SKYEYES

by Edward Es

  Tall Tree stands silhouetted, westward, against the faint appearance of the widening canyon, the town of Springdale twinkling its few lights several hundred feet below. On that spot have stood generations of his people with the stars shining on their backs, at times when their destinies were about to metamorphose. Tall Tree raises his arms straight to the heavens, arcing them slowly back down to his side.

  Inside one of the cruise ship’s lounges, the troops from Noah House have assembled in various states ranging from out of control to bouncing off walls, according to their mobility. Isabel enters the lounge, pushing Nonna in her wheelchair, and after a few moments of observation, sticks her fingers in her mouth and whistles loud enough to turn everyone. The crowd comes to attention and moves in her direction as she motions. Once they’ve settled down, Isabel addresses them.

  “Hello, children.”

  “Hello, Miss Isabel,” they chant in unison.

  “There’s something I have to tell you, and it’s about Mr. Holmes. I don’t know any easy way to put it, so here it is. This morning he launched himself into space in a rocket he and his friend made. Right now he’s all right and he’s orbiting the Earth.”

  They all look at each other in excited surprise. Roger, a leukemia victim with only a few scattered crops of hair, raises his hand. “You mean like the Space Shuttle? I didn’t know he was an astronaut.”

  Isabel looks at Nonna, then back. “Well, honey, he wasn’t, really.”

  Roger beams. “I guess he is now, isn’t he?” This gets a laugh from the kids.

  Lacy, a five-year-old with Shirley Temple ringlets, limps forward on her artificial leg. “Is he coming back?”

  Isabel wells up. “I think so. I really hope so.”

  Walter-the-leaf-raker jumps up. “He is coming back! Mr. Holmes told me when I got on the boat, he might come out of the sky to see me!”

  All the children exclaim, “Wow!”

  Captain Wright hurries in and turns on a wall mounted TV, switching channels until it reaches an “ABN Special Report” graphic. He motions them over.

  Wiley’s has become the public meeting place of Springdale, much as taverns have for centuries when events brought citizens together, for better or worse. This time it’s a little of both: concern over the plight of their controversial neighbor, and confused elation over their proximity to the historic adventure. There are no shortage of “spirits”, either, to go with the continuum of emotions. Butch and Tim are unabashedly raucous over the feat of their employer, and rebelliously proud of their participation in it. Seated at the bar, they, for the umpteenth time, clasp hands in a high five that turns into a mock arm-wrestling match. This causes the beers in the other hands to overflow onto the bar. Wiley wipes it up, again.

  Tim brags, “Dude! We did it, didn’t we?”

  “We beat it! We sure did! God Almighty, when that sucker shot off like that, it damn near rattled the fillings right out of my head!”

  “Fillings, hell. The only thing that rattles in a jarhead like that is the ball bearing you call a brain,” says Tim.

  “Oh, yeah? Bite me.”

  “First there’s gotta be something to bite.”

  Butch takes his beer and attempts to throw it on Tim who sways to the side, diverting the beer to paint the back of Sam, sitting next to him, facing the other way. Sam barely flinches, his flinching mode toned down by his own celebrating. He slowly turns around and locks both of them in his cross hairs. Above them the TV shows the “Special Report” graphic which dissolves to Connie Chung. Before Sam can retaliate, the tavern door swings open and Sid walks in, looking like he’s ready to let go, followed by Bud. Butch is facing in that direction and his face manifests his astonishment.

  “No way.”

  Sam turns to look. “Way.”

  Sid and Bud spot them staring and Butch raises his empty mug with a smile as Sid walks toward them. Bud grabs his arm but it’s apparent Sid’s had enough as he pulls away, takes off his coat, and continues toward the bar. Bud hesitates, then follows.

  Butch shouts over the noise, “Wiley, two beers, on me.”

  “Thanks. Appreciate it,” says Sid.

  Bud surrenders. “Why not.”

  Tim looks at Bud’s back. “Your suit looks a little... scorched there, Meyerkamp.” Tim and Butch aren’t trying very hard not to laugh. Sam doesn’t try at all, bursting out a mouthful of beer.

  “Ouch! Fried Fed!” says Butch.

  Bud bites his lip as Sid looks at him, laughing. “You three musketeers are really proud of yourselves, aren’t you?” Bud says, almost sad.

  “Damn straight!” the two exclaim. Yet another high five clasp. “HOOOAH!”

  Tim holds his mug up. “TOMMMeeee! The TOMmeister. Makin’ ROCKets!”

  Sam looks at them, then at Bud as Sid downs the entire beer in one shot and produces a belch so deep, only a dog, or other beer drinker, could hear. Sam raises a fist. “Yes! Our tax dollars at work! Finally.”

  Bud, trying not to participate, looks up at the TV to see an empty podium with the Presidential Seal, flanked by aides. He flails a finger toward the TV, getting Wiley’s attention. Wiley looks up and raises the volume, herding the crowd toward the bar.

  Reporters are camped outside Francine’s home, getting no response to repeated efforts at the doorbell. One reporter stands on the small patch of front lawn, smoking. A voice calls from inside the broadcast van. “Come on! He’s walking out now.” The reporter throws his smoldering butt on the grass and his cameraman huffs, picks up the butt, and throws it in a garbage can after putting it out for him.

  Francine sits on a kitchen stool with a glass of wine, waiting for the press conference. President Stamp walks toward the podium.

  Tom spins the clear cup as he listens to a CD of Native American flute music. He glides over to the window to look out, another “night” nearly over, the nights lasting less than forty-five minutes. Tom stills as he sees green pillars of light spraying up from the Earth, as if there were a giant crack and its inner glow was escaping. He realizes he’s passing through the Northern Lights. Then, at the edge of the Earth, defined on the darkside as the razor-edge where stars stop, another sunrise erupts; first a luminescence, then a rapid-fire rainbow, changing colors like a rotating prism powered by white-hot light as the Sun burns through the thin atmosphere and sears his vision. Tom looks back down to the darkness and sees a shooting star streak beneath him. Thus another flood of realization washes over him, another touch upon the unfathomable truth of where he is.

  Tom notices Stamp on his monitor and turns up the volume.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, fellow citizens. Please be seated. Generally, the Office of the President does not respond to the activities of private citizens. However, as most everyone knows, an American, Thomas Holmes, has launched himself into Earth orbit in a vehicle he assembled with the assistance of Dr. Werner Kirshner, a former NASA scientist and eminent father of rocketry in this country.”

  In the cruise ship lounge, all sit transfixed.

  “I address you tonight because many of you are understandably concerned about national security issues, specifically certain super powers that would be alarmed by an unscheduled launch such as this. Rest assured I’ve spoken to all necessary leaders and explained the nature of this phenomenon. In fact, they’ve expressed concern and kindly offered any assistance necessary in helping to resolve this to a favorable conclusion.

  “As for the issue of someone launching a vehicle from our own airspace, you can imagine the criticism I, as well as other entities in our strategic defense and law enforcement communities, have taken. Frankly, fellow Americans, we were caught flat footed. For this I personally apologize, an apology to be outmatched, I trust, only by that of Mr. Holmes. In my, our, defense, I should add, however, that we were aware of some of the activities surrounding this… mission, and in the p
rocess of investigating them, obviously not in time. Our intelligence assets, correctly, did not profile Mr. Holmes to be the type of threat that would warrant scrutiny better applied to activities of terrorists and other malignant forces which threaten the security of our nation. This is a large country, and we simply cannot monitor every square foot of it for the movements of our own citizens. This… accomplishment, for lack of a better word, by Mr. Holmes and Dr. Kirshner, was a fantastically elaborate display of ingenuity and deception, one nearly deserving of recognition as good ‘ole American cunning and determination, were I not so disturbed at the degree to which they embarrassed my administration.”

  The crowd at Wiley’s has become silent.

  “I am well aware of the mixed emotions many of you have over this surprising act of daring on the part of Mr. Holmes, and I would be blind if I didn’t acknowledge that to many this is seen as some great human triumph. It is true, history was made. Perhaps not good history, but history nonetheless. To those of you that cheer Tom on, I must say one thing. Don’t try this at home!”

  Inside a department store in Tokyo, a crowd has gathered around a wall of TVs, the speech translated in subtitles as onlookers whisper.

  “I have spoken to Tom, and it’s no secret he and I have known each other many years. He’s doing fine, and I’ve encouraged him to take all measures necessary to return back to Earth safely. His vehicle, I’ve been assured by Dr. Kirshner, has the capability to do just that. However, Tom is in control of his own fate up there, and I can’t tell you what he has in mind. We will do everything within our power here, with the assistance of NASA, to help him, to ensure his safety, and to ensure as well that he does not become a hazard to the rest of us down here.”

  Francine downs her wine.

  “Why he has done this is a question only he can answer. Certainly, he has personal reasons, and we that know him are confident he meant no harm to anyone, despite the dangerous nature of such an act. He apparently took all possible precautions and was effective at not posing a critical danger to any persons not associated with his mission. Nevertheless, when he returns, and I certainly hope he does, he will have to answer to me and others for certain infractions, and what some are calling reckless behavior.”

  Melody watches on a TV that was laid on its side for her in the Starbridge.

  “However, that is not our concern at this time. He is an American citizen, he is a citizen of our planet, and a fellow human being. Tom, in a certain way, represents all of us, as have astronauts of all nations before him. I, for one, welcome the opportunity for the people of this planet to focus on the well-being of one man, even if only for this brief interlude in the daily travails of our world, instead of on the demise of those with whom they continually quarrel. For these reasons, we all, I trust, wish him well, and he is certainly in my prayers, and I hope yours. Many shared his grief, as I did, when he and his wife, Francine, lost their boy, Noah, many years ago. And if I were a betting man, I would bet little Noah is praying, wherever he is, for the safe return of his father. Thank you, and good night.”

  Melody wipes a tear from her cheek.

  Isabel stands, barely able to excuse herself, and hurries out of the room. Nonna chases her the best she can.

  Isabel leans over the railing, sobbing, as Nonna finally catches up. She waits, then places her hand on Isabel’s back. “I know, honey. I believe in my heart he’s going to come back, safe and sound. And after that, I’ll hold him down, and you whack him a good one. Or would you rather hold him down? Your choice.”

  Isabel turns, wiping her face. “I guess I can’t compete with the President, can I? I wonder who else he talked to. For God’s sake, I would think at least he’d call you!”

  “I think he’s calling people in order of the least hell he’ll catch. That puts me pretty far down the list. I’m even below the President, and damn proud of it.” Isabel works up a near smile as she embraces Nonna, who assures her, “You know Tommy will call you when he figures out what to say.”

  “I just don’t understand how he can do this to so many people who care about him. Doesn’t he know how scared we are?”

  Nonna holds her at arm’s length. “Listen to me. Nobody knows the man better than I do. When that child died, so did something inside his father. There’s somewhere between life and death people go. Tom’s gone somewhere, to do something neither of us can understand, and I don’t think he does either. But I have faith that wherever he’s going, he’ll come back to us, and he will have paid whatever price he has to pay, whatever cross he has to bear, and will be a better person. A new person. Have faith.”

  Isabel bows her head.

  Watchman Trail appears in the distance as a faint line scratched into an escarpment. Moonlight casts pale shadows across the landscape from the jagged canyon skyline far above as an unlikely train of hikers, darting flashlights ahead, makes its way toward the lookout, led by Sam, followed by Butch and Tim, Sid and Bud lagging behind.

  Bud is complaining between labored gasps for air. “I can’t believe you talked me into this. I should have my head examined.”

  “You are having your head examined. Now shut up and don’t waste your breath,” says Sid, not quite as winded.

  The party turns the last climbing bend and emerges onto the edge of the plateau that leads to Watchman Lookout. They look around while refilling lungs from the gusting cold night air. Asymmetrical trees silhouette all around, still guardians of the lookout. Bud is spooked. Sid’s heart races as he closes his eyes, turns his face up, and is buffeted. Suddenly Sam spins around.

  “What was that?”

  Tim looks around. “Cripes, I don’t know!”

  “Take it easy. Turn off your flashlights,” Butch says. They comply, bringing darkness upon them. Bud shines his at them.

  “What? What’s going on?” Bud asks.

  The three whisper-shout in unison: “Turn it off!”

  Bud fumbles, then finally gets it off. Also whisper shouting, he snaps, “What!”

  “SHHHH!”

  Out of nowhere, going as swiftly as it came, is the shadow of a man running by so close, his heat brushes them. Bud jumps back a foot into a thorny bush. The figure, Tall Tree, disappears down the trail they just negotiated.

  “Holy... What was that!” exclaims Bud, no longer whispering.

  “Tall Tree,” Sam answers calmly. Bud rests his face in his hands.

  Sid never moved his closed-eyes gaze from the heavens. “This is amazing. I can see the stars with my eyes closed.” Bud looks at him, speechless.

  Kirshner paces the control room. He stops again, presses the phone pad key, and awaits a response. One of the monitors shows a graphic representation of the capsule moving in orbital flight toward a point where the projected path diverges, tracing a translunar segment. At the point of divergence there’s a red flashing circle, and in the corner of the screen, a clock labeled “Translunar Injection” rapidly counts down, just past the two minute mark. Under it, “DISARMED” flashes in green.

  “Damnit, Thomas. Don’t do it.”

  As the capsule falls through space, the Sun is preparing to set behind the Earth. Bursts from two control jets start the capsule rotating to a new attitude.

  On another monitor, a graphic of the capsule is accordingly rotating. Kirshner catches it out of the corner of his eye, looks up at the TV feed, and sees the Earth appearing to shift.

  “Oh, dear God. No.”

  He resumes punching the phone pad as he watches the “DISARMED” annunciator turn to red flashing “ARMED”.

  Inside the capsule, the same annunciation is on the monitor. Tom, Zion in arm, is strapped in for the burn as the clock ticks off to zero. A glow appears outside the window along with flecks of debris, the capsule vibrates, and the engine accelerates them on their journey out of Earth orbit.

  Kirshner watches his monitor. As he switc
hes pages, a window comes up on the screen flashing “WARNING”. He clicks on the window and the engine parameter screen appears with a red box around the fuel-flow annunciator. He mutters, “What’s this now? That damn valve,” holding his finger down on the phone button.

  Tom is looking out the window. The persistent phone forces him to turn and notice the same warning. He turns on the speaker. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re getting a low fuel-flow. My guess is the valve didn’t open full.” His flight path screen shows the projected path bending slightly, tracing a path past the Moon and arcing around it and off the edge of the screen. “I told you that valve wasn’t—”

  “Don’t start, Doc. What do you want to do about it?” As soon as he speaks, there’s a stronger vibration and the warning message disappears, followed by a flashing caution box. “Now what?” He returns to the engine page.

  “Looks like the valve went full open. We’ve got normal thrust,” Kirshner says as he scans parameters.

  “Except that we’ve got an energy problem now.”

  “I realize that, Thomas. The computer’s asking if we want a modified burn.”

  “And?”

  Kirshner rubs his chin, runs through more pages, then taps the screen. “I don’t think it’s a good idea right now. We’re better off letting the burn run its time out as programmed. That way we can get an accurate path vector. Make sure the valve closes.”

  “Just fix it during the correction burn?”

  “Yes, I think that’s best.”

  The clock is running down from one minute. They both watch, each second throbbing the Doctor’s nerves until it reaches zero. The engine shuts down and the capsule returns to its serene glide. “Well, that looks like a good shutdown,” Tom says.