Nighthawks at the Mission (The Long Preview)

by Forbes West

  You squint at him. “I didn’t know that, Jaime, jeez.”

  Jaime grows quickly defensive, not making eye contact. “You didn’t read up anything about The Oberon? I mean that’s like, like the first thing they say, Sarah, really…”

  “How do people get around?” you ask. “Horses? No cars? Sending mail by carrier pigeon, maybe? Is there electricity? Hopefully there are toilets…”

  “Sometimes,” Jaime says, giving you a sidelong glance. “There’s books inside, Sarah. A really good one is The Oberon by Frank Morgan.”

  You stare out into the ocean, glancing at the skyline of Long Beach, California. “We really doing this?”

  Jaime starts to nod but then has to step to the side a little bit as the Queen Mary lurches forward and a foghorn blares out three times.

  “I guess we are, Sarah,” Jaime says, brushing his black hair back with his hand as it is blown around in the wind. “I’m so excited I could almost spit!” Jaime exclaims.

  You, being in a dark mood, mock him to his face. “Oh goodie!” you say, and clap rapidly.

  You walk away down the deck with your coffee. Jaime looks hurt when you glance back at him. You feel bad for a moment, but just for a moment. You take a gulp of your coffee and spit it out over the railing just as Jaime comes up and switches coffees with you. “I usually put in about six sugar packets and fill half of the cup with cream. I am sorry about that.”

  You nod, say thanks, and sip away.

  The knowledge that you are going to a completely different place is unreal and heavy all at once. The feeling of thin ice under your feet is there as well, unpleasant. Perhaps the cracks are already forming.

  As the Queen Mary chugs out into the open ocean, the briny smell of seawater steadily streams into your nostrils. You hear seagulls crying and the continuous blasting horns of tug boats. You watch as the Long Beach skyline, full of condo towers and high-rises, cranes and floating docks, gradually diminishes. The coastline of the world slowly disappears into the distance and you feel a sort of relief, a sort of stillness in your chest, as you realize that you have done it.

  A pre-recorded, cultured female voice comes over the loudspeakers. “The Off-World Network and the Witch-Lord of The Oberon welcome you aboard the Queen Mary and wish you well on your journey to The Oberon off-world settlements. And now your host, Morgan Freeman, who will join you at certain stages of the journey.”

  People begin to clap and cheer, thrilled at their upcoming journey. There’s a slight pause and then Freeman’s deep voice speaks; an uplifting soundtrack plays in the background. “Today, you begin your voyage to a place once found only in the imaginations of the writers of fiction—a place like no other, a place only opened to outsiders after centuries of isolation.

  “Fifteen days from now, you will have crossed the great blue expanse of the Pacific Ocean to the oceanic pole of inaccessibility, the furthest point in the ocean away from all landmasses, or as the sailors once called it, Point Nemo, in reference to Jules Verne’s Captain Nemo.

  “And there, on the day of the southern hemisphere’s summer solstice, December 22nd, you will see the phenomenon that Frank Morgan, the discoverer of The Oberon, famously called ‘God Moving Over the Face of the Waters’—the opening of the great Nemo Gate, the largest one in the universe.

  “As we start our first steps towards going off-world, let us take a moment to appraise the potential fruitfulness of that far-off place you are going to.”

  The Queen Mary steams towards a massive structure that sits in the middle of the ocean, a technological monstrosity that is the new ori-reactor, a sixty story, quarter of a mile wide steel pyramidal structure that tapers off into a narrow flattop. Blue and orange lights dot the structure, and the reactor center has the telltale whitish hue around it noting the active use of power-producing orichalcum. Waves crash and crest onto its base. Small ships with construction cranes and other equipment are docked next to its sides.

  “This project, if successful, will be a Network reactor, Solomon’s House One, built with the plans of the Antediluvian civilization that has been extinct for 6,000 years. When fully constructed and brought finally online, this first reactor will potentially be able to generate enough electrical power to light every household, factory, shop, and school from Los Angeles to San Francisco. Pure white orichalcum, the mineral used for energy consumption, will be this and other reactors’ lifeblood, delivered to all of us by the sacrifices and discoveries of young prospectors and young free settlers who live life on a new frontier.”

  Freeman’s recording continues as you pick up on a couple’s conversation, just barely though as the wind begins to pick up. You notice that nearly everyone on-board is as young as you or only slightly older.

  You take a deep breath, enjoying these moments of absolute freedom but also feeling like you’ve just been cut adrift.

  You feel very much alone at that moment, though Jaime is beside you. Jaime is too interested in the reactor to be of much company to you.

  Jaime notices you staring off into space. He pats you on the shoulder twice and then gives you a little hug, and you find yourself responding.

  ~~~~

  YOU wake up on your end of the bed in the little cabin. Jaime sleeps with his feet towards your head, and your feet point towards his head. Jaime’s feet smell, and you’re a little disgusted every time you spring awake. You have been doing this little routine for a couple of weeks now, as the liner makes its way across the South Pacific. You’re sick of it and sick of yourself for having set up this whole thing to begin with. What the hell has just happened? is now your running mantra.

  You flip on the cabin bathroom light, brush your hair, and stare at the mirror for a few moments. You roll your eyes at the mirror image of yourself.

  You put on jeans and a jacket and step outside into the deck’s hallway; the lights flicker for a moment. It’s almost like walking through the lobby part of that Twilight Zone Tower of Terror ride you went on with Tyler a few months ago. Tyler was so scared he ditched you in line because he heard about the drop and was too much of an effing you-know-what to go on. The hallway is vintage 1930s horror—dust covers all the beautifully ornate crown molding and the almost-Victorian style lighting.

  Up ahead, you see that the door leading to the outside deck has been left propped open, and you step through the heavy doorframe. From the deck you look out onto a millpond ocean. There is a full moon highlighting the lack of new waves.

  Partially illuminated by the moonlight and the glow of lights streaming through cabin windows is a young man, older than you, with slightly ruffled blond hair and a pair of white Ray-Ban sunglasses tucked into the neck of his black T-shirt that sits under a black cloth jacket. He stands there, waiting alone, as if he knew you were coming.

  You say hello to him curtly and he says, “Good evening,” right back at you.

  You look over your shoulder towards the wide, expansive ocean. Dry white lightning rolls out over the horizon without a single thunderclap to be heard. Little balls of lightning, blue and orange in color, begin to dip into the far distant ocean, rise again, and disappear back into the greater darkness. “G-Good Lord,” you say, startled. There is a spread of three green balls of lightning that each fly towards different points of the compass and disappear.

  “What is it?” you say.

  Guy Farson, who looks at you sideways, speaks his first full sentence to you. “Ball lightning phenomena coming out near Point Nemo. It is starting to open. I knew we could see it now. It will be like this for a few hours, then nothing. And then something incredible, like God opening a hole in the universe… You did not hear the orientation stuff with Morgan Freeman narrating? About what happens when we actually go into the Gate?” Guy says with innocent wonder, not mocking you.

  You blink several times. “I wasn’t paying attention.” A strong wind blows from somewhere far off, pushing Guy and you further to the right, towards the outside deck walls. He doesn’t say anything f
urther.

  “Sarah. Sarah Orange,” you say. “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

  “Guy Farson,” he says. You shake his hand up and down with one fluid motion, and Guy continues to watch the display happening outside the ship. “First time to The Oberon?”

  “Ye-yes,” you say. “It should be fun.”

  Guy smiles, looks like he wants to say something but holds his tongue. “That is one way of putting it.”

  Guy rubs the thin layer of stubble on his cheeks, as if thinking about something. “I have no idea why I am volunteering this information. I sort of ‘dayhawk’ for a living. What do you do?”

  You wonder what the hell a dayhawk is, but then remember. “Oh?” you say, chuckling. “Me and my, my, uh, Jamie, are goin’ to be dayhawkin’ too. I guess. Well… At a place called the Super Sargasso region.”

  You keep talking despite Guy’s obvious lack of interest. “He’ll be, uh, grabbing salvageables, is that the right word? It’ll be a hoot.” You realize how retarded that sounds and so does Guy, but he doesn’t say anything.

  “Maybe I will be seeing you out there. I go out that way sometimes,” Guy says back to you.

  Guy Farson then takes out a silver flask and has a sip from it.

  “Is that alcohol?” you ask timidly.

  “No. Not at all,” Farson says, looking at you sideways, seeing if you get the joke. You nod quickly, feeling a chill, laughing a little. “Goodnight.” Guy leaves, watching the electricity play out over the far waters as he continues to walk down the deck.

  ~~~~

  DECEMBER 22nd, 2012

  Summer Solstice (Southern Hemisphere)

  Point Nemo

  You sit on the bed, feeling the top of Jaime’s head. “You are not burning up with fever, at least. That’s a good sign-”

  Jaime interrupts. “I feel like I got to throw up again.” Jaime gets out of bed, wanders in his pajamas to the bathroom, and closes the door behind him. You hear a vile noise come out of him, and it makes you wince.

  Jaime stumbles back to bed looking a pale green. He compulsively wipes his mouth. “You go on ahead to the party. I’ll, I’ll be here until this calms down. I won’t miss it, I swear I won’t miss it…”

  You sigh and stand up. “Look, Jaime, if you need anything, please, uh, well you can’t call me, but call the porter, okay? Don’t suffer with being sea sick…”

  Jaime groans and closes his eyes. “Please get me up when the portal opens, okay? Please?”

  After a moment you leave the cabin, closing the door quietly behind you.

  ~~~~

  THE party is in full swing, the chants of well-wishers and the clanging of glasses echoing throughout Winston’s Lounge. Happy “Summer” Solstice reads the large white and blue banner that hangs across the mirrored wall directly behind the bar. The lounge you are in is towards the bow of the ship, facing the darkness of the ocean ahead of you all. Cigarette smoke fogs every corner. Couples dance on the large tiled floor in the middle of the space while a Huey Lewis and the News cover band sing something about a new drug. The set of TVs for the lounge are being taken down into storage by men in grim, gray overalls armed with ladders. They are precariously trying to get the equipment out amongst a sea of partygoers and the curious.

  You are sipping on a Shirley Temple and watching the people mingle, dance, laugh, drink, and celebrate as time ticks down towards the portal opening at exactly 3:00am, as it does every solstice. It is 12:18am right now, according to Mickey Mouse. You slept most of the day in anticipation of the late night. You are lost in thought, thinking about where you are going. Anxiety fills every pore of your body. You sit there with a sick stomach and an aching and racing heart.

  A lit cigar hangs out of one side of his mouth, and he has a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label scotch in one hand. He is in a sort of business-casual suit, complete with loose tie. Guy Farson, of course, wearing his sunglasses. “Oh god, I love Huey Lewis and the Blues,” he says, trying to be heard over the music as he sways to every beat.

  “N-news,” you say, nervous. The young man you’ve only just met the night before seems drunk.

  “What?” he almost yells, sitting himself down at his table with a thump. Your Shirley Temple almost tips over onto the white tablecloth before you grab it.

  “It’s uh, uh News. Huey Lewis and the News.”

  “Jews?” he says. “I always thought that was an odd name for a band, innit? Huey Lewis and the Jews.” You look around desperately for an easy out.

  The band finishes up their song and tells everyone that they’ll be back in ten minutes to play up to the opening of the Nemo Gate. The noise level dies down a bit.

  Farson takes your glass, drinks all that is left of the Shirley Temple, and pours the Walker over the leftover ice. He flips over an unused white coffee mug that was on a plate and splashes some into it for himself. “I don’t drink a-alcohol. I’m underage,” you say with firmness in your voice. You stare at him for a good moment.

  “And I’m really twenty-eight. I don’t drink except on weekends. I don’t lie to friends, borrow money from family, and I go to church only on Christmas and Easter. Anything else you want to share? You ever do drugs with a stranger?”

  You begin to shake your head and stand up. He holds up a hand and takes a drink of his scotch from the coffee mug. “Look, Sarah.” He licks his full lips as if thinking for a moment, trying to get over some sort of hurdle to speak what is on his mind.

  “Let me tell you something, Miss Orange. I’ll leave in just a minute, but I think that you must be a very interesting girl.” He looks around for a moment and then put his head forward, closer to you. “Let me explain.”

  You cross your arms, hopefully looking tough. He keeps speaking. “You’re by yourself here—no friends that I can see. You just signed up, no problem, by yourself. So you must have quite a sense of adventure—going by yourself, as a young lady. Not a lot of people can do that. I mean, money is tight back in the USA but still… I was watching you from the side as you came in. Everyone here is with somebody, ‘cept you and me. And I know why I am alone.”

  You say nothing for a while. “Maybe you’re right. I always wanted to have an adventure. But you are also wrong—I’m here with my husband.”

  Guy tilts his head. “Who isn’t here now, is he? On the biggest night of the voyage?”

  You shrug. “He’s sick.”

  Guy nods his head up and down, grinning, clapping his hands together. “Sick or not sick I’d be with a pretty girl like you. You know, I’m sick of cake ass niggas like him.”

  You laugh a little and look away from him.

  Guy continues. “I love meeting people who want to break the mold. I was the same way too. Or still am, I suppose. Well then, do you mind if I spend this solstice talking to you? I am by myself.”

  You look down for a long moment and then straight into Guy’s eyes—well, sunglasses. “What exactly do you do in The Oberon?”

  He pauses and downs the contents of the coffee mug. He licks his lips. “I’m the point man for a co-op called Tokyo Sexy Whale. I didn’t make up the name, I swear, I know it sounds just, well, anyway. I’m the first one into the old buildings in the cities. I get first look at old Antediluvian-made stuff that would just blow your effing mind. Incredible stuff is just lying around, waiting for the absolute taking. I’m the guy in the radiation suit with the pistol and the orichalcum baton jumping down dark holes, doing things that are questionable in retrospect.”

  Guy looks out the window for a moment, as if lost in thought. You look at your watch, 12:30am.

  “In a few hours, you’re going to have left the US for the first time and will be doin’ something very different to anything you have ever experienced before,” Farson says, almost as if talking to himself.

  You have to choose between leaving and just letting the man talk. Guy leans back. “Have a drink with me, dear.” He pours you a drink, the very first full drink of alcohol you’ve ever had
in your life. “To the Winkie Country!”

  “What?” you say, holding your glass up. “Winkie Country?”

  “Never heard of that? From the Wizard of Oz. That’s the nickname for The Oberon. Winkie Country—one fourth of the land of Oz—the part of Oz where the Wicked Witch lives. People call the Ni-Perchta natives Winkies because some asshole thought it was funny a long time ago.”

  You and Guy clink glass and mug together and you slug the scotch down. It burns your throat and makes your eyes water. You cough long and hard.

  “Good stuff, no?” Guy says, with a mischievous smile. “Like Gene Hackman says, don’t get too used to good scotch, it’s more expensive than drugs.”

  ~~~~

  YOU and Guy talk the evening away. He tells you about what he’s done, where he’s been, where to go in the Winkie Country. You try to light your first cigar but Farson’s cheap lighter keeps blowing out. You give up and let the cigar just hang there. You take another sip of scotch and probably make an awful face. Guy Farson keeps on; it’s like a one man, one audience member show.

  “Somebody said that the whole thing, being in Winkie Country, is like this old David Gilmour song. The lyrics go like this: ‘When you’ve come in you’re in for good, there’s no promises made, the part you’ve played, the chance you took, there are no boundaries set…’”

  You nod, making as much sense out of it as you can. You can barely hear him at this point, between the people and the steady pop beat of some fast Huey Lewis song from the band. After a moment the band transitions into something slower and sweeter; the physical gyrations of the crowd break down into slow dances.

  “Let’s, let’s do this thing that all the screwing kids are doing. Let’s dance to whatever this song is,” Farson says, slamming the table with the flat of his hand and almost knocking over the bottle of whiskey.

  “Sure.” You get up, putting the unlit cigar into your pocket. It is now 2:45am. Farson looks pleased with himself. You get up and stretch. “Happy to be stuck with me.”

  He stares at you. “Excuse me?”

  “Name of the song,” you croak.

  Guy takes you by the hand and starts dancing with you, leading you awkwardly. “My sister taught me to dance a long time ago, and told me not to go for the ass grab until thirty seconds into the song.”