ERO

by F. P. Dorchak

  Cherko-as-alien was alone. Alone in 1947, standing among a handful of dead HEUFO operators.

  Humans.

  It wasn’t your fault, She sent. There was... a glitch, you’d call it. A problem with compatibility, with the ship’s consciousness and your own. Yours in the alien form. Something went wrong. Ship occupied the same space and time as human ships. Repelled human crafts but they impacted each other.

  Integrated with each other.

  Crashed. Your lack of proficiency also caused us to impact another of our crafts and obliterate it.

  I did this?

  It is not your fault, She insisted. Had already happened in your terms.

  Cherko again felt the wave of sadness.

  But—you’re all dead. Dying! I’ve killed you and your crew! The pilots of our own ships!

  Cherko again looked back into the ship.

  And what about my body! Me!

  They are nearly here.

  Cherko looked into the darkness.

  He heard them.

  But, did he really—or was it more that he felt them?

  In some manner he sensed their approach. And they were close. The Army. That historical CIC contingent from Roswell.

  Oh, my God, Cherko said. What have I done?

  There is no place to go, She sent. He felt She looking down to Qxuill, who, he felt, had just departed his form. In his mind’s eye Cherko saw the history he’d either just created or interfered with.

  Recreated?

  Saw this ship captured. Poured over. Analyzed. Saw She and her ship captured and her eventual death. Something had definitely gone wrong with their ship and it was down, but way to the west.

  And now he was left standing in his alien form before a couple of dead humans—transferred in some out-there quantum-physics-time warp Heisenberg Uncertainty fuck-up into one of the HEUFOs they’d just been observing.

  Yes, a helluva glitch, he’d say.

  In his mind’s eye he saw the entire UFO phenomena play out. Saw it all. All he had just created with one uncontrolled, set free, Human stray thought....

  I’m so sorry, Cherko sent.

  Cherko felt She smile.

  There is nothing to be sorry about. Since this had already happened in this continuum, it had already occurred. There is nothing for which to apologize.

  But, why didn’t you just tell me... why didn’t you—

  It was never a matter of informing you about anything... Time is an illusion....

  The sounds of jeeps and trucks and other vehicles hurried toward them. Cherko saw headlights popping up and down over hills and zigzagging across uneven terrain.

  Coming for them.

  In his mind’s eye Cherko saw She lay down with her crew.

  She!

  It is what it is, my friend. I greatly wish I could assist you in your circumstances, She last sent to Cherko.

  Cherko hurried around to the backside of the ship behind him, between the ship and up an arroyo’s embankment. The area was suddenly invaded by light and noise; vehicles, all directed toward the ship. These vehicles all slammed to dramatic and noisy stops, but kept their headlights trained on the ship.

  Shit shit shit.

  Cherko watched as men departed their vehicles. Human men.

  What other kind were there?

  Many of them were hastily directed into a ring around the perimeter of the crash site. These would be the sentries. Keep what’s outside out, what’s inside in...

  Another Jeep pulled up, and a man quickly departed the passenger side. He eyed the ship with professional and obvious interest as he approached. All manner of equipment was hastily and efficiently set up.

  Floodlights.

  Cherko hurried away from the ship.

  Where was he to go?

  He still had darkness, but it would be chased away in seconds when the floods kicked in and inundated the ship and everything around it. For all his instruction on the fluidity of Time, this was cruel irony, indeed.

  “Are those people?” Cherko heard someone say. Cherko glanced back and saw the guy who had gotten out of the Jeep peer into the ship, back away in what could only be shock, then poke his head back in. Saw another contingent of men quickly descend upon the corpses surrounding the HEUFO.

  I’m so very, very sorry! Cherko again sent She and the others.

  He turned away and scrambled farther up the embankment.

  What the hell was he gonna do? He was in an alien body for Chrissakes, how was he ever going to explain that? He was back in time—lump that onto the shit pile.

  And his body—his real body—was back on that damned ship!

  Jesus, Jesus Christ.

  Did aliens send out search parties for their own?

  Did they even know of their plight? Did anyone?

  And just where the hell in blue blazes did he think he was going?

  “Hey! Hey you!”

  Cherko knew.

  “Halt!” the sentry cried. Initially his eyes were as huge, as well, saucers, but when Cherko looked back to him, the man seemed to grab hold of his fear and surprise and did what he’d been so well-trained to do in situations like this.

  Brought up his M1 to bear.

  Cherko slipped in the loose sand, and started to slide down the embankment. He scrambled for a foothold, but found the feet he possessed not all that well-designed for steep desert embankment maneuvering. There was a loud clacking sound that ricocheted off the arroyo and everything else around him. Just as Cherko then heard a shout of “No!,” he recognized that clacking sound as the locking and loading of many M1 rifle loads into their well-oiled chambers.

  Cherko knew.

  There would be no running. Nowhere to go.

  Finally able to secure a foothold, Cherko stopped sliding.

  Fine timing.

  He came to a stop, raised his head, and came to an erect position, just as the rolling volley of M1 rounds slammed into him, tearing into his body and knocking him back against the embankment.

  He didn’t go down as heavy as the human part of him had expected.

  Cherko stared up at the darkness of sky, as he heard another clacking ratcheting of well-oiled gun metal and additional rounds were again chambered into each of the M1s that had just fired.

  He’d always wondered what it felt like to be shot.

  Cherko rolled his head toward the MP who came upon him, M1 pointed down to his chest...

  And died.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  1

  Colorado Springs, CO

  10 November 2010

  “Why am I back here?” Cherko asked Alda.

  “Why is anyone ever here, James?” Alda said.

  “Thought I was finished with things.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  Cherko paused. “I don’t know. Why would I? Probably has something to do with my parents, knowing you.”

  “Let’s talk about your parents.”

  “Of course.” Cherko crossed his arms and an ankle just above the opposite leg’s knee. He watched Alda scribble on his pad.

  “What are you writing?”

  Alda smiled briefly, perfunctorily.

  “How do you feel about your mother?”

  “No Oedipal complexes, here, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “I’m not implying Oedipal Complexes.”

  “Okay...,” Cherko said, uncrossing his leg and arms. His right leg began to run uncontrollably. Alda scribbled notes.

  “What are you writing down!”

  “Do you feel you had a good childhood? That your mother was good to you? Your father?”

  “Aren’t those too many questions to ask at once?

  “Fine. Yes, I felt I had a great childhood. My mom and dad were great. My siblings were a pain in the butt, but that’s to be expected.”

  “Is it?”

  “Aren’t you ever direct about anything?”

  “Your mother... you’d mentioned she’d had a mental i
llness of some kind—”

  “Had I?”

  “Would you care to elaborate? What kind of illness? How’d it affect you?”

  “I don’t know what was wrong with my mom. I just knew she was... she was always sad. She tried to be happy... a couple times seemed genuinely so... but there always seemed to be some underlying, I don’t know—like that Pigpen character from Charlie Brown. The one that always walked around with a cloud of dirt surrounding him? She always had an air of sadness about her. Talking to her later in life, she seemed to have finally come to terms with it—but never seemed to understand just what it was that caused her to be that way. Or tell me about it, anyway.”

  Alda nodded, writing sporadically throughout Cherko’s narration.

  “I see.”

  “Do you?”

  “Your father—what about him? How had he handled all this? How had he treated you?”

  “Dad was fine—great. I never understood how he handled everything. I mean, he was on call twenty-four hours a day with searches, rescues, firefighting, and all, yet he managed to stay with Mom through everything that went on with her as we grew up. Later on, after we all left the roost—”

  “After you all left the roost?”

  “Yes—all of us—after we left... dang it you interrupted me and I forgot what I was going to say—oh, that’s weird. I was gonna say they divorced, but that didn’t happen. Now, where’d that come from?”

  Alda skewered Cherko with his gaze.

  “You know, your gaze really does burn.”

  “Did you notice anything strange about your father?”

  “Strange?”

  “Peculiar. Odd. Out of the ordinary. Did he ever tell you... stories? Mention anything that struck you as abnormal?”

  “Now, why in the hell—why would you come up with a question like that?”

  “It’s just a question, James.”

  “No it isn’t. There’s no such thing in a place like this. What are you getting at?”

  “Same thing as you.”

  “Really.”

  “You’d mentioned he’d gotten anxious when you asked him about his submarine days—”

  Cherko again crossed his arms. “Did I? When ‘did I mention’? I don’t ever remember mentioning—”

  “Jimmy... this is not meant to be adversarial.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  Jimmy got to his feet.

  “I’m not so sure about that. I don’t even know why I’m here! Cause I freaked out in some MRI tube? Why the hell would you be asking all these questions—anything strange about my father? C’mon, that has nothing to do with me freaking out in a—in a frigging MRI...”

  Cherko stopped dead in his tracks.

  Tube.

  Torpedo tube.

  Submarines. Boats. Submariners called them boats....

  2

  Norwegian Basin, 150 NM West of Norway

  31 October 1957

  0025 Hours Zulu

  The Sailfish had come to a dead stop at a depth of 100 feet in the Norwegian Basin.

  All Everett Cherko thought about was how calm and relaxed he felt here in the radio shack. And what’s with that? Dirt? There was grime forced deep into the crevasses of the glass gauge receiver rims. How had he missed those? He’d have to go in with a toothbrush and clean those out.

  He felt dreamy... like he was in a dream. And it felt good...

  Everett turned his head.

  Someone stood in the entranceway. A couple someones.

  Everett felt an urge to bid them “hello,” but didn’t want to disturb—to lose—the absolute calmness and peacefulness he felt... so he just smiled.

  The figures entered the radio shack.

  Something about them looked different. They smiled back to him. One waved... or waved something in front of him...

  Ahoy, sailor, one greeted. Everett nodded in the direction of the greeter.

  We need you.

  Everett again nodded. Ok, he thought. It’s good to be needed. I’m needed here, too.

  Two of the figures—funny, he had a hard time making them out; he must really be tired—touched him, and

  * * *

  Ok, how’d they do that?

  Everett stood in a dim chamber, not the radio shack compartment he’d just been occupying—the one with the dirty gauges—no, this was a different one. He didn’t recognize it... or did he? Something did seem to feel vaguely, uncomfortably familiar about it... though it didn’t look like any of the other compartments aboard the Sailfish.

  Where am I?

  Here, one of the figures answered.

  Hey—you didn’t move your lips! Everett thought.

  We don’t have lips, the figure replied. Though the figure didn’t laugh, Everett felt what he swore was amusement inside his head.

  Everett gave the figure a good, hard look.

  Don’t look too hard. You might not like what you see.

  Your mouth... no lips... not moving. Oh, no....

  There is nothing to fear.

  Then why am I afraid? Where am I?

  Alongside your vessel.

  My submarine? Alongside it? I need to leave—I need to get back to my boat—

  There’s no hurry. You will shortly be returned. Unharmed.

  Why am I here? What are you going to do to me?

  We are simply checking up on you.

  Why?

  Everett felt additional internal amusement.

  That is for us to know. You do not have the present requirement to know.

  Everett found himself lying on a narrow, warm slab. He suddenly felt quite calm again—just like before these... figures (he still couldn’t quite make them out)... had come for him. He wanted to roll off the table, to run away, but something inside him asked him not to... to be calm.

  So he stayed. Decided a nap was in order. You could never get enough sleep onboard a boat.

  A contraption of some kind, not much larger than a bread box, silently floated over him. As the free-floating thing paused directly above his head, a low humming-like sound—not quite nor exactly like humming, but close enough—emitted, and Everett lost consciousness....

  3

  “How would I know this! How would I—”

  Eyes wide and terrified, Cherko threw himself before Alda at his desk. His arms supported him as he leaned across the desk and got right into Alda’s face. This time it was his gaze that burned laser-hot.

  “How in the hell do I know any of this! Dad never told me this—never—”

  “Hello, Son.”

  Cherko spun around.

  “Dad?”

  “You’re correct, Son. I never did tell you about any of this. I never told anyone.”

  “Then how do I—what are you—”

  “In fact, I pretty much forgot about it. All of it. Except for the fear. I don’t remember the events, just the fear.”

  “Dad?”

  Jimmy went to his father. Stood before him as his dad sat on the couch. “How long have you been here?”

  “I don’t know why I remember it now... not sure—”

  Cherko touched his father. His father didn’t appear to notice. “Are you real?” Jimmy whispered to his dad.

  Everett looked up to him. “As real as anything in this room. As real as you.”

  Cherko looked between his dad and Alda.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “I’ve been asking you that since you first arrived at my office,” Alda said.

  Jimmy turned back to his father. “Was that real? Did it really happen?”

  Everett nodded. “Apparently. I’d... I guessed I’d—I think the term is ‘suppressed’—‘repressed?’” Everett looked to Alda; Alda nodded.

  “Why now? What was it all about?” Jimmy asked.

  Everett shook his head. “I really don’t know.”

  Everett got to his feet. Jimmy backed away, allowing him room to stand.

  “But as I think about it... ther
e seems to be... another time...”

  “Another what? Another—”

  4

  190 NM East of Cape Cod

  10 April 1963

  0907 Hours Eastern Time

  RM1 Everett Cherko sat at his station in the radio shack of the USS Thresher, SSN-593, headphones on. He began to wonder if he’d made the right choice. This was his first test-depth sea trial, the first one he’d ever participated in, and though he’d been By-Name requested to serve on the boat by the Thresher’s very own XO... something didn’t feel right. He’d always wanted to get on a nuclear boat, but now, creeping along at two knots, 1800 feet below the surface of the deep blue sea, things just didn’t feel right for the first time in his eight-year naval career. This depth was over twice what he’d ever been to aboard the old diesel boats Sailfish and Irex. This was some serious shit. He swore he could feel the High Yield-80 steel alloys straining against the 80,000 pounds per square inch of water pressure trying to crush them to an ignoble death.

  Was that groaning natural?

  Was that what nuke subs were supposed to sound like at these ungodly depths?

  Something just didn’t feel right...

  Suddenly Everett felt thick, heavy. Very heavy. Like he could feel all his muscles and tendons and bones... all his blood and nerves.

  How could he “feel” his body like this? Something had to be wrong with him.

  He should go see the Doc.

  Surely the Doc’d be able to tell him what’s wrong.

  Maybe he should take deep breaths... yes, that was it. Deep... breaths....

  Everett closed his eyes, folded his arms before him on his console and thought of home, Renée, little Jimmy and—

  He looked up.

  Ahoy, Sailor. You need to come with us.

  No! Not again! I’m not—

  * * *

  Everett once more found himself in a dark, familiar chamber not his Thresher radio shack. It was a chamber that brought back feelings of fear. Uncertainty and confusion.

  Why him? Had he not already given them what they wanted? Why must they continually harass him! Keep pulling him out of his life?

  We have not pulled you from life, came the mental reply that originated from behind. Everett turned. There stood a handful of shadowy figures milling around behind him. He squinted, but could not make out their features. They looked disturbingly short. Not right....