ERO

by F. P. Dorchak

  Anticipation.

  Jimmy looked to his parents, and both—especially his mom—stared hard into the group of short, antsy figures in the doorway. Couldn’t take their eyes off the doorway. Jimmy looked back to that doorway and got the image of a horse race in his head... all the horses chomping at the bit within their starting gates, ready to be released so they could—

  Charge.

  The figures charged into the living room.

  Jimmy was overcome with the purest sensation of joy and love and...

  Reconnection.

  Out from the doorway raced Carl and Penny and Ritchie. And behind them Theresa, Michael, Lisa, and Benjamin.

  Jimmy’s brothers and sisters.

  Jimmy’s mind exploded into a free-wheeling whirlwind of imagery.

  Carl, Penny, and Ritchie?

  What was going on here?

  Theresa, Michael, Lisa, and Benjamin?

  The seven, including two-year-old Benjamin, sprinted into the center of Jimmy and Everett and Renée, and Jimmy and Everett and Renée all launched forward to meet them. They met in the center of the living room in a mass of tears, as he inhaled the familiar and emotional scent of each of his siblings, felt their skin, their faces. Collapsed upon themselves and fell to the floor in a writhing, emotional heap. Jimmy’s eyes were flooded with tears. He was alongside his mother, who sobbed and shook uncontrollably. His father was similarly overcome, trying to throw his arms around everyone at once.

  As Jimmy looked up, tears streaming down his face, he looked to Hannah and the deer.

  But Hannah and the deer were no longer Hannah and deer.

  We give this to you on your day of days... in an effort to show we care... are not evil. That we appreciate your efforts and understand your circumstances.

  After a long while of hugging and loving and crying, the family looked to she-who-was-not-Hannah. She-who-was-not-Hannah directed them to the space above them, in the center of the room. As the Franklin stove crackled and spit and warmed in the background, and the fake-snow-covered Christmas tree blinked and winked, the family looked to a presentation. A presentation that showed the births and life moments in a sort of film, up to the current moment in time, of the children Renée knew she’d had, but could not—not ever—prove... and would all-too shortly again be forced to forget. All three experienced and became a part of the lives of the seven other children that no longer resided with them in this secluded part of deep woods upstate New York... and it would be this very moment in time, this enormous act of kindness that would stay with them forever, though none would ever understand why.

  Renée saw how each time she’d strayed out into the night... into the woods... even tried to take her own life... the deer-that-were-not-deer, Hannah-that-was-not-Hannah had come to her. Rescued her from abruptly terminating her despair and returned her home. Had awoken Jimmy or her husband to come to her aid...

  And as the family of ten relived their lives together beneath the hovering hologram, they danced and sang and played and celebrated birthdays and life. And the heavily falling snow and cold and real world of outside stayed outside as the Franklin stove crackled and spit, and the Christmas tree winked and blinked....

  2

  “We were a friggin human farm team for extraterrestrials?”

  Jimmy Cherko stood before his parents, flabbergasted. Turned to Alda—who still pinned him with a deep, dark, penetrating gaze.

  “But we were well-cared for,” Renée said, choking back emotion. “They took as good a care of us as they possibly could—”

  “But at what price?”

  Jimmy spun back around.

  “Look what they did to you! The strain it put on all of us! They kept stealing our family as quickly as we created one!”

  Renée remained silent.

  “Dad?”

  “We lived a good life, Son. I have no regrets.”

  Jimmy noticed his father’s voice was thicker.

  “They pulled me off a sub I would have gone down on. You would never have known me if it hadn’t been for them. I was able to—my purpose to them—was in raising you. How can I fault them? How can I fault them in allowing me to raise a son and live a life with my family? I would not have been able to do any of that if—”

  “But mom went crazy—”

  “I’m fine, now,” Renée said.

  “Now—wherever ‘now’ is—but when it mattered, you’d gone crazy. Tried to kill yourself! I’m not arguing over not having parents and all, but—”

  “They watched over me, honey. Made sure I didn’t do anything irrational; that you had a father. Made sure you were raised with both parents. They could have taken you—but didn’t.”

  “Yeah,” Jimmy said, looking back to Alda, who merely continued to observe. “But, for my life we gave them the lives of seven others. The rest of our family.”

  “Honey,” Renée said, “those others... Penny and Ritchie... Benjamin, all of them... they all would have died. They all had complications from erythroblastosis. At the time a pretty much fatal blood disease. They were given new life—elsewhere—they were not killed nor abused. We saw that that Christmas—don’t you remember?”

  “I don’t know that that makes it any more right.”

  “Sometimes life throws hard decisions at you, but on your father’s salary, my intermittent salary, eight children... seven of which who would have died... were instead given life. And they did come back every now and then, you were able to play with them up in the woods... were taught and guided by... by them... all in exchange. Everyone was able to live and thrive and learn from minds and intelligences far superior to ours. And not even as some impersonal, expendable lab rats. You felt the emotion. You played with them. They didn’t have to do any of that. Any of it.”

  “But why? Why couldn’t they have fixed them then returned them? For good?”

  Renée looked back down to her hands. “I’m sorry, I don’t have all the answers,” she said. Renée looked up. Tears streamed down her face and her voice wavered. “But does it matter? Really? Once you all grew up—once you did—you moved out anyway. Your siblings would have done the exact same thing come their time, so what was the difference, really? All children grow up and move on. Ours... just did so a little earlier—and with a little help from above.”

  Jimmy sat back down in the Victorian chair. “I just hope they weren’t used in experiments... or—”

  “My sense,” Renée said, looking to Everett and grabbing hold of one of his hands, “is that they are still alive... have been used in ways to help Humanity.”

  Everett nodded, and said, “I feel they—you included—were all, like your mother says, put to good use in the world.”

  “Good use. How was I put to good use? Look at me, look at my life.”

  “You lived a good life. Maybe that was your use. To have a good life. To offset the loss of the others.”

  Jimmy got to his feet and faced Alda.

  “So... ‘this is my life’? What now? Why am I here? To remember? Remember what?”

  Alda just stared back at him. Jimmy grew uncomfortable. Looked away. Looked to an adjacent wall.

  A wall that flickered and shimmered.

  “What the hell?”

  He came up to the wall; touched it. It felt solid enough, but...

  Looked to another section of office. It, too, flickered and wavered.

  “What’s going on here?”

  He looked to the couch—but his parents were gone. Looked to Alda, but he suddenly appeared two-dimensional. Like a cardboard cutout set against a prop background.

  Jimmy closed his eyes and rubbed his face. When he opened them, the walls sputtered and flashed...

  Numbers.

  Trains of ones and zeros ran throughout the paint, the wallpaper, the ceiling.

  The air.

  Jimmy didn’t feel so good. Felt dizzy.

  Ran for the door.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  1

&nb
sp; if writing2010 == true {execute;}

  else {chkverif lt87; chkverif ero2021}

  if lt87 == true {execute lt87;}

  if ero2021 == true {execute ero2021;}

  Cherko slid to a stop in the garage, alongside Erica’s 2001 Honda.

  He wasn’t... right.

  Something was terrible wrong with him, he felt it, and it made him sick to his stomach.

  What had just happened?

  Cherko hit the garage door switch as he entered the house.

  “Erica! Erica!”

  No answer. But he saw the message light blinking on the answering machine.

  The thought did people still use these things? entered his mind, but he dismissed it.

  Cherko rushed past the message machine, up a short flight of stairs, then hooked a sharp right to enter the third floor of the tri-level... and ran smack into a wall.

  Cherko pushed away from his desk.

  What the hell?

  He leaned over, peering into the laptop’s display, to words he had just written.

  Did people still use these things?

  Ran smack into a wall...

  He frowned. Got to his feet. Sat back down.

  Where was he?

  The computer was directly in front of him on his desk. And those words... words that were his own, his own creation—

  Were they?

  Cherko brought his hands to the keyboard.

  Laptop? Wait a minute, where was—

  Cherko suddenly felt sick, very sick. Something just wasn’t right. Breathing fast and shallow, shallow and fast, he...

  Looked around his office. What the hell was the matter? He was alone, he was—

  But he wasn’t. He wasn’t even at home.

  He looked to the screen.

  Laptop? Wait a minute, where was—

  Cherko suddenly felt sick, very sick. Something just wasn’t right. Breathing fast and shallow, shallow and fast, he...

  Looked around his office. What the hell was the matter? He was alone, he was—

  But he wasn’t. He wasn’t even at home.

  Cherko again pushed away from his

  (desk?)

  shooting to his feet. He spun around, lightheaded. Braced himself against the wall with his hands up before him; his face inches from—

  Cherko spun back around to his desk.

  Have to slow down my breathing!

  He looked into the screen.

  Cherko again pushed away from his

  (desk?)

  shooting to his feet. He spun around, lightheaded. Braced himself against the wall with his hands up before him; his face inches from—

  “Oh, no... no, no, no... this can’t be happening...”

  Trembling and sweating, he looked up.

  He was no longer at home, but in... what?... a vault? A classified computer lab like at work?

  “Something’s wrong... something’s very wrong, here,” Cherko closed his eyes.

  Focus. Have to focus.

  Cherko sat back down, gripped the elbow rests of his chair. His stomach was much worse, his vision swam crazily before him. He wiped clammy sweat from his brow, his cheeks.

  He was doused in the stuff.

  His chest felt like something powerful had reached around it and was squeezing the life out of him.

  Cherko opened his eyes to find his hands flying across a bulky keyboard. He had no control over what his hands were doing, but the words, they just kept coming....

  Cherko leaned closer into the screen. The words, they were so familiar, so right. They seemed so much a part of him. Who he was. Each character, so perfectly kerned, fonted, and arranged.

  Alive.

  Felt words coursing through his veins... words animated and exploding with an energetic importance that felt like the very breath of life....

  Cherko closed his eyes and let the words come.

  The words coursed through him, filled his being with vitality... became his heart, his core, his spirit. Without these words... he was nothing. A shell. A blank screen. A—

  Cherko opened his eyes.

  Screamed.

  Before him was a face, a face in a soundproofed and electronically isolated vault within a vault. A face not his own. A face that bore directly into his soul and knew every inch of who and what he was.

  There were no secrets.

  Yes, he was a shell. A blank screen. A schema. He was...

  A program in the process of being coded.

  2

  100-Mile Low Earth Orbit

  4 November 2021

  0915 Hours Zulu

  “I am not a piece of code!” Cherko cried, struggling, sweating, and hyperventilating within his confinement that now entirely encapsulated him from head to toe in one solid piece of pseudo-metal-composite material he was still unable to identify. Hundreds of pulsating, multicolored, fiber optic-like leads ran from his head behind him into a panel somewhere.

  “This is insane! There’s no way! I’m a man, not some mindless hacker-inspired program!” James Cherko shouted to Eurphraeus.

  No longer was he in an orbiting space station, spy or otherwise, but now more of a metal coffin. An electronic coffin. A tiny compartment that rapidly closed in on him...

  “It is what it is,” Eurphraeus said.

  “It makes no sense! First you show me dying in a spaceship crash in 1947, then you show me as nothing more than ones and zeros? “Am I dead? Is this all in my frigging head?”

  “You are not dead. You exist.”

  “But... the memories—the manuscript! Here.”

  “Look around you. What do you see,” Eurphraeus asked.

  Cherko, eyes fearful and wide, took in the command module—or what there was of it. It was a shrinking box.

  Was continuing to shrink.

  It was barely ten-by-ten, and shrinking by the moment without the faintest whisper of sound.

  Cherko’s head hurt. He looked to Eurphraeus. “No... no-no-no!”

  Eurphraeus was no longer.

  “Eurphraeus!”

  The module contracted. Shortened. With each twitch of an eye the module continually—maddeningly—reduced in size. Cherko thrashed about.

  It shrunk still more.

  Cherko could no longer breathe. Maddeningly hyperventilated.

  The walls of the station collapsed in on him until all he could see was...

  Circuitry.

  Software.

  Electrons.

  Cherko was no longer constrained within the strange metal constriction that had crisscrossed, then entirely enveloped, his body.

  He free-floated in space...

  In orbit above a fragile, eggshell-blue planet.

  He changed his perspective with a thought and looked out in the opposite direction, toward that of deepest black space.

  Stars.

  Panicking, he reached out for something to grab onto—

  But was in freefall.

  A controlled, on-orbit freefall, where his stomach tried to launch up and out his mouth... except he had no stomach—no mouth.

  And, of course, there was nothing upon which to grab hold.

  Eurphraeus!, Cherko called out into the cold, starry blackness, What’s happened? WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME!

  Cherko 360’d, but it was all the same.

  Alone. Totally alone.

  Except for the cerulean planet turning beneath him.

  He had no arms nor legs with which to “flail.” No support structures, no space station, no body, because...

  He was the orbiting platform.

  I don’t understand! Cherko again cried, I don’t want to die!

  James, life is not dependent upon corporeal expression. Never has been, Eurphraeus sent. Your world, your existence, however, has focused upon that.

  My body—what happened to my body—where is it?

  It no longer matters.

  It does to me!

  Search your memories—

  I’m tired of memories
! Tired of searching! I want my body back—my life!

  You have a personality... you have Thought. Consciousness. From where did those originate? Where did they go upon the loss of your own physical platform? They remain with you, do they not?

  Cherko... computed.

  How did I get here! What... what’s happening to me!

  Before Cherko finished the thought/calculation, he remembered what had happened. It finally made sense. All of it.

  Cherko saw his death. Yes, he had, indeed, been shot. Shot and killed in Roswell, in a post-thunderstorm-ridden arroyo in 1947.

  There had been a crash. A UFO crash. He’d been in it.

  His whole life had been involved in tracking and, he’d come to find out, seeding extraterrestrial technologies.

  That was the huge government secret: he was the huge, fucking secret.

  In 1987 he had been assigned to Dulce, New Mexico to work an operation involving extraterrestrials. During his last exchange with his E.T. contacts he had been taken aboard one of their ships and shown things... how to transfer his consciousness into the form they wore while visiting their planet.

  But there had been an accident. A crash. Two crashes.

  A human-engineered UFO, a HEUFO, developed by his very own U.S. government... all occupants of the craft had been killed upon impact. All humans. Something he had done had gone terribly wrong.

  And behind this craft—the one marked with “U.S. Army” on its torn side—had been something else. Something not human.

  Him.

  But, in another location far to the west and beyond the Foster Ranch debris field, had been another crash. One not much talked about. She and Qxuill and the other occupants of the vehicle he had been in had been dead or dying. Had also been found. And much to his irony, Cherko—the human body of Cherko—had also survived the crash, but only barely.

  He’d been separated from his body and had been stuck not on some other planet with an alien race, no... the irony of it was that he had been stranded on his very own planet, in a different time, and as an alien himself.

  What was he supposed to have done?

  Events had taken on their own momentum.

  Cherko had been gunned down by extremely nervous trigger fingers. Nothing more than a mistake. A purely human one. A major case of mistaken identity.