After the Fall- The Complete series Box Set

by Charlie Dalton

  Anton’s fingers tingled with anxiety. The walls felt very close, pressing in.

  “The Petyekov account has been overseen by our company for many years,” Anton said. “And with the passing of Ilya Petyekov—er, may he rest in peace—means we have been searching diligently for a way to ensure all his assets are well taken care of.”

  “That goes without saying, wouldn’t you say?” Bogdan said.

  The men around the table turned to look at Anton. Disappointed, disgusted.

  “If you don’t mind, Anton,” Bogdan said. “We are on a timetable, so I’ll take it from here.”

  “It’s alright, I can—” Anton said.

  A black glare from Bogdan silenced Anton’s wagging tongue. The younger businessman plastered a winning grin onto his face, and waved for Anton to take a seat. And just like that, he had lost the account.

  Anton sank into a leather swivel chair at the head of the table, plush material squeaking beneath his weight. Bogdan waved a hand over the table. The black surface hummed, and a series of blinking blue lights formed several graphs. The businessmen watched, enrapt. It was a cheap, but effective trick.

  Anton’s eyes boggled too, not at the technology, but at recognizing the graphs and figures floating above his head. This is my presentation! The images shifted and revealed the satisfied expression on Bogdan’s face.

  Bile boiled and bubbled in the back of Anton’s throat. His whole body clenched: his fists beneath the table, his jaw beneath his thin lips. Bogdan gave the presentation but Anton didn’t hear a word of it.

  “Fantastic presentation,” Pietro Vanich, the new head of the Petyekov family group, said after Bogdan had finished.

  “You’re very welcome,” Bogdan said. “I like to overdeliver.”

  Liar! Anton glared. His thighs ached under the force of his fingertips. That’s my presentation! My research! He wrung his jacket in his hands, twisting it, wishing it was Bogdan’s scrawny little neck.

  Bogdan let out a bright laugh at a joke Anton failed to catch. Bogdan may have taken everything Anton had worked for, but Anton let it happen. The knowledge was a hot knife in Anton’s chest.

  “Bogdan, have you considered turning your talent over to our company?” Vanich said. “Your talents are wasted here.”

  “Is there a position available?” Bogdan said. “I wasn’t aware of any opportunities there.”

  The crowd left the conference room. Anton sat by himself, along with his impotent rage. A dull roar filled Anton’s ears, a roar he’d felt every day of his adult life, from the moment he graduated from university. It was disappointment, he knew. Disappointment with himself, with his lack of go-get-‘em attitude that his father always had. A disappointment to everyone he ever knew.

  He pushed himself up from his chair mechanically. He entered the corridor. None of the businessmen even turned to look at him. That was the worst thing, that no one even acknowledged his existence. It was worse than being treated like dog shit. At least then they knew he existed.

  His hands shook so violently he had to thrust them in his pockets. The sound of applause and laughter disappeared as soon as the door closed shut with a soft click.

  Fifteen minutes later, Anton was sitting in his office, packing up his belongings to clock out for the day. He pulled out a stress ball from a drawer in his small desk. The little Styrofoam ball was an in-joke, bought for him when he had won a silly office award for ‘most level-headed businessman.’ Those days were long gone.

  Ever since Bogdan had entered the company the stress ball had been squeezed to within an inch of its life. In just six weeks, the smiley face design had faded, replaced by fingernail pock marks all over its surface.

  The door to Anton’s office slid open without a knock. Bogdan’s face slipped between the gap, an unimpressed curl to his lips.

  “I would say ‘excellent work today, Anton,’ but I think we both know that’s not exactly true,” Bogdan said, clicking his tongue.

  “You stole my work,” Anton said. Even to his ears his voice sounded small.

  “I steal a lot of things,” Bogdan said with a shrug. “Your work was hardly worth being stolen. Consider yourself lucky, Anton. Even though your research was mildly competent, it’s a good thing I was there. You would’ve lost the Petyekov account in minutes if it wasn’t for me. That’s what this company needs. Teamwork.”

  Anton said nothing as Bogdan encroached his space. The younger man looked around, shaking his head at the bleak atmosphere. He clicked his tongue and shook his head at the award certificate Anton had received along with his stress ball. Bogdan waltzed away, whistling a merry tune to himself.

  Anton’s shoulders sagged. Vera’s face appeared a moment later. Anton resumed packing.

  “Hey,” Vera said. “How’d it go?”

  “Perfect,” Anton said, voice flat. “We kept the account.”

  “The Petyekov account?” Vera said, beaming. “That’s great news! Isn’t it?”

  Anton couldn’t keep the poison out of his voice.

  “Go give Bogdan your congratulations,” he said. “I’m sure he’s dying to soak it up.”

  Vera’s radiance faded. Anton marched out of his office.

  COLD RAIN slapped Anton across the face. Sheets of icy sleet sank into his suit like the bad wool it was. In the distance thunder growled.

  Anton marched down the soaked pavement, deep puddles already forming. The driver’s door always tended to stick, and he was already used to it, but now it inflamed his rage to epic proportions.

  Anton raised his fist to smash the window, but held back. He couldn’t afford to have it fixed. He walked around to the passenger side. He climbed in, banging his head. A car honked its horn. Anton slammed the door closed. He shut his eyes, took in a deep breath and listened to the rain patting the roof.

  His shoulders heaved, his eyes and throat burnt, and before he knew it, he was crying. Anton Ivanenkov was not a weak man. It took a lot to crush his spirit, and his had well and truly been stomped into the ground.

  When had everything gone to pot? He’d been the top salesman in the company, and now he was struggling to keep from slipping out. Soon he would lose his office, his respect, everything. All because of some hotshot new salesman. Well, Anton would get his revenge. He’d been top once. He could be so again.

  He climbed into the driver’s seat and stabbed his key into the ignition. The engine wheezed into life, the lights fading slightly as the power kicked in. Anton yanked at the wheel and shoved the stick into gear with a crunch. He pulled out into traffic without checking for oncoming traffic. Good. It was time to inject a little anarchy.

  The wipers smeared oily rain across the windshield, only serving to make the view less clear. Anton glanced down and noticed the speedometer. It was tickling seventy kilometers per hour. He eased off the pedal, and the car slowed down. A sign read:

  Exiting Moscow.

  He was heading north, toward Elk Island National Park. The trees were thick, and a mist was beginning to seep in, choking the view to just a few meters.

  A distant rumble, deep, ran up Anton’s arms and legs.

  “What the—?” Anton said.

  Was this what a heart attack felt like?

  A thin streak of white ripped through the rain clouds, embellished with a bouquet of green. An object careened overhead and slammed into the road ahead.

  Anton screamed like a little girl and spun the steering wheel in panic. His little Lada spun, wheels skidding on the slick road’s surface. There was a screech and the sound of metal crunching and buckling under its own weight. A fierce pain exploded against Anton’s head. Knocked near unconscious, Anton’s mind spun along with his car.

  Anton wheezed, struggling to breathe through his nose. It was broken. He snorted like a pig. He tasted, rather than smelled, burnt rubber. Anton pushed himself away from the seat of his car, his hand swatting at the airbag hissing in his face. He smacked his shoulder against the door. Once, twice, three times. It
gave way. The cold night air gripped Anton tight and made him shiver.

  Anton wriggled out from between the seat and wheel. Just ahead, Anton spied a crater in the middle of the road, stretched open like a welcoming clam, smoke wafting gray in the winter fog.

  Anton stepped closer, raising his chin to peer into the crater’s depths. Anton blinked rain from his eyes. Rainwater, mixed brown, bled tiny dirty rivers. And at its center: a green glowing pulse with the translucent ribbons of white and gray. A sharp breeze spat a spray of rain against his face. He sputtered, eyes widening. The little rock glowed, smooth and green.

  He edged closer, moving sideways like a crab, as if his shoulder would protect him from anything thrown at him. He stepped over the rocks and debris as he headed deeper into the crater.

  His shoes sank into the mud. He slipped and fell forward, his chin within inches of the sharp rock. He reached out a hand toward it. Its surface was cool, not unpleasant.

  This was the sign he was waiting for, he realized. Something from another world that let him know he was still special. The rock pulsed again, and the glow sank into his flesh. Anton didn’t let go. He gripped harder. It didn’t matter that he was stranded, that he was cold and hungry, because he’d been chosen.

  This was a sign, and it had to mean something.

  7.

  WASHINGTON D.C., U.S.A.

  “FASCINATING. . .”

  Magnified brown eyes peered at the single rock like a lover. The eyes angled themselves into an awkward position to get a better look at every nook and cranny of it. It was difficult, what with the thick layer of protective glass.

  “Incredible,” he said. “Magnificent.”

  Two men in lab coats stood to one side, watching him. One was young, fidgety, with the anxious energy of youth. The other was older, tall, with thick black glasses. A pin-up of geek fandom. The young man sidled up to the older man.

  “Shouldn’t we tell him we need to take it back to the lab now?” he said.

  “Sure,” the older man said. “Go tell him.”

  The young scientist looked from his boss to the man looking at the rock, and back again. He grew pale.

  “Me?” he said.

  “It’s your responsibility,” the older man said. “Unless you don’t think it’s important to get it back to the lab now?”

  The young scientist looked stuck between a rock (perhaps even the rock) and a hard place.

  “Uh. . .” he said.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Uh. . . Sir?” he said.

  The man with the magnifying glass said nothing, and only peered closer at the stone.

  “Excuse me, sir?” the young scientist said.

  Still the man didn’t respond.

  “We have to get the rock back to the lab now, sir,” the young scientist said.

  “Did you know it’s within my power to ask the Secret Service to come in here and have you hauled down to the dungeons we have in the basement?” the man said. He never took his eyes off the rock. “I can even have you hung for treason if I find anything to suggest you hate your country. Do you hate your country, son?”

  The young scientist gulped audibly.

  “N. . . No, sir,” he said.

  “Mr. President?” the older scientist said. “We really do need to get the rock back. Beyond its curfew.”

  President Andrews pressed his lips together.

  “And I was having such a good time with it, too,” he said. “All right. Take it away.”

  Relieved, the young scientist pushed the cabinet out the door. The president sat on the edge of his desk.

  “Was it too much?” he said.

  “It’s always too much,” the older scientist said.

  “What can you do?” President Andrews said. “They give you all this power. You have to take advantage of it.”

  The president clapped the scientist on the shoulder with a grin.

  “Dr. Graham Beck, did you bring your young assistant along just for me to torture?” President Andrews said.

  “I know you like fresh meat,” Graham said.

  President Andrews’ lips drew back into a wide grin.

  “You’ve grown sadistic in your old age, Graham,” he said.

  “I’m just glad he didn’t make a mess on the carpet,” Graham said.

  “Unlike. . . What was his name?” President Andrews said.

  “Forster,” Graham said. “Kid never was the same after that.”

  “The Office comes with a certain gravitas,” President Andrews said.

  “If not the person inside it,” Graham said.

  The president let out a bark of laughter and shook his head.

  “So,” President Andrews said. “That rock is what’s causing all the fuss, is it?”

  “That, and thousands more like it,” Graham said.

  President Andrews shook his head in admiration. Graham smiled. It was funny to see the most powerful man in America marvel at a small space rock. He was like a child given a new toy.

  “We haven’t been able to track them all,” Graham said. “But we have reason to believe they covered a good portion of the globe. We even heard rumors of meteorites found at the poles.”

  “I thought Perseid meteors never made it to earth,” President Andrews said.

  “It’s been known to happen,” Graham said. “Not in this number though. We found this one in California. It was part of a large fragment.”

  “Do you know where it came from?” President Andrews said.

  Graham shrugged.

  “The Belt, the fringes of the solar system,” he said. “We don’t know yet.”

  “Incredible,” President Andrews said, shaking his head. “Traveled millions of miles to land in Orange County. Not the place I would pick. We have other meteor samples. This one looks different.”

  “They’re all different,” Graham said. “Their formation alters depending on a plethora of variables, like us. I turned out handsome. You turned out. . . Well. . .”

  “I have the Secret Service right outside,” President Andrews said with a frown. “Care to alter your statement?”

  Graham took a sip of water and considered his response.

  “Nope,” he said.

  President Andrews grinned even broader, and it reminded Graham even more of his childhood friend, when he didn’t have the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  “The Russians said they found traces of alien life in theirs,” President Andrews said.

  Graham rolled his eyes.

  “The Russians will say anything at this point,” he said. “Everybody’s scrambling to place their flag on a landmark discovery, even if there’s none to be had.”

  “But what if we did find something?” President Andrews pressed.

  He clearly wanted it to be a possibility. But there was something else there, just below the surface. . .

  “What’s going on?” Graham said.

  He knew his friend well enough to know he was hiding something.

  “This isn’t about staking a claim, Graham,” President Andrews said. “Not in the form you’re talking about, anyway. This is about turning the attention of the people on where we want it.”

  “And where’s that?” Graham said.

  “On the stars,” President Andrews said. “On NASA.”

  His eyes flashed with the determination Graham knew only too well. It was the look he got in his eye when there was no choice but to succeed, no matter how long it took, or how hard it would be. It was what had won him his wife, what had got him elected. His indomitable spirit.

  President Andrews turned to a window and pressed his knuckles against the frame.

  “You wouldn’t believe the pressure I got from suggesting a bigger budget for the space program,” he said.

  “I remember,” Graham said. “‘Short term thinking for a one-term president’ I believe was the headline in the papers.”

  President Andrews ran a hand through his hair, premature g
ray sticking up at funny angles.

  “There’s interest in space exploration,” President Andrews said. “Sci-fi is the new cool. Modern technology like something from Star Trek. I just need something to push the people over the edge, to give birth to a new era of obsession.”

  Graham got a sinking feeling in his stomach.

  “What are you asking me to do?” he said.

  “Run some tests,” President Andrews said. “See if you can find something, anything, that can point to life in these rocks.”

  “I can’t find what isn’t there,” Graham said.

  “I’m not asking you to plant something,” President Andrews said. “Just give me something to work with.”

  “I can’t lie,” Graham said. “I’ll lose my job.”

  “You haven’t even run the tests yet,” President Andrews said.

  “Because you insisted on seeing the rocks before I could conduct them,” Graham said. “Now I know why.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” President Andrews said. “How can you know what will or won’t be there?”

  “I can’t,” Graham said. “Neither can you.”

  President Andrews drew himself up to his formidable height, his face turning red, a sure sign he was about to explode. Instead, he let out a deep breath of air. He sat on the window ledge. He looked ten years old.

  “Do you remember the astronaut game we used to play?” President Andrews said.

  “Where we would dress up in sheets and run around the yard?” Graham said.

  “That’s the one,” President Andrews said. “We both wanted to go into space, but it never happened for either of us. But it was okay because I was doing important work and I thought someone else would go up there. But they never did. People need to dream bigger than themselves. To remind them of our place in the universe. To remind the world of what we can achieve, what we can become.

  “We’ve become bogged down with every trivial little thing down here. We need to look up at the stars. If we tell the people we’ve found evidence of alien life, don’t you think that will give the people reason to want to go up there? To begin exploring again? To give them hope? I want to put a man on Mars.”

  Graham couldn’t argue with the president’s logic. There was growing unease in scientific circles about the dominance of laypeople with control over the purse strings of research. But somehow it all left him feeling uneasy. He folded his arms.