Nighthawks at the Mission: Move Off-World. Make A Killing.

by Forbes West

  Jaime has to think over what you’ve just said. “Oh, no, no, none taken. You’re not really my type anyway,” he says. “We have to do that again, though, you know that? Three hundred and sixty five days later, we have to do it in a Witch-Lord Temple in order to stay.”

  You feel sort of slapped in the face by his earlier comment and are about to reply when you see something amazing. You both watch as a couple of longshoremen, in their black and yellow safety vests with red hard hats, lift a couple of large metal crates the size of cars into the front hold of the Queen. The thing is, though, they are not lifting these crates with cranes, but telekinetically with the aid of their batons. A telltale green glow comes from these telescoping batons. They have orichalcum stones embedded into their grips. The two longshoremen point at the crates with their batons; the crates float upwards towards two more longshoremen standing on the Queen. They “grab” the crates in mid-air with that telekinetic power that comes from their telescoped batons. The large crates, that must weigh thousands of pounds, bob for a moment in the air as the second team of longshoremen grabs them.

  “That’s orichalcum power. The longshoremen now use telekinesis ori, which is cheaper and more cost effective than cranes,” Jaime says. You are both pretty young but the orichalcum thing is still a little off-putting to the both of you—you didn’t originally grow up with it like kids nowadays, so there’s always that little moment of reality disconnect when you see something on the news or someone using it in real life. A couple of other people quietly watch the scene as red-capped valets and bellboys scurry about with pieces of luggage and other random items.

  “Stuff like that is going to be all over the place in The Oberon,” Jaime says and walks to one of the metal platforms that leads into the Queen. He almost disappears into the darkened interior of the ship, but stops by the line going inside. A couple of baseball-capped security guards wait nearby, as does an aged cabin stewardess charged with checking passports.

  As you wait on the edge of the giant gangplank that leads into the Queen, a bad feeling grows in your stomach. A cool breeze caresses your skin. You think how irresponsible this is, how impulsive—but then you realize, what’s to stop you? There’s nothing really there for you in the O.C., no real future expectations. The sad fact of the matter is that you were just planning to go to college and help Tyler grow up a little, and that fell apart. Jaime, in his own almost criminally-nerdy way, is leading you towards something better than what waits for you here. You know it inside; you feel it. But at the same time, there is a slow and awful dream-like sensation, this feeling of upcoming danger you can’t exactly shake. Your palms sweat a little and your heart starts to pound. This is an adventure, you admit to yourself. This is something more extraordinary than anything you’ve ever done—and all because you got burned by a relationship with a man who looks exactly the same as the one you are now in a sham marriage with.

  Suddenly the salty smell of the sea and the whiff of diesel that permeates everything in the air becomes stronger, carving themselves into your memory. And, with that last thought, just as your fake husband waves for you to come on in, you step onto the metal platform. It clangs heavily under your sneakered feet. There is no one to see you off.

  After settling into your cheap little cabin, you stand on the starboard side of the ship. The cabin has cigarette burns on the carpet and smells like vomit in one particular corner. When you saw the room, you and Jaime gave each other a look about the one bed. Jaime laughed nervously, then shut his mouth after looking at you.

  Jaime leaves to grab some coffee, and you stand next to the railing, feeling a chill as a fresh breeze blows in. A red-capped valet, an older black man with a kind face, comes by and taps you gently on the shoulder. You turn down the volume on the iPod and stop the Manowar that’s ringing through it.

  “Miss, make sure you stuff that away with the purser by the time we get to the Nemo Gate. Otherwise, it’s gonna cook, okay?”

  You look uncertainly at your iPod with its Hello Kitty cover. “Cook?”

  The valet nods. “Honey, with all that EMP out there, it’ll pop the moment we go through.” Your confusion must be apparent because he shakes his head and continues. “You know, EMP? It’s like a signal that comes off the A-bombs when they blow ‘em up? Well, The Oberon is just full of it bouncing around and it blows out all the electronics. I mean, why d’ya think we’re on the Titanic’s younger sister? This thing should be a museum, not an ocean liner, but all the new liners are almost like NASA built ‘em, too much electronics—they would break down two seconds after they crossed.”

  “Is this thing safe, then?”

  The valet looks around as if seeing the ship for the first time. “Well, if it’s not, I’ll save you a seat on one of the lifeboats.” He winks and starts to leave, but then turns around to say another word to you. “Oh, and make sure you don’t get caught with a camera—it’s a UN rule. No pictures allowed!”

  Jaime skips around the corner, his steps almost bouncing down the old deck, carrying two cups of coffee. He gives you one.

  “No electronics? No iPods, no laptops?”

  Jaime sips his coffee a little too quickly and dribbles some down his sweatshirt. “Uh, yeah. I forgot about that whole thing...”

  You squint at him. “I didn’t know that, Jaime. Jeez.”

  He grows quickly defensive, not making eye contact. “You didn’t read up on anything about The Oberon? I mean that’s like, like the first thing they say, Sarah. Really...”

  “How do people get around?” you ask. “Horses? No cars? Sending mail by carrier pigeon, maybe? Is there electricity? Hopefully there are toilets...”

  “Sometimes,” Jaime says, giving you a sidelong glance. “There’s books inside. A really good one is The Oberon by Frank Morgan.”

  You stare out into the ocean, glancing at the skyline of Long Beach, California. “We really doing this?” Before he can answer, a foghorn blares out three times.

  “I guess we are, Sarah,” he says, brushing his black hair back as it’s blown around in the wind. “I’m so excited I could almost spit!”

  You, being in a dark mood, mock him to his face. “Oh goodie!” you say, and clap rapidly, then walk down the deck with your coffee. Jaime looks hurt when you glance back at him. You feel bad for a moment, but just for a moment. You take a sip of coffee and spit it out over the railing just as he comes up and switches coffees with you. “I usually put in about six sugar packets and fill half of the cup with cream. Sorry about that.”

  You nod, say thanks, and sip away.

  The knowledge that you are going to a completely different place is unreal and heavy. The feeling of thin ice under your feet is there as well. Perhaps the cracks are already forming.

  As the Queen Mary chugs out into the open ocean, the briny smell of seawater steadily streams into your nostrils. Seagulls cry. There is the continuous blasting horns of tug boats. The Long Beach skyline, full of condo towers and high-rises, cranes and floating docks, gradually diminishes. The coastline slowly disappears into the distance and you feel a sort of relief, a sort of stillness in your chest, as you realize that you have done it.

  A pre-recorded, cultured female voice comes over the loudspeakers. “The Off-World Network and the Witch-Lord of The Oberon welcome you aboard the Queen Mary and wish you well on your journey to The Oberon off-world settlements. And now your host,

  Morgan Freeman, who will join you at certain stages of the journey.”

  People begin to clap and cheer, thrilled at their upcoming excursion. There’s a slight pause and then Freeman’s deep voice speaks; an uplifting soundtrack plays in the background. “Today, you begin your voyage to a place once found only in the imaginations of the writers of fiction—a place like no other, a place only opened to outsiders after centuries of isolation.

  “Fifteen days from now, you will have crossed the great blue expanse of the Pacific Ocean to the oceanic pole of inaccessibility, the furthest point in the oc
ean away from all landmasses, or as the sailors once called it, Point Nemo, in reference to Jules Verne’s Captain Nemo.

  “And there, on the day of the southern hemisphere’s summer solstice, December twenty-second, you will see the phenomenon that Frank Morgan, the discoverer of The Oberon, famously called “God Moving Over the Face of the Waters”—the opening of the great Nemo Gate, the largest one in the universe.

  “As we start our first steps towards going off-world, let us take a moment to appraise the potential fruitfulness of that far-off place.”

  The Queen Mary steams towards a massive structure that sits in the middle of the ocean, a technological monstrosity that is the new ori-reactor, a sixty story, quarter of a mile wide steel pyramidal structure that tapers off into a narrow flattop. Blue and orange lights dot the structure, and the reactor center has the telltale whitish hue around it, noting the active use of power-producing orichalcum. Waves crash and crest onto its base. Small ships with construction cranes and other equipment are docked next to it.

  “This project, if successful, will be a Network reactor, Solomon’s House One, built with the plans of the Antediluvian civilization that has been extinct for six thousand years. When fully constructed and brought finally online, this first reactor will potentially be able to generate enough electrical power to light every household, factory, shop, and school from Los Angeles to San Francisco. Pure white orichalcum, the mineral used for energy consumption, will be this and other reactors’ lifeblood, delivered to all of us by the sacrifices and discoveries of young prospectors and free settlers who live life on a new frontier.”

  Freeman’s recording continues. Nearly everyone on board is as young as you or only slightly older.

  You take a deep breath, enjoying these moments of absolute freedom but also feeling like you’ve just been cut adrift. You feel very much alone at that moment, though Jaime is beside you. He’s too interested in the reactor to be of much company. Finally, he pats you on the shoulder twice and gives you a little hug, and you find yourself responding.

  * * *

  You wake up on your side of the bed in the little cabin. Jaime sleeps with his feet towards your head, and your feet point towards his. His feet smell, and you’re a little disgusted every time you wake. You’ve been doing this little routine for a couple of weeks now, as the liner makes its way across the South Pacific. You’re sick of it and sick of yourself for having set up this whole thing to begin with. What the hell just happened? is now your running mantra.

  You flip on the bathroom light, brush your hair, and stare at the mirror for a few moments. You roll your eyes at your mirror image, then pull on jeans and a jacket and step into the deck’s hallway. The lights flicker for a moment. It’s almost like walking through the lobby part of that Twilight Zone Tower of Terror ride you went on with Tyler a few months ago. Tyler was so scared he ditched you in line because he heard about the drop and was too much of an effing you- know-what to go on. The hallway is vintage 1930s horror—dust covers all the beautifully ornate crown molding and the almost-Victorian style lighting.

  Up ahead, the door leading to the outside deck has been left propped open, and you step through the heavy doorframe. From the deck, you look out onto a millpond ocean. There is a full moon highlighting the lack of new waves.

  Partially illuminated by the moonlight and the glow of lights streaming through the portholes is a young man, older than you, with slightly ruffled blond hair and a pair of white Ray-Ban sunglasses tucked into the neck of his black T-shirt underneath a black cloth jacket. He stands there, waiting alone, as if he knew you were coming.

  You say hello to him curtly and he says, “Good evening” right back at you.

  Dry white lightning rolls out over the horizon without a single thunderclap. Little balls of lightning, blue and orange flash and dip into the far distant ocean, rise again, and disappear into the greater darkness. “Good Lord,” you say, startled. There is a spread of three green balls of lightning that each fly towards different points of the compass and disappear.

  “What is that?” you say.

  “Ball lightning phenomena coming out near Point Nemo. It’s starting to open. I knew we could see it now. It’ll be like this for a few hours, then nothing. And then something incredible, like God opening a hole in the universe. Didn’t you hear the orientation stuff? About what happens when we actually go into the Gate?” he asks with innocent wonder, not mocking you.

  You blink several times. “I wasn’t paying attention.” A strong wind blows from somewhere far off, pushing you both towards the outside deck walls. He doesn’t say anything further.

  “Sarah. Sarah Orange,” you say. “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

  “Guy Farson,” he says. You shake his hand with one fluid motion, and he continues to watch the display outside the ship. “First time to The Oberon?”

  “Yes,” you say. “It should be fun.”

  Guy smiles and looks like he wants to say something but holds his tongue. “That’s one way of putting it.” He rubs the thin layer of stubble on his cheeks, as if thinking about something. “I have no idea why I’m volunteering this information. I sort of “dayhawk” for a living. What do you do?”

  You wonder what the hell a dayhawk is, but then remember. “Oh?” you say, chuckling. “Me and my, my, uh, Jamie, are goin’ to be dayhawkin’ too. I guess. Well...At a place called the Super Sargasso region.” You keep talking despite Guy’s obvious lack of interest. “He’ll be, uh, grabbing salvageables, is that the right word? It’ll be a hoot.” You realize how retarded that sounds but Guy doesn’t say anything.

  “Maybe I’ll be seeing you out there. I go out that way sometimes.” He takes out a silver flask and has a sip from it.

  “Is that alcohol?”

  “No. Not at all.” He looks at you sideways.

  You nod quickly, feeling a chill, laughing a little. “Goodnight.”

  Guy leaves, watching the electricity play out over the far waters as he continues to walk down the deck.

  * * *

  December 22nd, 2012

  Summer Solstice (Southern Hemisphere)

  Point Nemo

  You sit on the bed, feeling Jaime’s forehead. “You’re not burning up with fever, at least. That’s a good sign.”

  “I feel like I got to throw up again.” He gets out of bed, rushes to the bathroom, and closes the door behind him. You hear a vile noise come out of him, and it makes you wince. When he stumbles back to bed, he looks pale green and compulsively wipes his mouth. “You go on ahead to the party. I’ll be here until this calms down. I won’t miss it, I swear I won’t miss it...”

  You sigh and stand up. “Look, Jaime, if you need anything, please, uh, well you can’t call me, but call the porter, okay? Don’t suffer with being sea sick.”

  Jaime groans and closes his eyes. “Please get me up when the portal opens, okay? Please?”

  After a moment you leave the cabin, closing the door quietly behind you.

  * * *

  The party is in full swing, the chants of well-wishers and the clanging of glasses echoing throughout Winston’s Lounge. Happy Summer Solstice reads the large white and blue banner that hangs across the mirrored wall directly behind the bar. The lounge faces the darkness of the ocean ahead of you. Cigarette smoke fogs every corner. Couples dance on the large tiled floor in the middle of the space while a Huey Lewis and the News cover band sing something about a new drug. TVs are being taken down and put into storage by men in grim, gray overalls, armed with ladders. They’re trying to get the equipment out amongst a sea of partygoers and the curious.

  You sip on a Shirley Temple and watch people mingle, dance, laugh, drink, and celebrate as time ticks down towards the portal opening at exactly 3:00 am, as it does every solstice. It is 12:18 am right now, according to Mickey Mouse. You slept most of the day in anticipation of the late night. Lost in thought, you think about where you’re going. Anxiety fills every pore of your body. You sit the
re with a sick stomach and an aching and racing heart.

  Guy Farson is in a sort of business-casual suit, complete with loose tie. A lit cigar hangs out of one side of his mouth, and he has a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label scotch in one hand. He wears sunglasses. “Oh god, I love Huey Lewis and the Blues,” he says, trying to be heard over the music as he sways to the beat.

  “N-news,” you say, nervous. The young man you’ve only just met the night before seems drunk.

  “What?” he practically yells, sitting himself down at your table with a thump. Your Shirley Temple almost tips over onto the white tablecloth before you grab it.

  “It’s uh, uh News. Huey Lewis and the News.”

  “Jews?” he says. “I always thought that was an odd name for a band, innit? Huey Lewis and the Jews.” You look around desperately for an easy out.

  The band finishes up their song and tells everyone that they’ll be back in ten minutes to play up to the opening of the Nemo Gate. The noise level dies down a bit. Farson takes your glass, drinks all that is left of the Shirley Temple, and pours the Walker over the leftover ice. He flips an unused white coffee mug and splashes some into it for himself.

  “I don’t drink alcohol. I’m underage,” you say with firmness in your voice. You stare at him for a good moment.

  “And I’m really twenty-eight. I don’t drink except on weekends. I don’t lie to friends, borrow money from family, and I go to church only on Christmas and Easter. Anything else you want to share? You ever do drugs with a stranger?”

  You shake your head and stand up. He holds up a hand and takes a drink of his scotch. “Look, Sarah.” He licks his full lips as if thinking for a moment, trying to get over some sort of hurdle to speak what is on his mind. “Let me tell you something, Miss Orange. I’ll leave in just a minute, but I think that you must be a very interesting girl.” He looks around and then moves closer to you. “Let me explain.”

  You cross your arms, hopefully looking tough. “You’re by yourself here—no friends that I can see. You just signed up, no problem, with no one else. So you must have quite a sense of adventure—going alone, as a young lady. Not a lot of people can do that. I mean, money is tight back in the USA but still. I was watching you as you came in. Everyone here is with somebody, ‘cept you and me. And I know why I am alone.”