ERO

by F. P. Dorchak

  (home)

  sickness.

  The display suddenly fuzzied and began to “snow.”

  Cherko quickly adjusted with a couple of hurried laptop commands, which momentarily popped up on his visor’s visuals. Within seconds, focus returned, and with it the ability to make out landmarks, roads, buildings... people. It wasn’t just that he could read the proverbial license plates, but he could also tell you how many and what types of insects were plastered all over them. On his holographic visor HUD were several readouts: a Target Acquisition indicator (reading “Acq”) that glowed red for no acquisition, Country (Germany), city (Cologne), surface altitude, lat and long, and surface compass heading readings all blinking red dashes. A green “Rec” recording indicator glowed in the upper left.

  “Okay,” Cherko said quietly to himself, “here we go, in three... two... one.”

  Another muted “beep” went off in his ears, and “Acq” and all the remaining indicators went green and populated with values.

  “We have acquisition,” Cherko mumbled absentmindedly, flexing his sticks.

  He twisted and banked the sticks, adjusting his view. During these missions they were told where to point and when, and were to go in and gather as much intelligence as possible before losing overhead coverage from their air-skimming overflights. Then they were to quickly ship off the data via classified satellite relays that the world thought were commercial satellites, to East Coast intelligence analysts. It was always a secret to them just what they were peeking in on until they actually acquired their objectives. At the moment he was acquiring about mid-way up an office building. At their slant-range optical angle, Cherko had to continually flex his sticks until he could “coerce” as good an image as possible—hence the need for the helmet.

  In the early seventies a concept was designed to send a manned laboratory into orbit composed of spies posing as research scientists. The media, of course, had gotten hold of it from leaks that just never went away, and big news was made about how it had gotten too expensive to fund. The program had eventually been abandoned. But, the truth of it was that it had actually been funded, and had gone operational for many years—hidden within the massive and convoluted bureaucratic layers of government, and at one time or another actually became part of several other budgets, one of which was the International Space Station. Money was funneled, directed, and redirected.

  But things always went deeper.

  A new classified intel program was under development, one that had gone under various and ever changing names, a program that used and integrated incredibly advanced optical imagery and ground mapping software to fantastically enhance intel beyond anything previously thought possible. Efforts had been underway to marry on-orbit optical, radar, and infrared imagery into a package that could be enhanced by ground-level charting software that mapped every square centimeter of Earth. Satellite imagery, modified by this new ground charting software allowed real-time mapping and resolution to permit on-orbit spies to literally peer into windows and collect real-time interior ground-level reconnaissance.

  Cherko continued working his controls.

  But what the helmet gave him was far more than just imaging software. It gave him the additional incorporation of a human’s discriminating mind. It allowed him to coerce further detail from reconnaissance imagery in ways never before imagined.

  He’d been chosen for this mission after extensive testing, brain mapping, and trial and error. When Cherko placed the helmet over his head, and attached the leads, he was literally connected to an artificial intelligence mainframe through which he could teach identification of “fuzzy area” imagery, using his own visual and mental interpretation. He would see an unresolved, indistinct image and “will” it into form.

  Was it a head?

  Using mental discrimination, optics, radar, infrared data, and interaction with the ground charting software, he would then real-time refine the image with the intention of it being a head.

  If the object turned out to be a head, then the image was “coerced,” but if not, the image would refine into an absurd target, such as a head on a floor lamp. He would see this, and could thereby re-coerce the target to make it make sense before final resolution. After this instance was corrected—real time—the system would then learn the algorithm and the object, and if further objects were so identified, the system would refine them itself, until it needed further input from Cherko.

  Ad infinitum.

  Cherko’s image coercion and the software’s recognition refinement constantly worked off each other.

  So, as Cherko homed in on the building before him, he twisted and torqued his “sticks” to bring him in on the side of the building. He always had to work fast. Beat that ticking, ever ticking, always ticking, timeline—the screaming MOL’s time-on-station—before their orbits took them beyond their terrestrial targets. As he used this system, it was as if he was floating directly before fiftieth-story windows.

  Coming into the side of the building, Cherko flexed his sticks as the system brought him into the particular office window.

  But, it was his next action where he really earned his pay.

  He flexed through the window.

  Inside the target.

  Things now got tricky.

  He saw what looked like a person sitting at a desk, his back to him, doing what looked like typing at a keyboard. Picking out what looked like a display screen off to the right, Cherko coerced that image. After some flexing, it turned out to, indeed, be a screen, but even better... words... on the screen.

  Cherko worked his sticks until his wrists ached, but was finally able to make out words on the display. He verified the mission was recording. “Rec” continued to blink green.

  Cherko couldn’t quite make out the words, but they were probably in another language. He kept his focus, kept steady, now only making fine adjustments with the sticks. Steady hand-eye coordination was essential. He glanced to his visor display of the TDU. Time was running out. Then he saw a word he recognized: ausgezeichnet.

  German. He’d studied German—

  Then lost acquisition.

  No matter. They’d been able to get in and acquire the target, and he’d figured out the screen text was German. Just because one was in Germany did not necessarily mean one was using German, but in this case, it proved correct. It was not his place to second-guess the mission nor its objectives. Whatever he collected would help ground-based analysts in further data refinement.

  It had definitely been a good run.

  2

  Cherko drifted from instrument panel to instrument panel. Garcia was in another module working on a backup UHF component that kept tripping malfunction indicators, and Peterson was, according to schedule, in his sleep period.

  Cherko floated over to a viewport. The concept of being on-orbit still fascinated him, even though this was...

  Was it really his first trip here—or his second?

  Third?

  He shook his head, sinuses mildly objecting.

  Did zero-G affect one’s mind? One’s memory?

  He didn’t dare bring up the subject of faulty mental capabilities with his coworkers while in orbit, no sir. Once you got back down to Earth... maybe... in your diary, or with the White Coats, yes... but no, not, and never up here. Not much margin for error up here. Who wanted to be held captive with a possible crazy while in orbit? Sometimes what you didn’t know really couldn’t hurt you....

  But why was he having difficulty remembering things?

  He remembered going through their concealed-from-the-public astronaut training with his MOL crew—trained in All-things Astronaut, just not given the face time like the official ones. The classes, the WETF, the Weightless Environment Training Facility’s twenty-five-foot-deep underwater training tank (he really liked that); endless simulator training runs where every scenario always seemed to have at least three catastrophic failures, and, yes, even the T-38 checkrides out over the Gulf. What h
e called his Barf Bag Runs.

  Then there was the shake, rattle, and roll of their Hermes I launch itself. Yes, he remembered that well. Who could ever forget a kick in the butt like that?

  Aye, the concept of being where he was and how he’d gotten there continued to blow his mind. This had been his goal as long as he could remember. Years of watching the Six-Million-dollar Man’s Steve Austin, astronaut had finally become real life’s, Jimmy Cherko...

  Astronaut.

  And all of this, every thought, memory, or spoken word just felt oddly incongruous in orbit.

  Cherko checked the signal conditioning instrument rack, when the alert came across the secure teletype. It was called a “teletype,” a carryover from earlier days, but it was really just another glorified laptop. High technology was run by commercial off-the-self laptops. The message read:

  Initiate Fast Walker Recon... coordinates to follow...

  As the coordinates appeared on-screen, something within Cherko... activated. He pushed himself over to another set of panels, feet trailing diagonally off behind him. As if working through a haze, he verified the panels were all properly activated and functioning. Then shot back over to his previous station. These messages were of utmost importance and were to be immediately acted upon, no matter what else—including their photo recon coercion missions. He again slid his feet into the stirrups, again slipped on his helmet (helmet lockers were automatically released with these messages), and grabbed the sticks.

  “Rudy?”

  Cherko looked behind him; stared down the length of the empty control module.

  No one. Just humming technology and blinking lights.

  Lights. Idiot lights.

  He returned his attention to his console and knocked down the visor. He could have sworn he’d heard—felt—another enter the module.

  The coordinates were already entered into the system, its optics already slaved and tracked to the Fast Walker.

  Cherko focused in on the target. This was their real mission. The terrestrial intel gathering was a legitimate—though cover—operation, but this was why he was really here.

  A round craft shot across his field of vision.

  Stopped.

  Darted back across in the opposite direction.

  Display indicators in his visor informed him of a SBIRS missile warning satellite in the vicinity of the sighting.

  Cherko flexed his sticks.

  In an era of advanced special-effects TV, movies, and books, everything had already been done. Everything already had a history, a lore, and, of course, UFOs were arguably the largest and most prevalent of any lore.

  Unidentified Flying Objects.

  Either you believed or you didn’t, but either way, the government never officially acknowledged nuthin. But he knew better. He knew for a fact that elements in the government did believe.

  UFO Recon was their unofficial, biggest, hairiest, most highly classified mission. Observe, track, record, and, where possible—interact with—these craft.

  Interact.

  That’s where he came in. All his Program training. Everything about his life had been oriented toward this one end.

  That important mission Hammond had prepared him for all those years ago, on what seemed, now, a planet far, far away.

  Just call him Jimmy FastWalker.

  Interact.

  What that meant was pretty much left up to him, and to which he’d not yet done. No interaction on any of his

  (three?)

  trips here, though he’d attempted contact. And the fact that he was thinking about it, now, was more than faintly absurd. Like an amnesiac memory activated by a forgotten stimulus, and which would have otherwise been left hidden were it not for the incident at hand.

  A rather Manchurian Candidate-like response that greatly unnerved him.

  When he wasn’t called upon to perform this particular mission, he’d never thought about it... never talked about... yet once the message had been received... it set off an unsettling Pavlovian chain reaction.

  Then he remembered it.

  Then he was all over it.

  Then his life was centered around it.

  Compartmentalization. The human mind... a strange and wonderful rabbit hole.

  Cherko flexed his sticks. Telemetry indicated the craft was—good God—the size of a football stadium, had changed directions on a dime, and moved at unimaginable speeds for a ship of such apparent mass. Nothing maneuvers at speeds like that... at least nothing we had.

  Here goes.

  Contact requested, he mentally sent.

  Just like he’d been nocturnally trained all those years ago back on those deserted Colorado plains.

  As Cherko initiated contact with the object, he felt that again curious sensation he always felt when he did this work up here. He felt as if the MOL was closing in on him, like those walls in the trash bin in that Star Wars movie into which Luke and friends had been dumped while trying to rescue Princess Leia.

  Cherko got a severe case of psychic tunnel vision.

  He’d never gotten that below, while working at Falcon or Dulce, but he’d found that once up here—in space—here was a curious, almost frightening psychic claustrophobia he experienced every time he initiated attempted contact. He could keep the fear at bay, sure, but it wasn’t easy. Fits of focused paranoia. Feeling watched.

  Psychically squeezed.

  Cherko fought the urge to again look behind him. You never looked behind you, never, because, if you did... you died. That was horror-movie law.

  So Cherko kept continued focus on the task at hand.

  Requesting contact, he again nervously sent.

  Cherko watched the object terminate its zigzagging movement. Watched it settle. Glanced to the telemetry, which relayed that it still zigzagged after all—except instead of side-to-side, its movement was now forward-and-backward. Explained why it was so hard for him to see what was happening.

  It was shooting toward him and retreating.

  Requesting contact, he again sent.

  Why’d the object do that? Why didn’t it just stop? Why was it wob—

  The object stopped.

  Request con-

  Contact confirmed.

  3

  Colorado Springs, CO

  12 December 2010

  0111 Hours Mountain Time

  Big eyes.

  It was raining. Pouring.

  Biking... he’d been pumping those Schwinn pedals as hard as he could.

  Mom. Had to get to Mom.

  Nibbling... they were nibbling at his hand. They were all around him. Bumping into him....

  Cherko awoke. Sprang upright and alert in bed. Coyotes yipped and barked outside in the night.

  Nibbling at his hand...

  Shook his head. Couldn’t shake the images.

  Why were they looking at him? Did deer really look directly at people—into their eyes?

  Jimmy got out of bed; stumbled against the wall.

  He had to get to Mom... his mother! But the storm, the thunderstorm... it was holding him back....

  Jimmy grabbed the bedpost for support. Tried to sort out dream from reality. He could not shake the images. Eyes. Boring into him.

  He stood before the empty bed. Stared off into the darkness.

  Things always looked different at night. In the light of day the bed was inviting, comfortable, but now, at night, he couldn’t really tell if Erica was there or not; maybe she was just all the way over on her side of the bed—or if it was really her there at all. He turned around and looked to the curtained windows. Light seeped in through the curtains. It was bright out there—there was some kind of really bright light outside. Wrinkling his face, he peered through the curtains.

  Moonlight.

  Of course.

  And deer!

  There was a whole herd of them standing out in their backyard under a full moon!

  One of the deer lifted its head. Looked directly at him.

&nbs
p; Did deer ever...

  Another did the same thing.

  Then another, and

  * * *

  Jimmy found himself standing outside in the backyard in his bare feet, gym shorts, and a ratty Diver’s Reef T-shirt. Stared up into the moon. He stood in several inches of snow. It was uncomfortably cold.

  But peaceful. It was so peaceful.

  What was he doing out here?

  He inhaled deeply of the night air.

  Staring at him. They were all staring at him!

  Nuzzling him.

  Deer!

  One nibbled at his left hand. He looked to the animal. Brought the hand up before him. Looked between it and the deer. Moonlight glistened off the deer’s large dark eyes. Eyes that accused, bored into him. The rest of the herd was over by the gate. The gate that was open and led onto the driveway behind the house....

  Had he opened that?

  The deer were now all gathered over by the open gate, most actually on the other side of it, milling around under the motion-sensing spotlight in the driveway that was now on, tripped by their presence. The deer turned and casually began to walk away.

  Follow them! He had to follow!

  Jimmy walked across to them. Thought about the contrast of winter yard to summer yard. How this was at one time a freshly cut summer lawn with that fresh-cut-grass smell and chirping crickets. Inhaled the memory of those summers-past fresh-cut scents.

  Loved that smell.

  Playing catch with his Dad. Mowing lawns. Swimming in Lake Clear. Backyard BBQs—boy, he could really use a grilled cheeseburger or two right now....

  He passed through the gate and padded along the driveway. The deer continued to slowly meander away. They filed into the heavily misted street. Several poured over onto the sidewalk of a neighbor’s front yard as they headed into an adjacent field, beyond the mist-shrouded streetlight.