Quantum Cheeseburger
Star Ascension – Book One
Jeremy Michelson
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Contents
Sometime in the future…
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
What Happens Next?
Sometime in the future…
Somewhere near
Albuquerque, New Mexico,
or thereabouts…
One
All I wanted was a cheeseburger.
But there I was, naked, shivering, strapped to a refrigerated metal autopsy table, in a stifling hot warehouse in Area 53. A dude with three eyes who smelled like rancid seaweed hovered over me with a whirring bone saw.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
His lips were greenish purple and flapped in ways that made me uncomfortable.
“Hell no, I’m not ready!” I shouted at him.
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
I took time out from my screaming and trembling to notice one of his three eyes was looking elsewhere. The bulbous third eye sat in the middle of his broad forehead. It had a large piss yellow iris and looked off to my left.
I glanced and saw General Mattany. Six-two, jaw like a hunk of granite. His small, dark eyes glittered in the light of the autopsy lamps. The United States Space Corp blues he wore were spotless as ever. A crisp crease ran down the front of each pant leg. His delicate hands were clasped behind his back. He was probably still mad about the broken finger on his left hand.
“Get on with it,” Mattany said.
Behind General Mattany were a motley collection of observers. Dr. Kincaid, short and portly with his soiled lab coat, one hand on his fuzzy cheek. Beautiful Julie, gnawing on her thumbnail. Azor, the Stickman, spindly tall, with too many arms ending in too many fingers. His fibers rubbed against each other with a sound like a violin being molested by a toddler. Azor was probably still upset about his ship.
“It is too late to apologize?” I asked, “Because I’m really sorry.”
The three-eyed dude lowered the screaming blade toward my hairy chest.
All I had wanted was a cheeseburger. With green chilies and bacon.
Two
Okay, maybe I’d better back this up a bit.
It was a dark and stormy night.
Just kidding.
All this happened because I was hungry. I'd started out early from Sandia Labs in Albuquerque on a lovely, sun-kissed New Mexico afternoon. My destination was the old Holloman Air Force base near Alamogordo. Heading south on 54 in my vintage Jeep, I passed through Tularosa around two.
I had the old Jeep’s top down. The wind blew my hair into more of a tousled mess than usual. A secure memory stick rested in my pocket. Orders from Dr. Kincaid to not screw up still rang in my ears.
My stomach growled. It knew what was ahead. I’d skipped lunch on purpose because I knew I’d be down this way.
Just south of Tularosa was this run down shack of a place by the road. It looked like a strong wind could knock down the haphazard construction of weathered boards and galvanized siding. It had been there longer than I’d been driving that road, though.
As it came into view my stomach growled loud enough to be heard over the wind rushing past my head. The shack sat on one side of a big, dirt parking lot on a crossroads five miles south of town. Beyond the huge parking lot was nothing but scrub grass and the low, bumpy blue line of the Sacramento mountains off in the distance.
I slowed the jeep, feeling disappointed. I figured at two in the afternoon the place wouldn’t be so crowded. Instead, the giant dirt and gravel parking lot was filled with pickup trucks and big rigs.
But then Guydoro’s was always busy.
I remember one time I had been so excited to drive up and see the parking lot empty. My excitement turned to crushing disappointment when I realized Guydoro's was closed. A sign on the door said the owners were on vacation. I nearly wept.
I’m sure I wasn’t the only one.
Somehow I found an empty parking space, out near the scrub brush. I hiked over to the building and got in line. The smells of burger on the grill and roasting green chilies made my mouth gush.
Dr. Kincaid had told me, clearly, loudly and forcefully that I was to be at Holloman no later than four o’clock. Blah, blah, blah. You got that Chris, you knucklehead?
You bet, boss.
I glanced at my watch. Even with the long line, I’d still have time to spare.
And it was worth the wait. Oh my goodness was a Guydoro burger worth the wait.
Forty minutes later I sat at the chipped gray Formica counter. I could hardly hear over the din of humanity and clatter of dishes. A waitress with bags under
her eyes and a thousand yard stare slid my glorious burger in front of me. It sat on a spotless white ceramic plate, nestled against a drift of crispy crinkle cut fries.
Oh, the beauty of that burger. Thick, meaty hamburger patty. A melty, tangy slice of Cheddar. Chunky, freshly roasted green chilies washed with lime, salt, and garlic. Piles of crispy, smokey bacon. And oh, that pillowy soft, slightly sweet, steamed bun.
I put my hands around it. It was so big, like a flying saucer from planet delicious. I lifted it up, stretching my jaws wide for that first bite. And, oh my god, that first bite. Exploding in my mouth blissful flavor. Beefy, smoky. Spicy and cheesy. Hot juices ran down my throat, over my fingers, my cheeks, down my arms. And I didn’t care, I just took another bite. My eyes rolled up in the back of my head from the sheer pleasure of it.
Yeah, like that.
Except I have to back up again. I missed an important part.
I didn’t realize it was important at the time. Hindsight is a nasty, cold bitch, however. She laughs in your face and says I told you so.
The waitress, lines on her face, bags under her eyes, etc, slid the spotless white plate in front of me. The glorious burger sat there. It looked like the perfect burger fast food restaurants put on their television commercials. Only it was real. Normally when someone ordered a burger from any place else, the thing they get is a sad, gray slab of protein slapped between two halves of a smushed bun.
But not here. No. Guydoro’s gave the money shot on every plate.
My stomach growled. It begged me to start stuffing that burger down my gullet. I reached for the burger.
That’s when the first guy bumped me hard from behind.
“Watch it!” I said, half turning.
The guy was a giant slab of humanity, dressed in a long, dark coat. That in itself was odd. It was 90 degrees outside, and probably close to that in the shack.
“Sorry,” he said. His hard eyes bored into me. I didn’t think he meant it.
He moved off and I turned back to my burger. The bun was askew. I didn’t think much of it. I figured I nudged it when I looked at the jerk.
A guy to my right drummed his fingers on the counter. Again, I didn’t think much about it. Impatient for his burger, I thought.
Finally, FINALLY, I put my hands around that glorious burger. I lifted it up and took that first near orgasm inducing bite. And it was that good, just as I remembered it.
“Omm mmm grd,” I said around my mouthful of burger.
Then my mouth started stinging. And the man to my right started talking as I took the second bite.
He leaned against me. I started to move, but I was blocked from the other side. The big slab of beef in the black coat.
“Listen, I don’t have much time,” the man with the drumming fingers said.
My mouth was still full of burger. The roof of my mouth and my tongue were tingling. It wasn’t the green chilies.
The man was small, thin, probably in his late fifties or early sixties, dressed in a rumpled brown suit. He grabbed my arm.
“Kincaid is wrong about the lattice,” he said, “He must not use the formula.”
My blood froze. How could this guy know about the quantum lattice Dr. Kincaid had been working on? I thought about the secure memory stick in my pocket with the doctor’s formula on it. Kincaid was so paranoid, he wouldn’t send it over the net, he made me physically carry it to the test site.
“Who are you?” I asked.
The tingling traveled to my cheeks and up to my scalp. It felt like a colony of ants crawling up there. Only the big guy to my left and the rumpled guy next to me stopped me from jumping up and scratching the hell out of myself.
“We need to run, professor,” the slab of meat in black said.
The man in the rumpled brown suit, who was apparently a professor of some sort, gave him a worried looked.
“I know,” the professor said. He looked back to me, his hand gripped my shoulder. “I’m sorry about this, but it’s the only way they’re going to understand. Remember what I said about the formula. Good luck.”
He let go. Slid out of his seat.
Something banged behind me.
The professor froze. “Oh no.”
I turned. In the doorway, the Stickman unfolded.
People screamed.
Three
The real name for the Stickman's race is unpronounceable for human lips. When we first made contact with them out near the orbit of Jupiter, they were quickly nicknamed Stickpeople. Their official name is Perseus Clan since they claim to have come from a star in the Perseus cluster.
Whether that’s true or not, we have no way of knowing. They won’t let us on their ships, and they won’t share their technology with humans.
The most unnerving thing about them is the way their bodies change form. The Stickpeople at rest look like a bundle of black sticks. When they’re awake and moving, their thin, multiple limbs skitter and poke about like a nightmare line drawing come to life. The sticks slide and move against each other, making a noise like horribly out of tune violin. People who have been around them say they smell like cinnamon.
They scare the crap out of most people.
According to the treaty they signed, they were also supposed to stay out of places where humans congregate.
Like Guydoro’s roadside burger shack.
Because the sight of them could cause a panic.
Like it was doing right at that moment.
The big slab of beef in black reacted first. He yanked something out of his coat. I caught a glimpse of a Navy issue plasma blaster. The matte black barrel was enormous. It looked like a cannon.
People screamed and ran away from the Stickman, pouring toward the back of the shack. The wave of humanity buffeted me, pressed my back against the counter. The Stickman, Azor (I learned its name later) kept unfolding and moved forward. Screeching like an orchestra of violated violins.
“Run Professor!” the big guy shouted.
He brought his weapon up and fired. Light erupted from the muzzle. Azor jittered aside. The blast blew a hole in the wall.
The screaming reached a new level. The air stank of ozone and charred wood.
I struggled to move. My ribs creaked as the bleating crowd pushed against me. I really wanted to be running with them. Anywhere would be better than being between the guy with the gun and the Stickman.
I wanted to go home. I wanted my mommy.
The Stickman launched himself at the gunman, a blur of black projections. The plasma blaster went off one more time. The air sizzled. It stank of ozone, cinnamon, and charred meat.
The crowd parted and I slid away from the counter. I gave a last, longing look at my burger and ran. People poured through the kitchen. The cook cursed at them in Spanish, waving a carving knife.
They ignored him. The fight up front scared everyone more than angry cooks with knives.
I let the crowd carry me along.
Moments later I was deposited outside. I stood for a moment. Blinking stupidly in the bright sunshine. People scattered, running for their vehicles.
That sounded like a good idea, so I did the same. I sprinted for my Jeep over at the edge of the parking lot.
Seconds later I was in. I jammed the stick into gear and peeled out of the lot. As I hit the highway a military hoverjet screamed up out of the south. A sonic boom followed it. It rattled the Jeep and thumped my chest.
I looked back. The hoverjet nosed down to a stop. Leveled. Settled down in Guydoro’s parking lot.
Part of me said I should have stayed to give a statement or something. The other part of me said screw that. There were crazy people with guns, scary aliens and now soldiers. I was a civilian. I considered it my civic duty to stay away from those kinds of situations. Let the experts handle it.
I wish I had gotten to finish my burger, though.
I leaned back in the seat. Hot wind rushed through my hair. What had that guy said about Dr. Kincaid’s formula? It was w
rong?
My hand went to my pocket.
I yelped. Nearly ran the Jeep off the road.
I stood on the brakes. Left skid marks down the highway. Burned rubber stung my nostrils as I frantically searched my pocket.
The secure memory stick was gone.
Four
Here’s a short list of things I should have done:
1. Go back to Albuquerque and tell Dr. Kincaid what happened.
2. Call Dr. Kincaid and tell him what happened, then head for Mexico.
3. Say "Screw Kincaid," then hightail it for Mexico and start a new life.
Notice none of those choices involved going back to Guydoro’s and trying to get the memory stick back.
Guess what I did.
Yup.
After I stopped being terrified... After I stopped hyperventilating... After not thinking at all about the consequences of what I was doing...I got mad and jumped back in the Jeep.
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