"Kate. I'm a writer. I process things differently."
For a moment, all Kate could do was stare. Then, with all the irritation of four hours spent sitting on a luggage latch, she lifted her suitcase and threw it onto the deck. The metal handle of the luggage scraped across the wood, making a god-awful sound. If she hadn't been so mad she might have flinched at it. With a stubborn lift of her chin, Kate took a long step into the boat.
"Now you can process with a human being in proximity. Or I'll call Jake and tell him to commit you." Reesa recoiled at his name so Kate made a quick attempted at humor. "He'll find the sunny side of having you in a loony bin. Compare you to Sylvia Plath or something. Tell the world that your creative genius needs to be protected at all costs."
Reesa snorted a laugh. "Not even Jake could find the selling point in forced therapy."
"Jake Mersin could sell prison time to inmates. He could manage this."
"Well he'd try at least," Reesa's eyes drifted to the land mass of Tokeland, Washington.
The box-shaped little marina was positioned near the tip of a finger of land that stretched into the ocean, a wet mesh of green and brown just before the water cut into it. Kate knew when her friend had resigned herself to the situation. She also knew that Reesa was thinking hard about visiting Jake - which was a very good idea, but Kate had already pushed to accompany her, trying to force Reesa into a six hour round trip to Mersin's office would only backfire on her. So she grabbed her luggage and headed for the small cabin door.
"Be forewarned, I need supplies," Reesa said.
"Good, so do I," Kate took the five steps down into the cramped cabin.
Paperwork fluttered in the wake of her arrival, some of it pinned, taped or stapled to the walls. The trail continued over the table, reluctantly making space for the laptop sitting near the center. Intermixed with the flood of paper were candy bar wrappers and the occasional book. Kate stared for a moment, her mind running through a list of things that were wrong with the sight. Foremost on her mind was that Butterfingers did not count as a major food group but just beyond that was what was really important.
"You've been working?" Kate asked, half accusing and half aghast.
"I told you, I process things differently."
"Well yes but," Kate half-turned and then paused. There was a recurring theme to the patchwork wall paper. Written in different shades of ink, circled or underlined, but on nearly every page were the words "Patient Zero." Kate had to settle a creepy feeling as it crawled up her spine and tried to fathom her friend's obsession.
"It, uh, looks like you're stuck."
The words sounded stupid even to Kate but she had to say something. God knew she would be cleaning this cabin before sleeping in it, and it wouldn't be helpful if Reesa caught wind of her unease. She told herself it was harmless, that Reesa was just dedicated to her work; there was nothing to be alarmed about.
"I am," Reesa said after a minute. Kate watched as she moved into the room and pulled down one of the pages. "Something Tattoo said got me wondering."
"Tattoo?"
"The woman who shot Jake, she was adamant about finding patient zero."
Kate chose to ignore the insanity of nicknaming the dead assailant. "But you haven't written about patient zero," she said. She didn't like the way Reesa was staring at the paper.
"For the most part I haven't." Reesa set the page down and gave a wan smile. "I have exactly three lines about patient zero, and none of them tell me her name."
Kate set her bag against the left wall, "What are the lines?"
Reesa looked reluctant, but after a moment she recited the lines; "Surrounded by doctors and nurses, she cried out for help. Maybe it was for herself, to battle the pain, or maybe it was for something else. Like she knew she was the beginning of the fall."
"Poetic. Creepy. Your fans will love it."
Reesa snorted another laugh that managed to sound feminine. She had that sort of beauty that all women hated and admired at once. Trim body proportioned just right with a gentle curve from waist to hip, blonde hair bleached by sun and saltwater. Reesa's hair was something Kate was openly envious of. Bountiful was a good word for it, though her friend kept the wavy locks subdued in some form of ponytail.
Reesa kept frowning at the paperwork littered against the walls, talking about complicated plot points and issues with the timeline of her novels.
"I keep seeing this blurry picture of her," Reesa said. It took a moment for Kate to remember they were talking about patient zero. "She's darker, I can see that. White jackets keep huddling around her. I can recognize a sort of desperation in her eyes, but other than that, I have no idea who she is."
"Maybe you're asking the wrong questions," Kate started clearing off the table. "Instead of asking who she is, ask what she wants. Isn't that Creative Writing 101?"
"I don't know," Reesa began pulling pages off the walls and adding them to the growing pile on the table. "I never took a creative writing class."
"If I didn't know how psychotic you are, I'd hate you. Do you have any idea how many unpublished authors there are?"
"Several million, I'm sure. Jake keeps trying to get me to teach a class."
Kate laughed as a sudden vision of Reesa at the front of a classroom came to mind; "How to embrace psychosis?"
Realizing she'd just voiced her thoughts, Kate glanced at Reesa, ready to give a swift apology if the girl was offended. But she wasn't. Reesa joined the laughter, agreeing with her, and Kate relaxed. There were moments when it felt like Reesa was far away, not really in touch with reality, but to Kate's relief she seemed to realign with the present. It was a common occurrence, but Kate was always struck with an eerie sort of feeling whenever it happened. Daydreaming shouldn't be considered dangerous and yet, when it came to Reesa, it was.
Almost like there was an inner battle to stay in reality, as though one day Reesa Zimms might never snap out of it.
Kate forced the thought away and smiled, "Now let's make a list of what we need."
***
"This is inane," Myron said from the pilot's chair.
Hedric had been ignoring him for most of the flight, keeping his mind distracted with the mundane tasks of being Captain. Keats had a list of items he wanted, something to try optimizing the Lothogy's speed while maintaining life support. Though Hedric wasn't an engineer or a scientist, he did understand how his ship worked. The double-layered hull of charged cobalt maintained a pressured field that protected the internal aluminum shell, keeping the rigors of space travel out. It acted a bit like the atmosphere of a planet, shoving all those little particles away that would otherwise try to rip into the ship.
It could do nothing for the larger elements in space, of course. But then, if it could, there would be no reason for trained pilots like Myron. And Hedric liked Myron on most days, so the idea of putting the man out of a profession wasn't a welcome one. After eighteen hours of complaints, Hedric wondered if taping Myron's mouth shut would upset the man's equilibrium.
If he was honest, he agreed with much of Myron's irritability. His mother's instructions were precise, fed to them inch by inch as they completed each task. She'd even dictated calculations on the weight of each crew member and extra fuel. It was obvious she was hiding something from him until the last moment, but he trusted her enough to push forward. However, not knowing what was coming was maddening.
Myron craned his neck back, twisting a bit so that he could scowl up at him, "Where is she taking us?"
Hedric flicked the switch just to his left, watching the fuel gauge rise on the milky black MEDS screen before answering. The Multi-Electronic Display Subsystem - MEDS -- was illuminated in light blues and whites, touchable for quick commands and linked to the more archaic, physical backup toggles just behind it. A pulsating blue light climbed a white bar, showing him the percentage of ionic fuel as it was loaded into the ship.
He'd allowed the rest of the crew to leave as they ran through the supply list the
y'd been sent. Myron, being the pilot, was forced to stay behind for this task. Seeing the man's cramped, unhappy shifting alerted Hedric that he should have let the man go as well. An unhappy pilot could make for a clumsy pilot, and there were too many hazards to travel as it was. Even travel inside Earth's atmosphere could be dangerous, what with the Borden Company still tracking them.
Hedric wasn't certain what Mesa had uncovered on her mission to Outboard Jupiter, but he had a feeling they hadn't seen the last of Matthew Borden.
"As soon as the fuel is loaded I want you to take a walk," Hedric said.
"Thanks for avoiding the question."
"You're welcome." He squinted at the video screen of outside the craft.
Australia was in the last stages of the wet season, he could tell by the shrinking pond just three feet from the Lothogy. A month ago he would have described the glassy surface as a small lake, crowded with life and greenery. Now, however, the little oasis had lost much of its plant life and the drier nature of Australia was cracking through the land. Just across the pond, several modern pyramid buildings glared sunlight back at him. They varied in sizes, smaller to larger, but each were made of the same polyethylene cobalt steel that kept the Lothogy safe in space.
Hedric often wondered at the oddity of the human race. Staying stationary seemed insane. He couldn't remember staying in one spot for longer than ten months, not even during his school days. Each semester had been in a different port. From eight years old through Academy and military training and straight into his specialization as a Field Arc, Hedric had always known a sense of restlessness. It was, he thought with a great deal of condemnation, one of the main contributing factors to his taking Quimbley's cursed job.
The MEDS screen made a high-pitched beeping sound and Hedric looked back down. "The fuel is done," he said, smoothing the fuel icon out of view. "Get out of here before you drive us both crazy."
Myron flashed a smile before jettisoning from his seat and climbing the six-wrung ladder out of the flight deck. Hedric could hear the fading rap of the pilot's boots just outside and allowed himself a moment of weakness. Pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to ward off a monster of a headache, Hedric sighed and climbed into the co-pilot's chair. Surrounded by the sheen of aluminum and sleek black computer screens, he began to relax. The Lothogy was as familiar to him as his own skin.
From the outside, the bulbous curve of the ship's cockpit resembled a bird's beak. On the inside, monitors and controls slanted against the curvature of the walls, not so tall as to create a peak at the top. Bracings and mounts were visible when a person was standing, but when seated in one of the three chairs crammed into the dome-like structure, the view became different. Lights, toggles, slides and keyboards were almost overwhelming to the untrained eye.
The pilot's chair was the most tell-tale, with its gyrating platform and two flight sticks protruding out from the dash. Hedric powered off his handheld computer and started the sequence for the pre-flight check. There wasn't time to address the engineer's experiments, and Hedric had his doubts they would survive whatever ordeal his mother had in store for them. He slowly rolled his neck, shoving past the pang of guilt for his deception.
There was still time to warn them all. Freeman and Myron were already suspicious, he knew. Normally Hedric was very up-front about all of their missions, but with this one he had kept the details to himself. Or at least, he had kept what little details he had to himself. His mother was being very tight-fisted with her information, which bothered him on some level, but he didn't have time to dwell.
And he didn't have much of a choice about the deception.
The Lothogy wasn't a one-man ship. He needed Myron - the best damned pilot since the invention of Interstellar Travel - just to get the ship moving. Keats was necessary should something bust, and was technically the owner of the Lothogy. Co-owner, he corrected himself. The math filtered down to Keats paying fifty-one percent of the purchase price, while Hedric had only managed forty-nine.
Keats just lacked that leadership quality. Charisma, some might say. He was also the only crew member not certified as a Field Arc. The lanky, awkward man simply wasn't built for the mercenary fighting that Hedric and the others were used to. Keats preferred to tinker with the mechanics while Hedric had more of the people skills. Up until now, Hedric had kept to a strict code; take care of your men, take care of your ship. By keeping that code, he had earned the respect of their small crew.
Jellison was easy to win over. The bulky, ex-military man was comfortable with following commands, which was good since he was their star Arc. When push came to shove, Jellison had a terrifying aim and an unnerving sort of calm under fire. Freeman was nearly as good, but he'd come from the civilian sector. That made him unpredictable, disorderly, but as long as he got paid he followed Hedric's command.
And then there had been Mesa. There wasn't anything that woman wouldn't have done for him and he knew it. He prayed she had known the depth of his feelings for her. The absence of her voice was an ever-present goad to his soul, reminding him of just how much he had lost. His mind teased him with flashes of memories. They were brief and quick; the glare of sun on her mechanical arm, the burnished shade of her hair, but they were all fleeting, and he couldn't hold onto it.
An alarm sounded, startling him out of the reverie.
Hedric's attention snapped to the controls. The MEDS screen flashed the presence of three Borden Company ships entering Solitude, Australia. Hissing a stream of curses, he flipped the comms toggle and began to rush through the last of the pre-flight checks.
Oxygen - full to capacity.
The crew would get the alarm on their individual comms receivers, a small circular device at the lapel of their uniform, and hurry back.
Ionic Fuel - full to capacity.
Petrol Fuel - full to capacity.
"Damn that money-grubbing whore of a man!"
Solar Generator - Go.
Matthew Borden, probably the richest man this side of the Milky Way, had a mean streak to him. In the seven years Hedric had led the Field Arcs of the Lothogy, he'd run into the Borden Company two dozen times. Borden's elite, known as the Fomorri, were aggravatingly good at their jobs. It didn't matter if they were hunting the same creature, plant, rock or planet; Borden kept a ruthless standard for his men: meet the objective or die trying.
And this time Hedric knew he wasn't just the competition. Hedric and the Lothogy were the objective. Whatever Mesa had uncovered, it had been important. Their reprieve at the Temple had only given Borden's men time to regroup and arm up.
Three more ships set off the alarm again and Hedric felt his stomach knot. "Six?" The word filled the cockpit, echoing the surprise and horror that had settled in his chest.
Six ships? He'd known stealing from the Borden Company would piss the man off, but six ships?
"Well that was a quick walk," Myron leapt down the ladder and shot into the pilot's seat.
"Outer doors sealed," Jellison's gravelly voice announced over the ships speakers.
"Cargo secure," Freeman reported.
With a cursory glance at the MEDS screen, Hedric flipped the switch for all systems go and dropped back into the navigator seat. The crew had been through enough rushed take offs to know it was time to sit down and hold tight, let Myron do his job. As soon as they were airborne they could wander the ship, double check systems and the like. Unless, of course, Myron was forced to take on an evasive flight pattern, and given the six Borden ships that had identified the Lothogy on entry, Hedric knew they were in for a bumpy ride.
"The opposition is in the area, gentlemen," Hedric called into the speaker. "Double strap if you can."
Taking his own advice, he shrugged into the chest straps on his seat and latched them to the buckle equipped on his suit. In the event that something untoward should happen to the ship, there was a button on the underside of his right armrest that would initiate the personal life support system, otherwise known as t
he L.S.S. This was inextricably tied to his suit and the seat, which would eject and inflate the metal-meshed-plastic bubble meant to preserve his life until rescue. Barring several factors, of course; one, the seat had to clear the debris of the crumbling Lothogy; two, if they happened to be inside a wormhole at the time of ejection, then he was dead anyway. And three, the theory worked under the assumption that no one would be shooting at him.
Myron took a sharp left, banking away from their docking point, and sent the ship screaming straight between two of the higher pyramid points. The MEDS screen flashed a warning that they had deviated from the specified flight pattern. Hedric turned the alarm off with a curse as one of the pursuing ships shot at them. Myron echoed the curse, toggling a switch on his armrest that thrust them into combat mode.
The MEDS screen disappeared into the background as a three dimensional hologram of the surroundings shimmered into the cockpit. The pilot's chair sunk down and leaned back, giving Myron a clearer view of the battle. Buildings and land masses appeared blue, targets red, and Myron got to work.
"Mesa certainly left an impression," Myron yanked up on the two flight sticks. The action tipped the Lothogy into a vertical climb and jostled Hedric flat against his seat. "What did she do? Piss on his favorite dog or something?"
"Just get us out of here."
"Sure thing, Captain, which way would you like to go?" Myron rolled the ship to avoid another spray of gunfire.
Even through the hull, Hedric heard the whine of fourteen-foot rails as they barely missed the ship. Hedric glared at three red targets bearing down on them from the left. Two more were flaking them from the right, and one little cuss followed their tail. Myron was good, no doubt about it, but the odds of six against one were obviously not in their favor.
"Space elevator or just a race?" Myron asked.
Space was the preferable option given the dynamics of the ship. But an elevator would take time, and they both knew their pursuers would shoot at them and risk hitting the cable. The orbiting station would then shut the elevator down, disengage and quickly retract the metal cable before it could be severed. In theory, this would keep the cable from wrapping around the Earth and causing all manner of destruction, but it would also make the Lothogy a sitting duck for the Fomorri.
Deviation Page 3