girl, and she couldn’t have been more than 25-years-old, seemed unsure what she could, or should say, and then he realized she was acting as if she was under surveillance. He wasn’t surprised when she finally just shook her head: “I’m not really sure, Mr Lawton. So, just one bag to check this morning, or will you be carrying that with you onboard?”

He took the hint and moved on to security, then he wound his way through the maze of duty-free shops and found that BAs lounges were ‘Closed for Renovations’ and that there wasn’t a single restaurant open, either. Of course there were at least two Starbucks up and running, so he settled for an iced coffee and a stale pastry, then about halfway through his coffee he remembered he’d wanted to sleep on the flight.

“Well balls! So much for that,” he said to the four walls. Finishing up with his snack he took out his Leica Q3 and walked around the terminal taking pictures of the overwhelming emptiness, and then he walked over and shot a few pictures of the barren ramps, noting that several airliners had hard plastic covers over their engine inlets; he remembered that was only done when an airliner wouldn’t be flown for several days – or even weeks – and that, he knew, said it all.

When his flight was called he found he was the lone passenger lining up when Business Class was called, though he noted a few college kids boarded when coach was called, and those subdued kids walked to the very rear of the aircraft without so much as a word said between them. No one had checked his ticket at the boarding door, either, so he settled in and had just started taking pictures out the window when he felt someone sit down in the seat next to his. His first reaction was to feel aggravated at having to share a row with anyone on an otherwise empty flight, but when he turned to see who had the temerity to sit next to him he just groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Well, fancy meeting you here,” the BBCs Angela Eastman said brightly – with a Pepsodent smile that was totally inappropriate for this time of day.

He stared at the woman but said not a word.

“I hear the weather in Mississippi is perfectly dreadful this time of year,” she added with a polite smile. “Of course, I had no idea what to pack.”

Again, he simply stared at her – wishing she would vanish or, failing that, simply just go away, like any other bad dream.

“What? No pithy denials? Not up for some more idle chit-chat?” she said, her lips puckering into an infantile pout that still somehow managed to look perfectly cute on her professionally made-up face.

And maybe it was her face that finally got to him. He smiled – a little – but then stood and went to the forward WC to wash the beading sweat from his forehead, and he stared at his reflection in the mirror for a while as he tried to come to terms with the same two emotions that had controlled his life right up to the end of his last marriage – which had been his third. He always felt unbridled lust when he looked at a face like Eastman’s, yet that lust had always been tempered by unreconciled self-loathing which, not surprisingly, grew out of his inability to control his lust. And so he’d proceeded through life guided by his hyperactive penis, chasing after every good looking woman he laid eyes on, and often despite the inherent dangers such pursuits entailed. ‘Hell,’ he’d thought more than once, ‘maybe it was because of the danger.’ Like fucking the head of the network’s wife at the annual Christmas party – three years in a row. She was arm candy and always came on to him, so who the hell was he to say no?

Because when he was in his twenties he’d figured out that to a certain kind of woman he was like catnip, and yet he provoked outrageous, often outright flirtatious behavior from married women, and more often than not women who were married to some of the most powerful men in network television. He was, after all, Peter Lawton, and he’d been reading the six o’clock news five nights a week to half the households in the country, and his broadcasts had been number one with married women in the powerful 24-45 demographic. The age group that the networks fought over year after year. And men detested him, too – and for just that reason.

He’d married his college sweetheart right after graduation, but after their second child she’d grown angry and depressed and he’d started hunting off the reservation soon after one of her depressive bouts. That marriage soon ended in divorce number one. Two marriages to actresses followed, each lasting a year or so, but after the last one he’d given up on the idea of marriage and had simply decided to have fun with women – until that approach had proven legally problematic. After that revelation it was like he kept his penis on a leash and didn’t dare let it run free for fear of a million unanticipated consequences. Until he’d been assigned to London and met Sara.

Smart, sexy, provocative – and full of despair – that was Sara. How hard had she worked to conceal her depression? Yet he had loved her even so. But that love had run up against his earlier self and all those other unanticipated consequences. He was, he kept telling himself, old enough to know better, but he’d fallen for her. Until that trip to the Bahamas, when he’d found her bleeding and overdosed in the shower, with knife in hand. Love Me, indeed.

And now here was Angela Eastman, and she represented nothing more or less than a roomful of unanticipated consequences. Probably a bedroom, too, knowing that look in her eyes.

When he went back to his seat he found she’d moved across the aisle – and now she was banging away on a MacBook, sending messages at a furious clip and she didn’t even look up when he took his seat again. The aircraft doors shut a few moments later, then the Jetway retracted and the Airbus was pushed back from the terminal. The lone flight attendant came by as the jet taxied out to the runway and said she’d serve them breakfast once they reached their cruising altitude, and that she had sandwiches for a pre-landing snack – but that was the last he saw of her. They took off to the east and he looked down through low scudding clouds at Parliament and Big Ben, and then the little jet turned south, then west, and as they began chasing the sun across the Atlantic Lawton dropped the window shades and reclined his seat, almost immediately dropping off into a deep, dreamless sleep…

2.

After the empty concourses he’d seen at London’s Heathrow, Washington Dulles seemed almost normal, yet Lawton thought the degree of normalcy on display was in itself perversely remarkable. Europe was a schizoid shambles, with Eastern Europe caught up in pre-war jitters while Western Europe flitted about in abysmally irrational denial, but there was not even the slightest hint that anyone walking around Dulles was concerned about anything happening in Europe – or anywhere else, for that matter. The usual suspects were, as usual, queuing up at Cinnabon and ready to graze through the various burger franchises, but of course the first Starbucks he saw had a line out the door. Lawton ignored them all and stopped at a news stand and picked up copies of the Washington Post and New York Times to read on his final two legs to Jackson, Mississippi, for he would, of course, have to change planes in Atlanta, and as he always did when he returned home, he sighed at the nonsensical waste of time the hub and spoke arrangement imposed on air travelers in the States.

And though Angela Eastman had remained blissfully across the aisle while he slept his way across the Atlantic, when he boarded the Delta A-220 he was more than annoyed when she sat next to him on the overcrowded flight. Not knowing what else to do, as soon as she started talking he took out his Leica and started taking pictures of people and machines moving around on the ramp below his window, as it seemed that nothing was going to stop her nonstop chattering now.

“So, have you learned why they’re sending you to Jackson?” she asked as the last shuttle pulled away from their Airbus.

“No, not a peep.”

“Isn’t that a little unusual? I mean, why send a foreign correspondent to Mississippi?”

He shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. What about you? Know why they sent you?”

“No, not really. There was the story that broke a few days ago about the abortion doctor. Did you pick up on that one?”

He shrugged again. “Sorry, I must’ve missed it.”

“Really? Well, an Ob-Gyn performed an abortion on a girl that was carrying a non-viable fetus – I mean the baby apparently had less than half a brain and wouldn’t have survived five minutes outside of the mother’s womb – but late last week the District Attorney down there decided to file homicide charges against both the mother and the physician, and they were both arrested a yesterday. And guess what? Representatives of the Coalition are demanding the death penalty for the physician.”

That caught Lawton’s attention. “What? You’re joking?”

“No, not at all. There was the usual ineffectual knee-jerk response from the few remaining progressives on the Hill, but so far the media all seem to be on board with the Coalition.”

“I just looked over the front pages of both the Times and the Post – and I didn’t see a thing about the arrests in either paper.”

“See what I mean? The last liberal news organization reporting on events in your country is based in the UK; how’s that for plain ole down home irony?”

“You mean there’s been nothing further about it on the cable news channels?”

“Silence is golden, Peter. Or should we just roll over and say ‘democracies die in silence?’”

“That’s what the bumper sticker says,” he sighed, still reeling.

“Ooh, cynicism. The autocrat’s best friend.”

He shook his head and groaned. “Do you happen to know any dates? Arraignments or such?”

“I heard the trial is set for this Friday, but that couldn’t be right.”

“Friday…? But you said they’d just been arrested? No one could possibly prepare briefs in a capital case in two days, let alone the opening arguments in a case like this. Where’s the ACLU on this?”

“Not in Mississippi, apparently. In fact, most state offices of the ACLU were forced to shut down over the last month. Threats against staff, I think, was the issue cited. And you’ll love this, Peter. Both the mother and the physician are Black.”

He sighed and shook his head, then put his face in his hands. “Of course they are. And the NAACP? Are you telling me they’re silent on the matter? Jackson Mississippi was like ground zero of the civil rights movement, I seem to remember? It’s hallowed ground!”

“Times are different now, Peter. You ever been to the SPLC?”

“In Montgomery? Sure, several times. Why?”

“Firebombed two days ago, nine dead, and my guess is you didn’t read about that in the Post or the Times, either.”

“Dear God,” he whispered, “what’s happening? Where’s the FBI?”

“Compromised, apparently, by internal dissension.”

“Internal dissension?”

“I seem to have heard that means penetrated by White supremacists.”

And at that point one of the flight attendants stopped by and leaned over to speak to them. “Uh, listen you two, I don’t mean to intrude but people have complained about you.”

“Complained? Really?” Angela asked. “About what?”

“You shouldn’t be talking about this stuff in a public place, ya know?” the woman said nervously.

Lawton looked at the woman, and she appeared scared. “Are you saying that some people here are offended by talk of this situation?”

The flight attendant nodded. “Yup, you got it, and if you keep it up I’ll have to call law enforcement, and they’ll have you removed from the aircraft for creating a disturbance.”

Lawton leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, tried to control his breathing and get his blood pressure back under control, while Angela simply smiled and nodded her tacit agreement, and a moment later the Airbus pushed back from the gate.

And at that point Angela leaned close and whispered in his ear: “Welcome home, y’all.”

By the time their second regional jet flight landed in Jackson, Lawton was so angry he could hardly breathe. The first four years had been bad enough, then the pandemic hit and sure, life tumbled out of control for a while, but after four relatively sane years things now appeared to be spiraling completely out of control. Arresting a post-terminated-pregnancy patient – who’d just been confronted with one of the most emotionally wrenching decisions of her life – was heinous enough, but charging the physician with a capital offense was like something straight out of the dark ages. Ten years ago people would have laughed in his face if he’d told them that something like this was happening in America, and maybe the same would have been true four years ago – but not now. Now we were in a race to the bottom, yet no one seemed to appreciate what had really happened.

But he had been thinking as they flew along, thinking that there was some little place in his memory of America that he had missed, something important he’d lost sight of, and yet he wasn’t sure exactly what that was, but he knew that the heart of his story lay in an examination of this one thing, of this memory he’d misplaced.

Representatives from the network’s local affiliate met him at the baggage claim area, and when they met Miss Eastman they were only too glad to help out a reporter from the BBC, so Angela hopped in the van and off they all went, driving the six miles into downtown.

“Mr. Lawton, we put you up at The Old Capitol Inn,” Cheryl Templeton, one of the local producers said after introductions were made. “Miss Eastman, do you have a reservation anywhere?”

“No, nothing yet.”

“Would you like me to call the Inn and see if they have a room for you?”

“Yes, please. That would be so nice.”

Lawton cleared his throat, looked at Templeton. “Do you have the backstory yet? And just what kind of piece is New York looking for? Anything, by chance, resembling the truth?”

Templeton turned and looked at Lawton and he could see the pleading look in her eyes, then the sidelong glance in the direction of their driver – and he realized she was telling him that he couldn’t talk freely in the van, at least not when her cameraman, Brad McNaughton, was around. “I have both standard bios in your background information folders,” the producer said as she passed over several large manilla envelopes, “as well as copies of the DAs charging documents and the press release the Coalition put out.”

“Anything scheduled yet?”

“Interview with the DA tomorrow morning at eleven. They’ve been stonewalling us about an interview with Washburn, and so far we haven’t been able to contact the Polk family. No word on a bail hearing yet.”

“And they are?”

“Fay Polk is the woman whose pregnancy was terminated. Doctor Elise Washburn is her Ob-Gyn, or was, anyway. Uh, I hate to ask, but do you have a suit with you?”

Lawton looked up from Polk’s bio and shook his head. “Sorry. I lost most of my clothes in a missile attack two days ago. I think I’m wearing most everything I have with me right now.”

“Oh well, okay. Well, we’ll see if we can do something about that in the morning.”

Lawton looked over Templeton then turned and gazed out the window – though he shook his head just a little. Pale pink button-down oxford cloth shirt, complete with polo player over the left breast, khakis and penny-loafers – standard issue Ivy League wannabe journalism major in her second job as a line producer, and she’d probably wound up in this armpit of a city after crapping out in a major secondary market like Nashville, or maybe St Louis. He’d seen at least a dozen just like her and her type’s clinging ambitions were tiresome – but often quite useful, too. And this one was seriously on the cute side of the blond-hair blue-eyed equation, so her ego would probably be borderline toxic – but then again, he knew his was just as toxic so maybe they would balance each other out. “Anyplace nearby for dinner?” he asked politely, trying to hide his jet lag by stifling a yawn.

“The food at the Inn is actually pretty good,” Templeton said. “If you want a steak, LaCour is still open and they’re the best in town.”

Lawton yawned for real and then rubbed his burning eyes, then tried to shake himself awake. “My eyes feel like fire-pits. The Inn will have to do tonight.”

“I’ll be by at seven in the morning,” Templeton added, “and they start serving breakfast at six,” she said as they pulled up to the front of a nondescript red-brick building. “You’re already checked-in, Mr Lawton, and oh, by the way, there’s a nice rooftop bar in case you two need a nightcap.”

“Swell,” Lawton said, not able to stifle the next long, deep yawn. “If I’m not waiting for you in the lobby tomorrow morning, come poke me with a stick and see if I’m still breathing. Ya know, on second thought I think I’m too tired for dinner,” he said as he slid out of the van. He waited for Angela and then made his way into the Inn’s lobby, and once he had the key to his room he high-tailed it right to the shower and turned on the hot water. After he dumped his dirty underclothes in the provided hamper he found the little black dopp kit he’d tucked away in a corner of his carry-on and couldn’t wait to stand under the water – when he heard a delicately feminine knock on the door.

So after a long sigh he opened the door an inch or so and there was the BBC’s Miss Angela Eastman, a bottle of scotch in one hand and two glasses in the other, now smiling from ear to ear and looking like she wanted to talk, among other things.

“You are kidding, right?” he sighed as he grinned.

“I’ve been told I give a mean back rub, in case you’re interested?”

All things considered, it turned out he was. More than once, as it happened.

+++++

Benton Baxter, the local district attorney, was of course late for their appointment – but Lawton had expected no less from a mid-level pawn with his eyes now firmly on the prize, at least considering current circumstances. When Baxter finally did show up, twenty minutes later than promised, he told Lawton he could only spare a few minutes – which, once again, Lawton had gleefully anticipated. And that’s when he introduced “Miss Angela Eastman of the BBC, who’d like to sit in on our interview this morning…”

So, Baxter had, as predicted, called his secretary on the intercom and pushed back a couple of appointments. Templeton and her cameraman had already set up their equipment in a nearby conference room, and a few minutes later everything was good to go.

“So,” Baxter said, preening when he saw the red light atop the camera wink on, “welcome back to the States, Mr Lawton. We sure have enjoyed your reporting from the front lines. Were things as dangerous as they looked on TV?”

Lawton smiled. “Yes, well, it is a challenge to maintain your journalistic objectivity when you see entire neighborhoods that have been hit by repeated missile strikes, but then I drove through a couple of your low income neighborhoods this morning and what I found there was strikingly similar in appearance to what I’d seen in Kherson and Kyiv recently.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, let’s look at this home,” he said as he pulled up a picture on his iPhone. “One story wood frame construction, half of the roof caved-in and the floors under two of the four bedrooms have rotted away. I’d assumed the people who live in that house might fix those floors but there are simply too many copperheads in the crawl space to make that happen anytime soon. And as a matter of record, I bring this up because this is the home where Miss Fay Polk was raised, where she tried to carry a baby to term, and do you know what, Mr Baxter? Because of longstanding problems with the water being distributed to the poorer neighborhoods in Jackson, when I tried to get a glass of water in their kitchen this morning, the Polks were actually ashamed when raw feces came out the tap, so yes, I found conditions in Kherson frightenly similar to what I found here this morning.”

“I see. Well, as I’m sure you’re aware, the political situation here in Jackson is very complex.”

“Yes, so I understand. But it has been, or so I hear, that way since 1865, has it not? But tell me, Mr Baxter. When you turn on the faucet in your home, does raw sewage pour out of your taps?”

Baxter looked as if he could murder Lawson, quite literally kill him with his bare hands, but he also knew he’d lost the moral high ground. “I doubt that it does, Mr Lawton.”

“I see. So, could you tell me how many people in the State of Mississippi believe in a woman’s right to choose?”

“I have no idea, sir. I enforce the laws, not public opinion.”

“I understand. But still, considering that in recent polling of voting age people in your state, including young people Miss Polk’s age, almost seventy percent of respondents believe in a woman’s right to choose her own reproductive destiny, so I’m curious how this law came to be.”

“I’m not sure what you’re implying, Mr Lawton.”

“Really? Well then, I guess it seems, to an outsider like myself anyway, that a narrow political agenda is being enforced – at the expense of a truer, more representative and certainly a more democratic expression of the will of the people.” 

“As you say, you are an outsider here, aren’t you?” Baxter’s eyes were now cold and hard.

“Well, of course, but do tell: do you really feel that imposing the death penalty on a physician performing a medically justified procedure is truly warranted?”

“Again, Mr Lawton, I’m just a civil servant doing the job I was elected to do.”

“Ah. That sounds suspiciously like the justification employed time and time again by Nazi concentration camp guards at the Nuremberg Trials.”

Baxter shrugged. “Concentration camps? What on earth are you talking about?”

“Mr Baxter,” Angela Eastman said, sensing this part of the interview was now at an end, “do you think it would be possible for me to interview either Miss Polk or Dr Washburn while I’m here?”

“I might be able to get you in, Miss Eastman,” the DA said, though by that time he was pointedly ignoring Peter Lawton’s presence in the conference room, “providing you don’t use any material from either Mr Lawton or his network.”

“Certainly, sir,” she smiled coquettishly. “I’d never do such a thing without your explicit approval and authorization.”

“Do you have a camera crew with you?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I just wanted to speak with either of the two you have in custody.”

Baxter smiled. “Well then, won’t you please come with me?”

Angela stood and followed the DA from his conference room, leaving Lawton and Templeton to pack up their gear, while her cameraman, Brad McNaughton, broke down his kit and put the expensive camera in a bright yellow Pelican case – yet McNaughton glowered and grumbled while he worked.

“What’s with the attitude?” Templeton asked McNaughton as they loaded their gear in the van a few minutes later.

“What a prick!” the cameraman snarled.

“Oh?” Lawton said.

“Don’t tell me you weren’t picking up on that vibe, man. He was spitting in your face, Mr Lawton. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I was never a big fan of your politics but he’s a public servant, not…”

“He is what he is, Brad,” Lawton said, cutting him off, “but he’s also not the story.” He turned to Templeton and nodded. “Are we getting a clear signal out here?”

“Loud and clear,” Templeton said, “and it looks like we have a solid feed on the recorder.”

The three stepped inside and moved to the editing and transmission console in the middle of the van, and after Templeton plugged the feed into the main data recorder a grainy video appeared on one of the module’s screens, and then, finally, there was Dr. Elise Washburn onscreen. And while the image was less than perfect, the audio was crystal clear. 

Washburn had, they heard her say, grown up in Jackson in the good graces of the Catholic Church, which was in itself unusual, and then she had moved away to college, first to Loyola in New Orleans, then on to the medical school at Tulane. She’d gone on to Johns Hopkins for her internship and residency, yet she’d always known she would come home to practice medicine. She’d taken, and passed, her Boards in Obstetrics and Gynecology before taking a staff position at UMMC, the University of Mississippi Medical Center, in Jackson – and as soon as Roe v Wade was struck down the State of Mississippi had immediately declared an outright ban on most abortions, and then as more restrictions were put in place the legislature had also made it illegal to even teach the procedure. 

As a staff physician at a teaching university medical center, Washburn needed to be able to teach the procedure if only to insure that physicians trained at UMMC could pass all of the core procedures and exams related to the safe practice of Obstetrics, yet now there was simply no way she could do that. Legally, that is.

The fact that Washburn was a practicing Catholic made no difference in the events that followed, which was not as ironic as it first seemed as the most radical evangelical Christian groups also happen to be Catholic, and these groups had all been pushing for a complete ban on the procedure for decades. The fact that Roe was finally struck down as a result of litigation between the Jackson Women’s Health Organization and Thomas E. Dobbs, the lead state health officer with the Mississippi State Department of Health, was a small irony not lost on Washburn, nor any of the other Ob-Gyns practicing in the state.

But when Eastman asked Washburn about Fay Polk, you could see the change come over the physician as she recounted her first encounters with the girl. Fay had just turned eighteen years old and told Washburn that she had been repeatedly raped at home, and after questioning it turned out to have been by a family member. As she had been receiving basic obstetrical care through Medicaid, the federal government’s medical insurance program for the impoverished, the baby’s underlying medical condition had soon been discovered. The fetus would develop along somewhat normal lines, Washburn told Polk, yet it’s brain would not, and once born the child might conceivably live as long as five minutes – but that once the umbilical cord was cut the child would simply suffocate and die. 

Yet Fay herself was not in good health. Chronically undernourished, Washburn discovered the girl was diabetic and had a complex endocrine-metabolism disorder and had recently experienced difficulty digesting food, so carrying the fetus to term was itself ill-advised on those grounds alone. Her GFR indices were also perilously low, which meant her kidneys were suddenly failing too.

Yet the latest law passed by the State Legislature was clear. No abortions would be allowed in the state, period. Not in cases where the life of the mother was in jeopardy and not in cases of rape or incest. Further, the latest law stated that the procedure could not even be conceptually taught or discussed in any facility owned by the state, which of course included the University’s Medical School, but also in any clinic that accepted Medicaid.

It was one thing, Peter Lawton felt, to listen to these things discussed in the abstract, yet quite another to see the empathy and compassion of an Elise Washburn run headfirst into the steamroller of evangelical political radicalism that was now coming to take her life, and he simply couldn’t process what he was seeing. He was an Episcopalian and had been all his life, yet he had been on one overseas assignment after another for the last ten years, so what he was seeing now was the result of a withering meanness at work. And this, he thought, wasn’t just the usual Southern mentality at work, either. This was national in scope, and quite suddenly he was beginning to feel as if he stepped into some kind of bizarre, off-the-wall medieval drama, or perhaps a sequel to The Handmaid’s Tale – as told by William Faulkner.

Yet one thing was clear. Quite clear. Elise Washburn was a kind soul full of compassion who had done nothing more or less than the Right Thing, and now the state wanted to kill her. Lawton, Templeton, and McNaughton sat in silence listening to the physician’s story, and by the time Angela Eastman wrapped up her interview even McNaughton was blind with red-faced fury. “Is it just me,” he said, “or is there something really weird about Christians wanting to kill a physician and a rape victim – who was probably going to die without the procedure?”

Yet when Eastman came out of the County Jail about a half hour later, and just as she crossed Tombigbee Street on her way to the van, a marked patrol car cruised by ever-so-slowly, the patrolman inside eyeing the reporter carefully as she passed.

3.

Sitting in the station’s editing suite an hour later, Cheryl Templeton and Brad McNaughton were piecing together Eastman’s surreptitiously acquired quotes in painstaking order, while an audio engineer – Carol Hoffman was her name – tried to clean up some annoying background noise in the hastily stitched-together digital audio file. Lawton and Eastman had been at the Inn for at least an hour, grabbing lunch and changing into casual clothes before coming back to the station to add commentary to the audio track. 

“Man,” McNaughton sighed, “this sounds like a hit piece.”

“What do you mean?” Cheryl asked.

“It sounds very biased to me,” he added, “almost like it’s conspicuously trying to present just one side of the story.”

“Well, it is one person’s version of events. It’s Elise Washburn’s version, right? What else should we include?”

“What about Baxter’s point of view?” Carol said.

Brad was incensed: “What? Are you serious? Mister I’m Just Enforcing The Law…”

“It doesn’t seem responsible not to include his position,” Carol added. “And I’ll tell you what else is missing. Fay Polk’s part of this story is missing. That very basic human element is missing from this story.”

“And guess what?” Cheryl barked. “Baxter won’t let us near her.”

Hoffman looked up from her DAT recorder and smiled. “Well then, there’s your story. Or at least half of it. Why do you think he’s doing that?”

“Half?” Cheryl asked.

“Sure,” Carol said. “Why won’t he? Does it look like he’s hiding something? But anyway, look at it this way, if Baxter isn’t going to give you access to Polk you’ll just have to get the next best thing, you’ll have to interview Fay’s friends and family. The other thing I’m not hearing here is structured questions. Who provided background to Lawton?”

“I did,” Cheryl pouted, instantly growing defensive. Hoffman had gone to Duke and she was the real deal, and management knew it. Cheryl, on the other hand, had gone to Ole Miss and had only been interviewed here at the station after her father intervened – and even then she hadn’t landed a job. She did eventually land a gig at a small station in Gulfport, but it had taken her four long years to get back up here to Jackson; now Peter Lawton was here on a National Story and Cheryl had to know this was her ‘one big chance,’ maybe her last chance at the big time. “I pulled everything I could off Google,” she added.

“Google, huh,” Hoffman said flatly. “Imagine that.” She looked at Brad and saw him grimace, then shake his head in apparent disgust. She looked over at Cheryl and saw the pastel colored polo shirt and the penny loafers and she knew Cheryl was still going out to dinner with her parents several times a week, but the only thing she think of was Google? No thought of trying to run down an interview, no attempt to do a little detective work, just be content to use other people’s unverified work to fill out a bio for a national reporter coming to town to cover a big story. “Well, okay, I’ve got the file cleaned up. What’s next?”

“Well I…” Cheryl had just started to speak when Peter Lawton walked in, and when she could see he didn’t look happy she stopped talking.

“How much do you have,” Lawton asked Cheryl.

“I don’t…I’m not sure…maybe a minute?”

“Play it, now.”

McNaughton hit play and the segment began rolling, and the longer it played the angrier Lawton grew.

“Well, congratulations Miss Templeton. You’ve succeeded in making me look like an idiot. An uninformed idiot. Thanks for driving me by their house this morning, but have you actually spoken to anyone in Fay’s family?”

“No, sir. Her sister wasn’t home,” Templeton said.

“Who are you?” Lawton asked the girl behind the editing console.

“Carol Hoffman. Working audio today, Mr Lawton.”

He looked her over and nodded. “Uh-huh. Cheryl, would you go get me a coffee?”

“Black?”

He shook his head, exasperated. “Cream and Splenda, same as this morning.”

“Right away, sir.”

After the door closed behind Templeton he turned to Carol. “School?”

“Duke.”

“Jewish?”

“That’s right.”

“And Cheryl’s keeping you down, right?”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Brad said, grinning.

Lawton looked at the kid, then back at Carol. “Know your way around town?”

“Well enough.”

“Brad, grab a camera, preferably something small, and let’s get out of here.”

By the time Templeton returned to the editing suite the rest of her crew was long gone.

+++++

“2400 block of Brown Street, right?” Brad asked.

“Yup. Turn right on Yates, should be the next street,” Hoffman replied.

Lawton and Eastman were in the back seat of Carol’s little SUV, a teal green Subaru of some kind, and both were shellshocked as they looked out their windows at the homes in these neighborhoods. Most of the houses had been built in the 1920s, and even by those shabby standards it appeared as if these houses had been quickly slapped together using the cheapest materials their unscrupulous builders could lay their hands on.

“They’re all the same,” Angela said. “Every one of them. Little shacks made of tarpaper.”

“But the asbestos shingles were a thoughtful touch,” Carol sighed. “Keep some of the rats out, I imagine, at least when they’re not causing lung cancer.”

“So, keeping the cancer in?” Eastman asked. “Well, look at that. A swimming pool.”

“No water in it the last five or so years. Last time they tried raw sewage came out of the water pipes,” Brad said as he turned on Yates Street. “So, this is her sister’s place?” he said as Carol read off the address again.

“Yup.”

“Her name is Keisha, right?” Brad asked as he pulled onto the barren front yard in front of the dilapidated old house.

Carol and Lawton exited the Subaru and walked up to the front door and knocked, and a few moments passed before the door cracked open a few inches.

“Keisha?” Peter asked. “My name is…”

“I know who you are.”

Peter nodded. “How are you doing?”

The woman shook her head and shrugged, and as Angela walked up to the door she guessed Keisha weighed maybe ninety pounds.

“Could we speak to you?” Peter asked. “About your sister?”

“What’s there to talk about, Mr Bad Newsman?”

“We’re trying to understand what’s happening down here, why this happened to your sister…?”

“Really? Don’t know much about Mississippi, do you?”

“Only what they don’t teach in the history books,” he said, trying his best to project some measure of empathy.

“Funny,” Keisha said. “Ha-ha…”

“Do you know what was wrong with Fay’s baby?”

She nodded, looked away. “Called it Edwards Syndrome, or trisomy something.”

“Trisomy-18?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Anything else they tell you about your sister or her baby?”

She nodded. “Yeah, some kinda cyst growing in it head so his head couldn’t grow right, then it heart was growing all wrong and doctors know it ain’t gonna live, and all that time Fay gettin’ sicker and sicker. Throwin’ up all the time and couldn’t eat nothin’ and her kidneys was gettin’ sick too. They talkin’ like she have to go on dialysis to have that baby because it against the law to not have the baby but it gonna be dead as soon as he come out, ya know? Didn’t make no sense, I guess, but nothin’ much ever do ’round here.”

“So, did Dr Washburn tell you that getting an abortion was necessary?”

“Oh yeah, but that the funny thing. She say no more doctors do it here because of the law, and it even against the law to teach other doctors how to do it. She almost last doctor left here that can, but everyone know they just waitin’ to get her.”

“You think they were trying to set up Dr Washburn?”

“Naw, no need for that. It gonna happen sooner or later so they just wait for her then they snatch her up.”

“I tried to speak with your parents this morning, but…”

“They gots the Alzheimer’s, Mister Bad Newsman, but that ain’t the funny part.”

“Funny part?”

“Yeah. They sendin’ they bills to them but they give ‘em to me. Wanna see?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind.”

Peter looked at Angela and the BBC reporter simply shook her head, then quietly turned away.

“Here they is,” Keisha said, handing over a stack of letters from the hospital. “All that stuff be illegal so Medicaid ain’t gonna cover none of it.”

He flipped through the stack, noting that the latest bill – received a few days ago – was for almost a hundred and eighty thousand dollars. “Mind if I take pictures of these?” he asked.

Keisha shrugged. “Ain’t gonna matter much one way or another, is it. That what they do. Send bills then come the collections people, and they buy the bills from the hospital and then the lawyers come and pretty soon the real estate lady come by and put up a For Sale sign in your front yard. Drive around and look at the signs. Same real estate lady, too. Her husband work for the hospital, her brother work at the courthouse, so yeah, Mister Bad Newsman, you got lots to learn about the way things is down here, but that the way it always been and that the way it always gonna be.”

She slammed the door shut then, but she left the stack of bills in his hand.

“And that’s the way it is,” Lawton sighed, thinking of the way Walter Cronkite signed off at the conclusion of each broadcast, then remembering Cronkite announcing Kennedy’s assassination. “And here we are, right back where we started from. It’s like the Civil Rights Movement never happened.”

He turned and started for Carol’s Subaru but a sudden reflection caught his eye and he squinted a bit – and he could just make out a Ford SUV with two men up front, and one of them was pointing a large white camera lens their way.

“Carol,” he said gently, “you better drive, and don’t go even one mile an hour over the posted limit.”

“We pick up some company?” Angela asked. “Like maybe the KGB?”

“Wrong country,” Peter sighed, “same tactics.”

Brad had seen the flash, too, and now he was more than a little scared. So scared, in fact, that he took out his iPhone and did the one thing he’d sworn to never do again.

He called the meanest human being he knew; a man who, once upon a time, had been his father.

4.

“What did he say?” Peter Lawton asked McNaughton.

“That he would make a few calls,” the cameraman said. His hands were now shaking so visibly that even Angela Eastman had asked if he was okay. 

“What does he do?” Lawton then asked the kid.

“I’m not real sure.”

“What? He’s your dad, right? Not like a step-father?”

McNaughton nodded his head slowly as Carol Hoffman pulled out into traffic. 

“The cops in a dark gray Explorer?” she asked – no one in particular.

“Yeah,” Lawton said, turning his head just enough to see the ‘photographers’ pull in behind her Subaru – but still a few hundred yards back, “that’s them.”

“Okay, we should go straight to your hotel,” Carol said, “then you guys need to stay out of sight for a while.”

“Assuming, you mean,” Eastman added, “they let us get there.”

“They’re staying back,” Carol said hopefully. “We’ll be okay.”

“Standard protocol,” Lawton sighed, “will be for them to call in a marked squad car if they want to do a traffic stop.”

“So as soon as I see one of those,” Carol moaned, “we’re toast, right?”

“Pretty much,” Lawton nodded. “Brad, did your father say what we should do?”

The cameraman just shook his head. “Just that he’d make a few calls.”

“Do you at least know where he is?”

“He lives in Florida, I think. He works somewhere in Miami, I think.”

“You guys don’t talk much, huh?”

Brad shrugged.

“But you think he can help?” 

“If anyone can – he’s the one I’d call. That’s his job, I think.”

‘So,’ Lawton thought, ‘the guy lives in Miami and he gets things done that no one else can do, and his son is covering for him. But the kid is too straight-laced to come from a mob family…and McNaughton…is that Scotch, or Irish? Irrelevant. The kid’s dad is in law enforcement…but in Miami? No way he’s a local yokel, which means he’s a Fed. Which means the kid’s dad is either Bureau or…Miami…? DEA? Could he be DEA? Or is he an intel weenie working the Cubanos…?”

When Carol pulled up to the Inn unmolested everyone felt relieved, and after Angela climbed out of the back seat Lawton slid across and got out too, but Carol and the kid remained up front.

“Should we go back to the station?” Carol asked.

Lawton looked around, saw the gray Explorer parked two blocks away under a barren tree with both men still inside, and the older man in the passenger seat was not even attempting to conceal what he was doing – which in Lawton’s experience meant this was an exercise in intimidation – but by who? Or – for whom? “Park in the lot, over there,” Lawton said without taking his eyes off the Explorer, “and we’ll wait for you here.”

A minute later they walked into the Inn and went straight up to the rooftop bar, and despite it being January the weather was quite nice out, more like late summer afternoons in New England used to be. Brad’s phone chirped and he saw it was Cheryl calling – for the tenth time in the last two hours – but he picked it up this time, so Lawton walked over to the edge of the roof and looked at the Explorer.

And yes, the older man was still there, and still looking right at him – only now he was using binoculars.

‘Well, time to force their hand,’ he thought, but first he walked around the perimeter of the roof looking for other surveillance units – but nothing out of the ordinary stood out. Not yet, anyway.

Brad seemed agitated so he walked back to their table and tried to pick out the key points in the conversation the kid was having on the phone, but just then a waitress came over and handed out menus.

“What do you recommend up here this time of day?” Lawton asked, still keeping an eye on Brad.

“The shrimp remoulade is really popular,” the young girl said absent-mindedly – until she looked up and saw she was addressing Mr Peter Lawton, the big-shot news anchor – at which point she seemed to go weak in the knees, “and we have a special today, a fresh red snapper with a lump crabmeat stuffing.”

Lawton was hungry and he knew Angela had skipped over most of her breakfast, so he ordered four shrimp appetizers and four snappers and a chilled Pinot Grigio. He waited until the waitress walked off then sat next to Angela and let slip a long, drawn out sigh. “You know, you kind of get to a point where you expect this kind of shit to happen – when you’re walking around Moscow or maybe Tirana. But not in Jackson fuckin’ Mississippi.”

“Ya know, you’re right,” Angela said. “But this just doesn’t make any sense anymore. None of it, none at all…”

Brad rang off and put away his phone, and Lawton noted the kid looked a little upset.

“What’s happened, Brad?”

“Polk and Washburn just had their bail hearings. Both were denied bail, and, well, we missed it, didn’t we?”

“The hearing? Yeah? So what? That was pretty much a foregone conclusion.”

“Cheryl got it, but the station manager wants to fire me and Carol,” Brad said, his head now hanging low.

Carol nodded. “That figures. Kolb has been gunning for me all year,” she sighed – then she looked at Peter. “Think they’ll come after you too?”

“Nothing would surprise me right about now.”

Angela looked at his face carefully then. “I guess the question is, Peter, do you still give a damn?”

“You know, that’s a funny thing…but I’m not actually sure I ever really ‘gave a damn’ about this job. To me, it was always the story, the truth of things. Whatever I was working on – the truth of things had to matter or the story was just a fluff piece – and I guess that’s why I gave up the anchor desk. I was reading the news that other reporters had worked their asses off to get to my desk, but I can’t tell you how many times I was left to ask the important questions myself. The hard questions. Like the reporters we had out there often didn’t know their jobs, and there were some big stories brewing that they were simply not covering the way they should have been.”

“I always wondered what happened,” Angela said. “People work their whole careers to get where you were, but you just turned away from it all and walked away.”

Lawton nodded. “Times change. Hard news used to sell; now opinion sells. The thing is, my opinion isn’t any more or less informed than the next guys – unless I’ve gone out and really looked for the facts. Then the job is to report those facts, or at least that’s what it used to be, because opinions don’t mean a damn thing. Now you turn on your favorite channel and you know exactly what you’re going to get, even before you sit down to watch. Maybe, Carol, the real question is what exactly does a reporter do in a situation like the one we’re in right now?”

Carol smiled and began: “Cassius was right; the fault dear Brutus is not in our stars, but in ourselves…”

“Goodnight and Good Luck,” Carol and Peter both quoted in unison.

“They have nothing left to sell now, do they?” Angela added. “No policies, just hate.”

“…Nothing to fear but fear itself,” Peter added. 

“What are you guys talking about?” Brad said.

“Edward R Murrow and how Joseph McCarthy used fear of communism to divide people in the 50s. Seems like the Republicans are going back to their old playbook one more time.”

“But didn’t they do it once before, like back in the 30s?” Angela asked.

And Lawton nodded. “Oh yeah, with the Tucker Carlson of his day, Father Charles Coughlin, the Catholic radio priest, who also just happened to be a rabid anti-Semite. In the years leading up to the Second World War, he preached the idea that the US should team up with Nazi Germany to purify the world of Jews. Funny how times have changed, too, because Roosevelt actually shut his radio program down. He couldn’t get away with that now.”

“Wasn’t that the problem with Germany in the 20s?” Carol asked. “That their government got too liberal and Hitler took advantage of it?”

Lawton shrugged. “Yeah, I think it was Article 50 of the Weimar Constitution that did them in, but it’s an age old problem, Carol. If you allow free speech, when does some speech ‘cross the line’ – and who gets to decide if it does? We’ve allowed Neo-Nazis to march for their cause – in the name of protecting everyone’s right to free speech, but should a government allow speech that aims to destroy the foundations of that government? Hitler and Mussolini both used such permissive legal landscapes to sow division and cause the ultimate collapse of their own national governments, and now it looks like that’s exactly where we’ve found ourselves.”

“So,” Angela sighed, “the question then becomes one of degrees, doesn’t it? Do you maintain an absolute right to free speech in all instances, or do you place limits on that right?”

“Well, we already do,” Lawton said. “Common sense stuff, like it’s against the law to run into a crowded theatre and yell ‘Fire!’ But once you cross the line into curtailing political speech our constitution is really very clear: You can’t do it. You must not curtail such speech, no matter how detrimental it is to the country, as long as such talk doesn’t openly incite insurrection or sedition.”

“Yeah,” Brad growled, “and we’ve already seen how well that turned out. Seems like certain people with enough money can buy all the justice they need.” And as Brad finished talking his phone chirped again. “Oh boy, here we go.”

“Your dad?” Lawton asked, his voice a low whisper.

Brad nodded, then he listened to his father – but he soon started to grow pale, and then his left eye started twitching. “Are you serious?” he whispered at one point, but then he listened for several more minutes, at one point asking someone for a pen and paper.

Their shrimp appetizers came and Lawton was too hungry to wait so he piled in, and so then Angela did as well; Brad rang off a minute later and nodded slowly then grabbed his cocktail fork and ate in silence. Carol gave up and joined them, but she noticed Brad was waiting until everyone else was out of earshot before speaking.

And without looking up from his plate he mumbled: “Something big is brewing.”

“Big?” Lawton asked. “What do you mean…big?”

“Big. Apparently some Black cops and sheriff’s deputies are pissed off about this shit and it’s spread to the National Guard. Dad’s heard that they’re going to try and get both of ‘em out of jail…”

“What does that mean?” Lawton said, now wide-eyed.

“Sorry. They’re planning on breaking them out.”

“And who the hell else knows about this?”

Brad nodded. “The governor does, the commanding general of the state guard does too…”

“And if they know,” Lawton sighed, “that means everyone knows. From the local Chief of Police on up to the White House.”

“So what?” Brad snorted. “Eighty percent of the people in this city are Black, so you can reckon on about a hundred and fifty thousand really pissed off people getting involved. But have you thought about what might happen if all those folks get riled up and start carrying torches towards City Hall?”

“Or AR-15s,” Carol mumbled, starting to frown.

“It would make Kent State look mild,” Lawton sighed, “but that would also be playing right into the Coalitions hands. The National Guard was formed in large measure to put down this kind of domestic unrest.”

“Funny how they didn’t show up at the capital on January Sixth,” Angela smiled.

“Lots of funny things about that day,” Carol added, “starting with Michael Flynn…”

Lawton held up his hands. “Stop it, would you? There’s no need to run down that rabbit hole right now, is there? Brad, what does your father think we need to do?”

“Get ready to get the fuck out of Dodge, Mr Lawton. He hasn’t heard anything about you in particular, but he thinks they’d like to discredit you somehow. Kind of like take out two birds with one stone…that kind of thing. The one thing that seems to be bothering my old man has to do with the National Guard. He’s checking now, but it sounds like the Guard wants violence. He called it a flash point.”

“How nice,” Lawton sighed – just as their waitress arrived with plates of fish. His phone chirped then and he smiled at the waitress as he pulled his phone from an inside pocket, and he saw the Caller ID displayed ‘unknown name, number blocked’ – but for some reason he decided to take the call.

‘Hello?’ he said.

‘Lawton?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Be in the station’s van on Congress Street by the jailhouse steps. Tomorrow, 2100 hours.’

Then the line went dead.

Lawton looked up and sighed.

“Who was that?” Brad asked.

Lawton shrugged. “I’m not sure, but my guess is it may have been the military. They want us in the station’s mobile transmitter van tomorrow night, parked by the jail at 2100 hours.”

“2100 hours?” Angela muttered. “That’s military time over here, isn’t it?”

“Yup.”

“But…wait…?” Angela cried. “You can’t be…but Peter, why…it’s such an obvious trap?”

He nodded. “Yeah, sure it is, but this is the first move on the board, isn’t it? Which means this is the story they want to get out, that a couple of liberal reporters broke two Black prisoners out of jail. But wait, because obviously this isn’t the real story. No, now they want this part of the story, the story about a trial no one wants, to go away. But we can’t let that happen, even if that’s not the real story…” 

“What’s the real story?” Carol said, looking unsure of herself now that she was potentially unemployed.

Lawton leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands behind his head, then he looked up at the sky…and there it was. A small drone, watching everything they did.

He quickly looked down, then spread his hands wide. “The real story? Well they got these laws passed but they’re not real popular. Still they worked for decades to repeal Roe and they’re not going to give it up without a fight…” He closed his eyes, then shook his head slowly. “Without a fight,” he muttered slowly, carefully. “And Brad’s dad says they want a fight. The fight, a big fight. They want all the Blacks to come out tomorrow night, they want them to come down here. That’s the real trap. Gather a mob, get them angry, then supply the spark to set them off. The flash point, I guess.”

“Okay, a spark…but like what?”

“My guess is they know those girls are going to be in the van with us, so then they force us to make a run for it. Then they stop us and take us out, preferably right in front of an angry crowd and, of course, probably carried live.”

“But…why?”

“You turn the tables. Riots start, but instead of two martyrs going to trial you now have two escaped convicts on the run – but neatly done away with, and in the process you reestablish violent control over a large swath of population you want out of the way.”

“You mean ‘put them back in their place,’ don’t you?” Carol said.

Lawton nodded. “Boxed up, cut off, and politically isolated, as in Jim Crow version 2. Nothing will turn the ‘undecided’ voters quicker than having their most repressed fears legitimized, as in thousands of armed Black rioters torching cars and businesses over a couple of escaped cons, but then again the same thing happened after the Rodney King riots in LA. I guess the thinking goes the moderates will want all those rioters either shot and killed or picked up and shipped off to prison camps. It’ll be media’s job to present images of burning cities and pissed off Blacks – then all that chaos and disorder will be neatly juxtaposed with more images of troops and order restored.”

Angela crossed her arms over her chest and sighed. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Peter?”

“No, I don’t think so. And I think I know what you’re going to say, too. It’s not our job to make the news, it’s our job to report it. I hear you, and I get that. But Angela, we didn’t start this, did we? They get to make the first move. The question is, how do we counter that move?”

Carol looked at Lawton again: “We get the word out to the Black community that they’re being set up again…”

“They’re not going to care,” Brad sighed. “If those two girls are killed – and it won’t matter by who – then this city is going to go up in flames.”

“It won’t stop here,” Angela said. “Hitler did the same thing, you know. Staged events like this, had film crews on hand…”

“Social media will do the job this time. They won’t need us anymore,” Carol countered. “Images and videos will go viral within minutes, then the rioting will spread to other cities…”

Lawton nodded. “And that’s exactly why the Right hasn’t wanted to restrict social media. Political violence, uncut and unedited, plays right into their hands.”

“So, what do we do?” Brad asked.

“Sorry kid, but you’re going to have to tell me a little more about your dad.”

Brad nodded, but then he looked away. “Where do you want me to start?”

“Why don’t you begin by telling us why you’re so afraid of him…”

5.

The station’s transmitter vans were, like most iterations of the current design, based on a modified C-Class RV chassis, and the Jackson network affiliate had six Mercedes Sprinter-class vans in service that afternoon. With their large, rotating two-way satellite antennas folded flush to the van’s roof, there was no mistaking what they were or what their purpose was, and when people saw these vans pull up to the scene of a crime they assumed that they were there to cover a big story.

And so it was that day. In fact, the three major legacy networks had multiple vans parked outside of the County Jail, and so did CNN and Fox, and all the networks were on hand because because bail had been denied two days before and racial tensions were simmering once again in Jackson, Mississippi. Civil rights leaders had arrived on jets from Atlanta and local pastors had summoned their flocks to meet down by the courthouse that evening, and now the air was electric – even if it was filled with malignant expectation.

The network’s vans were fairly conventional, too. The rear doors opened onto banks of power generators needed to send AV transmissions to satellites in low earth orbit, but those same generators also powered the bulky video cameras the networks still relied on for ultra-high quality video, as well as the banks of floodlights needed to illuminate both the reporters and the scenes they reported from. The middle of these vans were filled floor to ceiling with powerful mobile editing suites, and an editor worked with the producer to shape the contours of any given story from the seats there. Up front the cameraman acted as driver, while the Face, otherwise known as the Onscreen Talent, sat in the passenger seat, for the most part reading the storyline developed by the producer in order to be able to ask questions that fit the narrative arc of the story they were reporting on.

The Hinds County Courthouse is one of these monstrous gray concrete affairs put up in the 50s and that always seem to exude a certain brooding sense of steady purpose, for the people within such buildings are in the business of processing criminals and prepared to pronounce their innocence or guilt, and if so found, the convicted can begin their journey into and through the vast, brutal penal system.

Immediately next to the courthouse is the Hinds County Jail, a modern tan brick structure designed by an architect who seemed to have fallen in love with drawing 45 degree angles, and between the courthouse and the jailhouse – on the ground level – was a sally-port, a covered garage area where prisoners could be unloaded well away from the prying eyes of reporters and the idly curious.

A still employed Brad McNaughton drove van number C-124 east along Pascagoula Street, then made a right onto Congress and he parked in the space indicated by the mysterious voice, but within a half hour every transmitter van in the region arrived, and for some strange reason they too parked on Congress Street, and this was like leaving a piece of chocolate to melt on a hot sidewalk. Soon, many of the people called upon by civil rights leaders and local pastors to gather downtown saw all the network vans parked on Congress Street so everyone in these huge, jostling crowds decided to head up Congress Street and see what was up, and within a half hour more than ten thousand very angry people were milling about the streets surrounding the Hinds County Courthouse. 

Judges about to leave for the day looked out their windows and instead of seeing lawyers and paralegals heading home now saw huge crowds of very angry Black people, most carrying signs decrying the unjust situation unfolding in the jail. These judges became upset by the sight and so they called the police. And the police were more than ready for the call, so their response was sudden, and massive.

Yet there was one other element missing. An angry crowd of White people who had rallied to the cause of Law and Order.

And at that point three Black Sheriff’s Deputies came down the steps leading out of the jail, and they were leading two Black women to the network news van driven by McNaughton. They stopped and opened the van’s side doors and then disappeared into the crowd, and many people now seemed confused. Not coincidentally, several hundred very angry White people appeared on Congress Street; that was when the shouting began, and within seconds the tear gas canisters began flying.

Washburn and Polk had no idea what was happening to them, only that now they were in a van surrounded by technical equipment they had never seen and could scarcely understand. Yet before the doors were slammed shut, and before McNaughton could drive, a dense crowd surrounded the van and a man appeared in the open doorway. He helped the two women out of the van and McNaughton drove away from his parking place, but crucially, so too did five other network transmitter vans. A large street fight was just getting underway too, and the mood on the street had suddenly turned dark and ugly when the tear gas hit, yet in the confusion the vans drove away from the scene.

Polk and Washburn recognized Peter Lawton, the man standing there smiling at them. “Ladies, if you’ll come with me, I do believe it’s time to leave.” Still surrounded by a small, dense knot of people, Lawton led the two women to a small yellow school bus. “Get in,” he said, “and keep your faces down.”

As Brad resumed driving from the area no one noticed that all six vans driving away appeared to be owned by the same network, or that the number on the side of each van was C-124, and neither did the two police officers in the marked patrol car that pulled in behind the group of vans. Soon the vans started changing positions and breaking away from the formation, but by that point the police officers knew that something was up. They immediately radioed for back up and within minutes all six vans had been located and were being tailed.

McNaughton’s was the first to be pulled over, and the two officers roughly removed him from the van before they searched it – yet they found no escaped prisoners inside. In fact, they found nothing but a bunch of equipment inside, and no people at all.

And within a few minutes the remaining vans had all been pulled over and searched – and still no escaped prisoners were found…

…because Fay Polk and Elise Washburn were now inside a school bus surrounded by dozens of other Black women – and two White reporters – and this bus, along with several more just like it, were all headed out Medgar Evers Boulevard to the Medgar Ever’s House National Monument, where a giant rally was scheduled to start at nine that evening.

But one school bus broke off from this convoy and doubled back to Woodrow Wilson Avenue and that bus then drove out to Hawkins Field Municipal Airport, and the two Black women and the two White reporters exited the bus and walked directly out to a waiting Beech King Air 360ER that was registered out of the Bahamas. A few minutes later a sedan appeared and drove up to the King Air, and both Brad and Carol dashed out of the car and into the aircraft, and within minutes the aircraft was airborne and turning to the east-southeast, flying directly over downtown Jackson…

And one of the pilot’s names was Buck McNaughton.

And down on the streets of downtown Jackson the Back people suddenly turned away from the violence and began marching out to the Evers house, where word was spreading that the girls had escaped and were now on the loose somewhere in the city. And all the civil rights leaders, many friends of Peter Lawton, and all the local pastors called for a peaceful candlelight vigil out at the Evers house…

…while just then the police started searching neighborhoods and homes where Fay and Keisha were known to have lived, and even after professional trackers were called in with their Bloodhounds, the girls still could not be found. 

And as the King Air flew over the Gulf of Mexico, and then over Florida, Brad told Peter and Angela and Carol about his father, about growing up without a real father because his Old Man was always off somewhere flying, and not for an airline but for a strange, almost non-existent company that flew spies to Central America one week and then humanitarian relief supplies to Somalia the next. People had tried to have his father killed more than once, too, and ever since a veil of secrecy had shrouded his father’s comings and goings. And these days his Old Man lived in the Bahamas, alone most of the time – because his mother simply hadn’t been able to compete with his father’s tumultuous life.

And a few hours later the King Air landed at a small, unlighted airstrip on a barren, windswept island barely a hundred miles off the Florida coast, and yet days turned to weeks, and weeks to a month, and still no one knew of the two girls whereabouts…

Until one February evening, when Angela Eastman came on live, apparently from the studios of BBC4 in London. And with her were Fay Polk and Elise Washburn, and it seemed the broadcast was coming live from an undisclosed location because attempts had been made on their lives. The women didn’t know a whole lot about their escape from America, only that they had been on a bus for a while, then on an airliner bound for somewhere, where they had in due course been granted asylum. Fay was awkward and shy and remained silent during most of the interview, and she seemed terribly self-conscious that all this had happened because of her poor baby, while Elise had a few choice words to say about some people’s political choices, but she graciously told the world that she was okay now and practicing medicine as she’d always wanted – without Big Brother peering over her shoulder and telling her what to do, or how to do it. The broadcast ended, for the time being, the long political nightmare endured by many of the politicians who had crafted the laws used to tear apart their country, but as that had always been their intent none were upset for very long that the two women had “escaped justice.” They had bigger fish to fry, for their country had not yet been completely torn apart, so there was still work for them to do.

Coda

It said they be a house out on da point, not a big house but even so they say it be nice inside. After da hurricane it be not so good and it empty for long time, but then we hear that a pilot-man bought it up. These pilot-men be strange creatures, they usually Americans that drinks too much, but they fly them crazy machines anyplace they be money.

But da man who move into da house on da point ain’t no pilot-man. No one know da man, not even his name, and da police has told everyone that da man not to be disturbed.

Though somedays, and for a while now, da man slip out of dis house and walks down to da beach in front of his house – and on most days he just sit there, usually he just stare at da dark clouds over Florida, but even so da man be pulling off his shirt and swimming out to da reef from time to time. Then one day da pilot-man come by da house, and several people got out of da car and went inside da man’s house – but wasn’t long ’til da pilot-man left all those people and they don’t come outside much. At least not during the day.

Of course they still lots of tourists on da island, but few being from America anymore, because America be closed off now, in a kind of war with itself. But tourists still walk the beaches, especially to see da sunset, and then everyone gather by da fire pits and sing da songs that make them happy and then they eat conch fritters and drink rum drinks and then go do the things people always do late at night. Now we hear there be nights when the stranger come and walk among the tourists, but I hear people say he always be lookin’ to the west – where his home used to be.

There be a new lady-doctor at da clinic in Cooper’s Town and it be da strangest thing because she be American too, and most doctors around da islands be British, but she a good doctor and people say she fine.

And a funny thing. A few weeks ago a famous lady from London come to da island, and there be a new rumor that she move in with the strange man in his house on the point, and I know ‘cause sometimes we be seein’ them walk on da beach da way some people do, holding hands and all that. Another story I hear say he a teacher, another say he a writer, but ya know that soon enough no one care. He just da man who live out on the point and who look at da tall clouds to the west before he walk out into the deep blue blue and be swimmin’ out to da reef. Sometime the woman be with da man out there, but I ain’t gonna talk about that stuff.

© 2023 adrian leverkühn | abw | fiction, every last word of it…

[Hendrix \\ The Wind Cries Mary]