Turning Point (Book 3): A Time To Live

by Wandrey, Mark

  “We have propulsion,” Alex said as he took the pilot’s seat and buckled in.

  The problem was the metal-on-metal contact. The Azanti didn’t have wheels, it had metallic landing struts. Normally, they’d act as skids on a runway with rubber pads. Those pads had never arrived. Thus it sat, metal legs on metal landing deck.

  “We could have lifted it with a crane and set it on plastic drums.” Alex set the controls to prepare for liftoff. “It would have taken too long to rig the heavy lift crane, though. This was quicker.”

  Patty shrugged and put on her headset. “This is the Azanti, we have a green board. Clear out, we’re going to blast off.” Alex gave her side-eye, and she laughed. “Or something.”

  Outside, the ground crew moved away quickly. Alex could see Jeremiah Osborne standing on his office balcony, high above the flight deck. The brilliant brain behind Oceanic Orbital Enterprises gave a thumbs up. Alex flipped a salute and verified nobody was near the ship.

  “You’re clear,” came over the radio. Alex stroked the power controls, and the ship’s dozen hydrazine-powered maneuvering jets roared. Fire ripped at the ship’s deck and smoke billowed as the jets strained against the 90-ton mass of the spaceship. The jets weren’t designed to lift the ship; they were designed to move it around in orbit.

  Alex watched the fuel readout as the engines roared toward 100%. If the ship didn’t move before the readout reached 50%, he’d have to abandon the effort. “Come on,” he said under his breath. “Lift, you fat bitch!” The fuel level was dropping below 60% when he felt the first shudder. He pushed the throttle hard against the stop. Maybe there’s a little more? The nose rocked up, and the computer compensated. All three contact lights went from green to red.

  “Yes!” Patty yelled.

  “We’re up,” Alex said.

  “Gear up,” Patty said.

  “Engage the drive,” Alex ordered.

  Alison powered the drive, and Alex cut the rockets. They stayed perfectly level, and didn’t move a millimeter.

  “This is crazy,” Patty laughed.

  “You have no idea,” Alison said.

  “Here we go,” Alex warned, and they accelerated upward slowly so they wouldn’t suck the OOE ship into orbit with them. Once they were over a mile high, Alex slid the alien drive control throttle a couple notches forward, and the ocean fell away quickly.

  * * *

  Classified Task Force

  Lieutenant JG Pearl Grange opened her eyes and looked around in confusion. How did I end up in bed? The room looked like a ship’s infirmary, only not like anything on the Boutwell. Then it all came flooding back in one terrible wave of anguish. The ship, her ship, was gone, as was all her crew. Destroyed by a missile attack by an unknown enemy while she was trying to scout a place to set up a base in the Pacific Northwest.

  “Glad to see you’re awake,” a man said.

  Grange followed the voice and found herself looking at a man in some kind of spacesuit. He held a clipboard and was examining her with a sharp eye. “Who are you? What is this place?” She remembered someone questioning her. A tall man with sunglasses?

  “I’m Dr. Meeker,” the man said.

  “Where am I?”

  The man gave a small smile. “As for where you are, I cannot easily describe it. Suffice it to say you’ve been saved for a reason.”

  “Reason? What reason?”

  “Not my place to say,” he said. “I was ordered to heal you, and I have.” He tapped on his tablet. “You are completely healthy.”

  “How?” she wondered. “Wasn’t I blown up?”

  He didn’t answer; instead, he turned and left. She yelled after Dr. Meeker, but he didn’t respond. She was alone in the perfectly white medical room.

  Grange half expected to find herself strapped or handcuffed to the hospital bed, and she was surprised to find out that wasn’t so. In fact, she didn’t have an IV or any of those little sensors they used in hospitals to monitor your heart and stuff. The bed didn’t have side rails or controls she could see. She sat up and turned, putting her feet over the side. She pulled down the bed covers and saw that she was wearing a gown just as white as the room and its fixtures. She was naked underneath, but strangely, she still wore her Coast Guard dog tags.

  Feeling vulnerable and confused, she lowered her bare feet to the white tiled floor. It wasn’t cold to the touch as she’d expected. She felt, for lack of a better word, perfect. It was as if she’d just woken up from a particularly satisfying nap. She got up and walked around the room, examining its contents.

  Aside from the control-less bed, there was a nightstand with a lamp on it. She looked but found no control there either. She opened a drawer in the nightstand and found nothing inside. A dresser at the end of her bed had three drawers, also equally empty. Light came from a defused source set around the edges of the room, which looked to be about 15 feet on a side. Two doors exited the room—one the doctor had left through; the other was a mystery.

  Upon finishing her circuit of the room, she suddenly figured out why it was giving her such a case of the creeps. It looked a lot like the room at the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey—the room Frank Boorman seemed to live his whole life in, right down to the ubiquitous white hospital bed. She looked up, half expecting a big, black monolith to appear. It didn’t, and she noted there was no chandelier either. The resemblance was still uncanny.

  Grange tried the door Dr. Meeker had exited and found it locked. No surprise there. She went to the other door and found it opened into a small, fully equipped bathroom. Like the main room, it was almost completely white except for the fixtures on the sink and toilet, and the toilet paper holder, which were all chrome. Everything looked as though it had never been used—there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere or a scratch on the floor.

  Realizing she needed to go, Grange used the toilet. All the while, she cast her eyes about suspiciously, wondering how many devices were watching her every move. Since she had just hiked up her hospital gown, they hadn’t seen much. Of course, they’d taken her clothes off at some point, so being prudish seemed like a waste of effort.

  She flushed the toilet and returned to the main room, where she found a woman waiting for her. She squeaked in surprise, taking a step back. The woman was old, very old. At least 80 was Grange’s guess. She had a head of strikingly white, waist-length hair worn in several gold-threaded braids. She marveled at how long it must have taken to comb out and braid the hair. At Grange’s exclamation, the woman turned ice-blue eyes toward her. Despite the woman’s age, her eyes were filled with almost otherworldly intelligence.

  “Pearl Grange, it is good to meet you.” The woman took a step closer and held out an almost skeletal hand. “I am Jophiel.”

  “Are you really?” Grange asked. “Does everyone here have weird names?” She took the hand, which was quite cold but had a firm grip.

  “Oh, without a doubt.” She gestured toward a pair of chairs which Grange was certain had not been there before. They were placed against the wall to the left of the bed, opposite the bathroom. “Please, sit.”

  “Only if you tell me why I’m here.”

  “I can only promise to tell you what I am allowed to tell you.” She crossed and sat gracefully in one of the two chairs. She didn’t seem to be affected by her advanced age. Grange’s eyes narrowed as she glanced at the other chair. “Please?” Jophiel inclined her head toward the chair. “I am old and tired; it hurts my neck to stare up at you.”

  I doubt it, Grange mused, yet she moved to sit in the chair.

  “Drink?” A bottle of water was on the table between them. It, like the table and chairs, hadn’t been there before. She gawked openly at it, and Jophiel gave her a knowing smile.

  “Is this a dream or am I dead?”

  “Yes, of a sort, and no.”

  It’s a dream, and I’m not dead. Well, that’s something at least.

  “I will allow you two questions, which I will answer if possible. Then, you wil
l answer two of mine. If you do not, we are done. Quid quo pro, Ms. Grange.”

  “Lieutenant JG,” Grange corrected her.

  The barest of smiles crossed Jophiel’s thin, bloodless lips. She gestured for Grange to speak.

  “Where is my crew?”

  “You are the only survivor.”

  Grange cursed. Despite not being navy, Coasties were still sailors. An advanced skillset in curses was considered a resume builder. “Why did you attack the Boutwell?”

  Jophiel stared at her for so long, Grange wondered if she’d heard the question. Then she spoke. “You trespassed on a classified operation and fired on federal agents who were performing their duties.”

  “They fired on us first!” Grange snapped. “If we were trespassing,” she snarled the word, “why didn’t someone call us on the radio to warn us? We were in the damned Columbia River, after all.”

  “You’ve had your two questions,” Jophiel said without answering. Grange cursed again, and her interrogator’s eyes twinkled. “Why were you in the Columbia River basin?”

  “Orders,” Grange replied.

  “Who’s orders?”

  “Nobody you would know.”

  “Come, come, Lieutenant JG Grange. Your duty station is California. I’m sure there were plenty of people in need of rescuing off the California coast. Since I doubt your mission was classified, you won’t be breaking orders by telling me.”

  Grange frowned. She had her there. “Okay, fine. We were tasked to look for an island to use as a safe harbor.”

  “By whom?”

  “General Rose.”

  Jophiel stared into space for a second. “General Leon Rose, commander of III Corps?”

  “Now, now,” Grange said with her own grin. “You’ve had your two questions. Quid pro quo, Agent Starling.”

  Jophiel’s smile grew big this time. “Very well. In answer to your earlier, third question, we were operating under strict radio silence. The sniper attack was an attempt to divert you without employing overwhelming lethal force. Sadly, you didn’t take the hint. Next question, Hannibal.”

  I wondered if she got the reference. “I won’t ask what’s going on here, because I’m sure you won’t answer. Instead, how have you avoided the plague?”

  “We took precautions early on,” Jophiel said simply.

  Grange opened her mouth to follow up, then remembered she’d asked her second question. Instead, she picked up the water bottle and took a drink while she waited for Jophiel to speak. The water tasted…perfect.

  “Is General Rose in command of the Flotilla?”

  “No,” Grange replied and set the water bottle down. “It’s under naval control. Someone who was in Pearl.”

  “Is your Flotilla coming this way?”

  “I don’t think so,” Grange said. “I never found a suitable location. I’m sure when I never returned, they didn’t come after me.” The last was a lie, she wasn’t sure. However, General Rose only had a single ship and a few hundred soldiers. She doubted he’d risk them on one lost Coast Guard cutter.

  “Very well,” Jophiel said and got up. She gracefully headed toward the door.

  “Wait, I have more questions.”

  “I have no doubt, but I don’t need any more answers right now. Your questions will have to wait.”

  “Just one more?”

  Jophiel stopped and turned back. She crossed her thin arms over her chest and waited. Grange took that as tacit approval to continue.

  “You said this was sort of a dream. Is any of this real? Are we actually talking?”

  “Two questions,” Jophiel said. Grange spat. “However, the answer to your first question is no, and the second is yes. We’ll talk again.”

  Grange moved to follow her, planning to grab the woman and make her answer more questions. She couldn’t weigh more than 90 pounds, fully dressed. Grange had slung wet coils of rope weighing more than 100 pounds in her career. But as she reached out for Jophiel, the other woman dissipated like fog. An instant later, so did the room. Grange fell back into slumber.

  * * *

  ::Cognitive VR Session Terminated::

  Jophiel took the headset off and handed it to a waiting technician. Now unencumbered, she slowly and painfully got to her feet. Her back made a popping sound as she straightened. Sitting in the damned chair was like sitting on concrete and steel.

  “Well?” Michael asked.

  “As you thought, the navy is in charge. However, there’s an army general, Leon Rose of III Corps, on the scene, too.”

  “The one who shot up our recon mission in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico,” Michael said, his expression unreadable. “One mystery answered, at least. And the Flotilla, is it coming north?”

  “I don’t believe so,” Jophiel said. “Looks like Rose sent her to look for an island base. Probably other scouts out too, but she doesn’t know about them.”

  Michael turned to the CVR tech. “Confidence on those answers?”

  “High,” the man replied. “She seemed to realize early on the environment wasn’t real, but her vitals indicated she was telling the truth, based on her neurological response to the news of her dead crew.”

  “Good,” Michael said. “We’ll do this again tomorrow.”

  “Isn’t four times enough?” Jophiel moaned.

  “Not to be certain she isn’t concealing something, no,” Michael said. “And before you go pissing and moaning about why you, you know full well you have the best, friendliest VR avatar in the group. The harmless, old librarian type.”

  Jophiel stared daggers at him, to the usual effect. Nothing. “I’m a linguist, not an interrogation expert.”

  “You are what Genesis needs you to be,” he said darkly. “Just like the rest of us. Since you can’t seem to break the alien’s language, you might as well be useful.”

  “Fuck you, Michael,” she spat and left the lab.

  Michael gave a single snorting laugh most would have mistaken for a cough and walked over to the one-way glass. Grange was on the other side in her hospital bed, being carefully kept alive with drugs and medical devices. She’d been burned over 70% of her body. Despite the grievous injuries, the medical technology at Project Genesis’ disposal could keep her alive indefinitely. They could have healed her, if they’d wanted. He shook his head. After they drained her of useful intel, they’d shut off the machines and toss her overboard. No loose ends.

  The body on the other side of the glass twitched slightly. Another few days, a week at most, and he’d be able to stop worrying about this Flotilla. The satellite recon run an hour ago showed a general fragmenting of the ships. The group was slowly breaking up as they suffered outbreaks. In addition, the Gerald R. Ford was gone. It wasn’t visible within the 100-mile-wide camera run. It must have sunk between passes of the spy satellite. Time was on their side.

  The earpiece beeped, and he touched the control. “Michael.”

  “It’s Chamuel,” the voice came back.

  “What do you have?”

  “The techs have worked out the alien control interface for their space drive.”

  “It’s about goddamned time,” Michael said, excited despite the tone of his voice. “And the other systems?”

  “This breakthrough should lead to others.”

  “Good. That it?”

  “No.”

  Michael could see her in his mind’s eye, body crippled by birth defects, mind as powerful as any of theirs. Her personality was as annoying as she was smart. “Well?”

  “The Russians are moving against some of the surviving US assets.”

  “Who cares?” Michael replied. “They don’t matter in the long term.”

  “We’re some of those assets.”

  Michael pursed his lips, brought up short. “I thought they didn’t know about us?”

  “I calculate an 11% probability a Russian spy sat spotted our missile exchange with the USS Boutwell. That would have drawn attention to our squadron.”

>   “We’re in open water now,” Michael said, recalling the afternoon briefing. “We left the Columbia River delta over five hours ago, and we are over 70 miles off the coast.”

  “There were nuclear attack subs stationed in this region. This was a high priority monitoring area for the Russians, both before and after the fall of the Soviet Union.”

  “Why the fuck didn’t you say something before?”

  “I was unaware you planned to have a naval battle in the river. Maybe if you had consulted me beforehand, when I warned you the sniper attack only had a 29% probability of succeeding, I could have warned you about the outcome.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Michael said under his breath. “Take whatever actions you deem appropriate to ensure we are not a target of the rogue Russian survivors.”

  “As you wish,” she said and cut the line.

  Michael contemplated the bigger picture for a minute, then left the medical section and walked up to the deck. The Pacific Ocean extended from horizon to dark horizon. A million, million stars lit the heavens. He desperately wanted to know which one of them spawned the alien and its society. Genesis was created to manage just such a first contact, only things had gone drastically wrong.

  “We can still manage the situation,” he said with conviction. A shooting star streaked across the sky and died.

  * * *

  County Courthouse

  Junction, TX

  Vance slammed a forearm into the infected’s throat and pushed back as hard as he could. The former human being was incredibly strong, his face lean, and tendons stood out on his neck. He had all the hallmarks of someone who’d worked hard for a living or was an athlete. Regardless, he was now a flesh-eating, infected zombie, and he was trying to tear Vance’s face off.

  The fingers around his throat dug into his flesh, and he felt his skin tear. In a near panic, he brought his knee up into the infected’s groin with all his might. A surprised grunt was all he got for his effort. The animal tried to lower his chin and bite Vance’s hand. Vance felt a sinking sensation in his stomach.