by Josh Hayes
“Looks like you’ve got some deep thoughts going on there.”
“Huh?”
Mary stood in front of him, stirring something in another mixture. How long had she been standing there?
“Here,” she took the first glass and set the new one down, “this one should be just right.”
Oak sipped, expecting the worst but was pleasantly surprised. A smile spread across his face. “T-that’s a Twist.”
Mary returned his smile and lifted her own glass. They clinked both together and sipped. She finished her drink in one pull and slapped the glass back down on the bar. “I forgot, you have to stir it not shake it.”
“It’s good.”
“So, you want to talk about it?”
Oak frowned. “Talk about what?”
“Whatever you have going on up there?” She pointed to his head.
It took him a moment, then, luckily, he made the connection. The fact that he had made the connection surprised him, but not as much as this woman talking to him. No one had ever talked to him like this before.
“Oh, n-no, it’s nothing. I don’t want to b-bother you with m-my problems.”
Mary laughed and poured another glass. “Sweetheart, after the shit I’ve heard in this place, nothing bores me anymore. Hell, I’m more a psychologist than bartender, I think, and I don’t even get paid extra for it.”
Oak didn’t know what she meant, but decided he didn’t need to. “Yeah.”
“So…”
“Huh?”
“What’s on your mind?”
“It’s just . . . ” he took another drink. “ . . . I don’t understand things sometimes. P-people think it’s because I’m dumb, but I’m smart enough. But sometimes I don’t understand why people do what they do. I’m not dumb.”
Even as he said it, he knew how it sounded and hated himself for it. He didn’t understand why he was even telling her this, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Well, I don’t think you’re dumb, Paul.”
He gazed at her, surprised, and couldn’t stop another smile. He’d never met anyone like her before in his entire life. No one had ever cared enough to call him by his real name. It was always: ‘Do this Oak’, or ‘Take this over there, Oak’. Even Marb tolerated him.
“Come on,” Mary urged, “Tell me.”
He took another sip and shook his head, feeling all the anger he didn’t know he’d been suppressing come flooding up to the surface. All the negative things he’d wanted to say to Tom and all the rest and never been able to.
“I’m tired of just being pushed around.” Oak said, finally. “I’m not just a dumb worker.”
His body temperature rose and his veins pulsed hard in his neck.
“I don’t think you’re dumb at all.”
The words spilled out without any conscious thought to what he said, like someone else was speaking and he listened.
“T-they think I’m only good for a l-laugh. Oak’ll do it, he d-doesn’t understand anyway. Well, sometimes I d-don’t, but does that m-make me a bad person?”
He clinched his fists tight against the aging bar top, fighting the urge to pound it into splinters. He gritted his teeth against the strain, everyone of one of his muscles screaming for release.
“I’m not a b-bad person,” he continued. “So what if I d-don’t understand sometimes? I’m a good p-person. But they hate me anyway. I d-don’t understand how they c-can hate me and love this n-new guy. They don’t even k-know who he is. They j-just take his word that he’s f-from the Otherside and just like that he’s part of the t-team.”
Oak took a heavy breath. A great sense of relief came over him as he heard the words flow out. “He’s going to get us all killed. They all love him, and I hate him.”
Soft fingers ran across the back of his hand. Tender fingers. Fingers that radiated compassion. Fingers that instantly calmed his rage.
“Hey, it’s okay.”
Her voice was soothing, calming every nerve, and every impulse and urge to lash out faded.
“I think you’re very sweet. Don’t worry about what they say. Sticks and stones right?”
He didn’t understand, but when his eyes locked with hers, it didn’t matter. Her gaze melted him and he forgot everything else in the world. Angel eyes.
She smiled at him.
“Here,” she set another glass down in front of him. “This one’s on me.”
Oak took the drink, letting out a long breath. She was the most beautiful woman in the world and he knew, without really understanding, that he loved her.
“Listen,” Mary said after a minute. “I’ve got some stuff to put away, stay here, relax, and I’ll be back in a little while, okay?”
“Okay.”
He watched her work, totally engrossed.
At the far end of the bar, Calsi Diehm, sat and watched from the shadows, the drink on the table in front of her completely forgotten. Instead, she focused on the large man sitting at the bar, nursing his light blue drink. She sat perfectly still, replaying in her mind what the man had just finished saying, still trying to wrap her head around it.
It can’t be that simple, she thought.
Hell, the notice had just been sent out on the S-band four hours before, she almost hadn’t read it. Like most broad-spectrum dispatches from Regency Internal Security, she’d assumed it was just some propaganda about the on-going hunt for undesirables. It wasn’t until she’d seen where the dispatch had been sent from that she read it. After all, it wasn’t every day the mysterious Commander Pan sent out anything directly.
Of course, even after reading it, she knew the odds of actually tracking down such a target would be extremely difficult, and she damn well wasn’t going to be trolling around in Old Town on just a hope and a prayer. Talk about a needle in a stack of needles.
Calsi left her unfinished drink on the table and quietly slipped out of the bar. It took her five minutes to find a place to watch and noted the time. Another 2 hours before the Regency curfew would take effect. Sure, she could probably talk her way out of it. Being on the RIS clearance list certainly had its advantages, but if she could avoid it, she’d much rather not have any contact with them at all.
Almost an hour passed before the man appeared and she cursed. The bartender stepped out with him, holding his arm, steadying him as he stepped onto the sidewalk. She shook her head; no way had he just picked her up. No way. A moment later she let out a relived sigh as they hugged, and the man slowly began to move away. The bartender gave him one last look, then stepped back inside the bar.
He was obviously close to his limit, Calsi decided, watching the man weave and bob as he walked. It was probably a good thing; with his size she wasn’t sure she’d be able to handle him without complete and total surprise, even with a shot from her disabler.
She waited from him to pass, counted a beat, and then made her move.
THIRTEEN
John woke up wondering if everything had all been just a dream. The ache in his back from sleeping on the hard cot Tim had found him, and the blinking light in the ceiling above him, told him it was not. He sat up and stretched, finding it ironic that after years of hating his bunk on the Lincoln, he’d give anything to be in it again.
He found his boots and made his way through the corridors to the expansive hanger bay. People eyed him suspiciously as he walked across the deck, but no one stopped him. No one even spoke to him. As soon as he made eye contact they would turn away. He had never been the stinky kid in class, but he had a feeling that this was what that kid must have felt like every day he walked through the halls.
He stopped in front of the only familiar craft he saw and slowly examined the retrofitted skiff. Silver panels created a patchwork across the skiff’s otherwise matte black hull, no need to try and hide the repairs. Even some of the patches had been patched. John found no aircraft numbers or unit insignia on the craft; no way of knowing who had produced it or where it belonged.
On Ear
th, most standard military fighters had a shelf life of about ten or fifteen years. After that they would become obsolete and ineffective. His own Falcon Fighter—resting in pieces at the bottom of the Atlantic—still had a good ten years left before the aircraft would be phased out. As he stepped closer to examine one of the engines, John found nothing that would indicate how long the craft had been in service. Judging by its condition, however, John guessed it had been a while.
“She’s a beauty isn’t she?” A voice behind him made him jump.
John turned to see Tim standing there, two mugs of dark, steaming liquid in each hand and a curious smile on his face. Unlike John, who was still wearing his black NAU flight suit, Tim had changed clothes. He wore a long-sleeved grey shirt over black pants, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and pants tucked into his boots.
“She is,” John said and nodded to a large cluster of silver patches that formed an angled pattern on the nose. “Been through hell, looks like.”
“Yeah,” Tim replied, offering one of the mugs.
John hesitated.
“My own recipe,” Tim said with a grin. “It’s safe.”
John took the mug, held it up to his nose and was surprised at the pleasant aroma. It wasn’t exactly what he was used to, but it was close and noticeably lighter than the so-called Neverland’s Best. He took a sip, tasted a simple roasted bean with a hint of mint and felt an overwhelming sense of relief.
Tim gave a nod and lifted his own mug, seeming to understand. “Told you.”
John took another sip before saying, “You have no idea.”
“Glad you like it. Took me a few years to get the mix right, it’s hard as hell to find the farla beans sometimes but I think they make the blend.”
“After tasting that, whatever you call it yesterday, I was almost convinced this place was hell and everything was just going to be horrible.”
“Only a few.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem, figured you’d need it after the day you had yesterday.”
John turned back to the skiff and took another long whiff of the coffee. “I’m still trying to process everything. It all just seems too,” he hesitated, searching for the right words, finally settling on the simplest. “Unbelievable.”
“I imagine that’s everyone’s response when they get here.”
“Been flying long?”
“Oh, probably twenty years or so,” he shrugged. “More than ten and less than thirty.”
Twenty years?
John frowned as he considered this, coming from a man who didn’t look more than twenty. But time was funny here, wasn’t it? This was Neverland after all. He couldn’t help picturing that outrageous, cartoon version of Captain Hook, curly mustache and all. Was there a crocodile with a ticking clock chasing him around to? From what he’d experienced of this place so far though, he doubted it would be anything that comical.
“I know,” Tim said with another grin. “I don’t look it.”
“Just how old are you?” John asked.
“Well, that’s a funny question.” Tim answered after taking a sip of coffee. “One that would be a hell of a lot easier to answer if I knew exactly when I was born. Then again, I’d still probably be off a few years, give or take. Tom and I have argued about it for years, the way he sees it, we’re probably closer to thirty or forty.”
“Forty years old?”
“Nevaris years that is, I’m not sure how that equates to Earth years. There isn’t a whole lot of science on the matter, some say its longer, others say its shorter. He glanced around, then said, “Just between you and me, and this ol’ pile of bolts, I think Tom’s probably right, but you’ll never hear me admit that in public.” He grinned and pointed a finger. “If you ever tell I’m I said so…”
John held up a hand. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Tim took a sip of his coffee. “God, if he knew…”
“Never let you live it down?”
“Hell, it would be his greatest achievement. He would carry it around like a trophy forever and make damn sure everyone knew what it was for.”
John thought of Mark and how many times they’d won Spades by sheer luck on his friend’s side. How many times he had stood, proclaimed himself Master of the Cards, and paraded through the barracks showering himself with praises?
“I know what you mean.”
Tim shuttered. “He’d be unbearable to live with.”
“Does he fly too?”
“Hmmm. Well . . . ” he paused, stepping closer to feel one of the silver patches. “The answer to that is, yes, he has the ability to fly. Whether or not he’s a skilled pilot is a whole other question entirely.”
“He seemed to operate the flight harness just fine.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll give you that, but the two skills are not synonymous. It’s one thing to push yourself alone through the air, it’s quite another to pilot one of these babies, especially with a full load and people strapped in the back.”
John turned and looked through the clear glass dome of the skiff’s cockpit. “I’d love to get a look inside.”
Tim’s face lit up. “Oh, yeah, sure, come on up.”
They climbed into the cockpit; Tim slid into the left seat, John the right. Tim spent the next twenty minutes pointing out the skiff’s systems and explaining the controls. To John’s surprise, they weren’t all that dissimilar from the standard flight controls back home, and he caught on quick. By the time Tim’s demonstration was complete, John was ready to take control.
“So,” he said, flexing his fingers around the control handles in front of him. “How about we take this baby for a spin.”
Tim barred his teeth. “Yeah, you know, Wendy would kill him if she knew I let you take this baby up.” He scanned the hanger deck through the windscreen before him. “Hell, she’ll probably be upset I’m even showing you this stuff.”
John followed his gaze across the hanger deck. It was empty, save for the few workers he’d passed on his way in.
“Come on, just a quick little jaunt around the hanger.”
Tim shook his head, obviously not convinced but John could tell he was on the fence. He pressed on. “Come on, will be up and down before anyone notices. She’ll never have to know.”
“Oh, man, I don’t know.”
“Tell her I forced you.”
That brought a laugh, “Yeah.”
Just a little further.
“Look, if we got caught, I’ll take all the blame. I won’t let you take any heat for it.”
Tim looked at him for a long moment, let out a frustrated sigh. “Damn.”
He flipped a switch on the middle console and the skiff’s electronics hummed to life. Lights blinked on and instrument clusters booted up.
John clapped his hands together once. “That’s the spirit.”
“She’s gonna kill me.”
He flipped more switches. He turned sideways and glanced back at the left engine, then looked back over his right shoulder.
“How’s Number Two look?”
John twisted in his seat, examining the large omnidirectional thruster. An electronic hum began to reverberate through the skiff as the energy bands surrounding it began to glow.
“Two looks good.”
“Alright,” Tim said, “you always want to make sure your turbines are lined up, especially on this bird.”
John watched as he manipulated the controls, the thrusters outside moved in response to his commands.
“The counter-grav system’s pretty touchy,” Tim continued. “If the engines are not synced, you’ll be in trouble when you lift off. Happened to me one time and I never want to relive the experience.”
John heard the thrusters outside click several times before thrumming to life. Lines of pulsing green and yellow energy spread around the cylindrical cowlings, increasing in speed and intensity until they blended together in a single ball of light.
“So…” John started looking fr
om one glowing engine to the other.
“Bella’s design,” Tim explained, adjusting a few more controls. “Took her forever to get it right. Had to scrap four aircars and an old barge just to get enough components for the engines. To be honest, I didn’t think she was ever going to make it work. Hell, we only just convinced Tom to fly in it for the Refinery mission.”
“Just a bigger version of her harness device I’m assuming?”
Tim gave a noncommittal nod. “The way she explains it is a little more complicated than that, but essentially, yes. Here, strap in.”
“Expecting a bumpy ride?” John asked, locking the clips of his five-point harness together. They reminded him of his seat in the Falcon and wondered if it was still dangling from the platform.
“No, but you can never be too careful with Bella’s toys.”
Before John could respond, Tim pushed a lever forward and the skiff lifted off the hanger deck. Behind him, the intensity of the pulsing energy increased, but the noise they generated did not. Compared to what John was used to, the ride was smooth and fairly quiet.
“Small movements,” Tim warned, maneuvering over to an area relatively devoid of equipment. He zeroed out the controls and brought the skiff to a hover a few feet above the deck.
He nodded to the control handles in front of John. “Please try not to wreck would ya?”
John didn’t respond and lightly wrapped his hands around the controls. He flexed his hands and fingers found their places. It was like getting to know the body of a new woman. He took controlled, relaxed breaths, and then went to work.
The skiff responded immediately to his movements and rotated on the spot. He tilted the handle left and the skiff complied, banking slightly.
“I see what you mean,” John said, leveling out.
“Yeah, takes a little getting used to. Here,” he flipped a pair of switches on the panel above them and a hydraulic whine reverberated through the cockpit, followed by dull clanking as the landing struts underneath folded up into the chassis.
John spent the next ten minutes experimenting, getting feel for the aircraft. The flight dynamics were similar to anything he’d flown back on Earth and after only a few minutes he felt right at home.