by Lee Baldwin
our monitor is new
she is
your wife, your boys?
with her folks – I told them to sleep
does she believe it?
partly – told her the smartest is to sleep
does she know what we’re doing?
just routine patrol
good
how are you?
as expected – you?
same – happy to be together for this
yes
yes
what about the sleep?
they said involuntary – I don’t feel sleepy
same – it’s 6:20 out east
maybe we will sleep when this is over
they say the roads will be dangerous
stay on the base?
not if we’re off duty
The look that flashes between them has a single meaning. After they release the bomb, they’ll bring their drone home, presuming it survives the blast. Until tomorrow afternoon they’ll be at their leisure. So much to explore. A momentary upward flicker of Veronica’s smooth lips.
Two hours go by. Routine calls from mission command now infrequent. Chatter on the commlink dies away. A lengthy silence. Exley and duLac exchange glances. Veronica keys her mic.
“Reaper Six, Reaper Command?”
Silence on the commlink.
“Reaper Six, Reaper Command, respond.”
Nothing. Veronica gives William a searching look.
“This is off-nominal,” Exley says under his breath, reaching for the radio selector. On his screens night has fallen, Reaper Six flies in darkness. Far below the orbiting drone, powerful searchlights illuminate the massive winged thing that stands in the Pentagon courtyard. On duLac’s targeting cluster, the overlay of Shackleford’s force field gradient holds precise synchrony with the live view in radar and optical frequencies. They can see their target.
Exley calls out repeatedly. Nowhere in the chain of Reaper command do they find a responding voice. Breaking routine, Exley pulls out his cell phone and turns it on. Just what he expected inside the shielded bunker: no bars.
He looks directly at duLac. “This could be serious.” Seeing her face, his pulse rises.
Faint hint of a smile crosses her lips, a smile for him alone. “We have Nine. They lifted off behind us.” In their radar view floats a blip that squawks Reaper Nine’s transponder code, pacing their orbit opposite the target. Intercom calls to Reaper Nine’s command module, one hundred feet from where they sit, produce no response.
“Protocol allows physical inspection of the premises.”
“I’ll go.”
“No it should be me,” Veronica tells him. “You’re best to fly the mission if I don’t come back.”
Exley says nothing, sees that Veronica is right. Watches her graceful body rise up as she disconnects herself from the command chair. Happy to feel his eyes on her, she looks him full in the face. Pausing beside his command chair, she gives his hand a squeeze, forbidden. Dangerous.
“Back soon,” says Veronica duLac. As she prepares to exit the module, she draws the 45-calibre service revolver at her waist.
Exley continues his radio calls, across all bands. Occasionally hears faint scattered voices, one pleading, no idea who or where. After forty minutes alone in the command module Exley is wound so tight that the hiss of the compartment’s air seal causes him to jump. His head is turned full around, hand to his sidearm. Relief floods him.
“Ronnie!”
She stops, eyes wide. She’d dreamed one day he would use that nickname, sometime, when they felt themselves alone. She seals and secures the door.
“You were gone so long. What did they say?”
Quickly she assumes her command chair, with headset eyes and hands reconnects with the obedient drone.
“They didn’t say anything.” Turns her head to look at him. In the light of screens her face as lovely as he’s ever imagined. “They are all asleep.”
Veronica takes her time explaining. Outside the command module blast door she’d found four armed soldiers on the floor in peaceful slumber. She tried to check for pulse but there was a resistance, a resilient force that repelled her touch. The others were the same. In the crew quarters she’d found both of their relief teams dead asleep, untouchable.
Outside the RPV command center was a staff car with three men in it, all sleeping. Something not visible prevented her from touching the vehicle. She could not get their attention. She found an unoccupied car and drove slowly a few kilometers through the base. She’d encountered no one. Veronica had walked into the base PX. All lights on, refrigerator cabinets humming, five people scattered asleep on the floor.
Their large command chairs swivel now to face one another. There is no pretense of piloting the Reaper, the autopilot has full control. They sit completely relaxed, hold one another’s gaze. Shocked at this brazen act in the middle of their most critical mission, they watch one another openly. So forbidden, this thing most wanted. Exley smiles. Veronica, forgetting caution, lets go. Her face brims with radiance.
An automated notice flashes on their monitors, the blare of a horn.
PREPARE TARGETING SEQUENCE
Their heads jerk around, chairs forward. Exley speaks into his headset. “Ah, Reaper Command, Reaper Six requesting lock code for target initiation.”
The commlink is silent. The launch sequence for heavy weapons is a combination of automated and manual processes. For the B63G nuclear device, a senior tactical commander must provide both voice and coded system keys. Exley repeats his call, there is no reply. He swings his chair to face Veronica.
She gazes at him thoughtfully, finger strokes lightly her moist lips. From long habit they do not speak their deepest wish, continue to exchange coded signals, hand signs, mesmerized with the joy of being alone together.
The screens flash another strident command.
INITIATE ARMING SEQUENCE
They exchange a look of shock. The sequence is telling them to proceed although the codes and voice commands have not been issued. Impossible. To the screens comes a command they have never seen, never trained for.
ROGUE OVERRIDE ARMING SEQUENCE INITIATED
unreal
yes – a new software patch?
are we asleep? in a dream?
we can’t do this
I can’t
can’t let it happen – this is not debugged
They watch one another, tracking every thought. Stern commands flash across their screens and are ignored. At a mutual signal Exley and duLac turn to their consoles, hands fly over the controls. The weapon is returned to operational unarmed status, the guidance system set to maintain orbit.
They throw down their headsets and stand. They will leave this hellish nightmare behind. As in dream, they step together in the cramped space where lights flash screens flicker. On the main display, from the nose camera of Reaper Six, the overhead view of a scaly-skinned winged reptilian with taloned fingers, standing motionless, first hint of dawn behind it. Around the enormous figure in darkened countryside, fires burn. Entire swaths of populated areas lie in darkness.
In their fierce embrace, soft words.
“We’ll be arrested.”
“Court martialed.”
“This is being recorded. We’ll be shot.”
“I have so longed for you.”
“And I for you.”
“What we’ve missed.”
“I can tell you of a thousand wonderful days and nights we’ve spent together.”
“And I will hear.”
“Come.”
Exley leads Veronica by the hand through the security door. They step over sleeping guards, make their way outside to the idling vehicle. At the main entrance, the gate is broken, twisted outwards. They drive past the lighted guard shack, seeing no one. Stopped at the main road, they look at one another.
“Where?”
“The desert. That time we ran together.” The look they share in t
he darkness of that car carries private knowing, sees the path they now embark on, sees that to turn back even now they will find prison, infamy, a lifetime of derision. Because they could not drop their bomb.
Exley turns left. As they drive, the road ahead takes on soft light, a lambent path between trees and bushes along the roadside, tropical ferns and colorful gardens. They turn onto a dirt track that winds upward through night-scented hills. They leave the car and proceed on foot. Stars bright and crisp in pure black sky they move into a run, together in free air. The night is warm. Their clothing, their gear and guns, piece by piece fall behind.
After fifteen minutes with no control input, Reaper Six initiates an automated return to base. It banks for home, high above the Pentagon, where below the towering figure stands in silent meditation. Seven minutes later, Reaper Six touches down on the runways of Andrews AFB, taxis itself to the apron in front of a particular hangar, and shuts itself off. Reaper Nine is there, its engine cold. Bombs beneath the aircraft hang inert.
Exley glances over as Veronica shrugs out of her uniform shirt. They run onward. The air is tropical, pungent with floral scents. Both perspire. Exley throws aside his shirt, stops to unlace his boots, removes his uniform slacks. Beside him, Veronica duLac does the same. Night air flowing over bare flesh, they run laughing for the hilltop.
Here, small flowering bushes grow. Far beneath, as it has for thousands of years, an underground pool of clear desert water waits in stillness. Arms enfolding one another, William and Veronica stand breathless. Far away the horizon glows red, above them in black sky the quiet of the universe sends back fierce love. A flame rises in them. He reaches below her knee, her hips lift into contact, both tremble. Arms behind his neck, her body slides upward, supported in his strong arms. Free of the ground, her sinuous dance of love begins. They join, in her angelic face he sees the silent wish, to cling herself to him for an eternity. He’ll do everything he can to grant it.
Human Dream
As a radiant dawn breaks over the smoky quiet of Arlington, Virginia. Lian’s eyes open. A tiny woodland fairy floats before him. Her hair is white, flowered garlands encircle feminine hips. Diaphanous wings stretch out, needing not to move as she floats before his huge toothed snout. His exhaled breath flutters her hair. Her coloring is the shimmer of sunlight on clear water. His Lylit.
It is done.
You did well.
I have so missed you. Please tell me we leave here soon.
It’s true. Only one task remains.
Good.
Want to know something?
Tell.
For the first time, I feel impatience.
I do too.
Why, I wonder?
So close to these mortals.
Humans are such exalted beings.
They don’t let themselves own it.
No.
I am so glad you are taking me with you.
I have so longed for you.
I am impatient to be with you.
There is time. How about now?
Can we know each other as human? I would like to experience that.
Why should you want that?
The years, growing up with Tharcia. Her wants. Her fears. Her courage. I respect that.
I see that clear. Want to do something really sinful?
Oh. Will you make me your bad girl?
Having had a good chunk of eternity to anticipate this, Lian chose for their first night on Earth a particular place. A place of such beauty and extravagance as mortals seldom imagine, a land of perfect serenity.
All around them lush vegetation grows. Fruiting trees never seen, a wandering river flows from pure subterranean depths and outward as mystical headwaters of the Earth. A garden of earthly and spiritual delights. From the grassy soil grows every flower bush and tree that is pleasing to the sight, the taste, to the nourishing of mortal bodies. The aromas are sweetness, tartness, the salt and the bitter, foods of such a richness that heal the spirit.
Lian stands before her as a man, tall with ash-blonde hair, a powerful statue of flesh and bone. Lylit wears fairy wings, her breasts and womanly hips adorned in living blossoms. She smiles up at him, gazing at the wondrous garden, the rocks and waterfalls, the graceful animals that rest and play there.
“You are a very bad boy. I love this.”
He laughs. “You said you wanted to do this as humans.” He gathers her softness into his muscled arms. “No better place to begin, than at the beginning.”
“I do,” Lylit says, kissing him. “This viewpoint is so limited, but has its own beauty. I want to understand it more.”
“Death is so frightening from in here,” Lian says, knowing for the first time what it means to be afraid. The fear makes her kiss more reassuring.
“It is. How do they stand it?”
Lian’s fingers unwind the floral strands that drape her breasts. His lips pull her hungry nipple into his warm mouth, sharp teeth ignite her. His fingers caress downward her smooth belly.
She throws back her head and sighs, arms around his neck. “Lian I am so afraid like this. Hold me.”
“Yes. I will always hold you.”
“How can you say that, knowing we will both die?”
“It’s so a part of this life they have.” He lifts her, feminine thighs encircle his waist. Their open mouths share words, and breathing. Soft breasts against hard chest. His cock penetrates her and their human dream begins.
Waking
Arnold Friedman and his wife awaken in one another’s arms, lie together in breathless morning quiet, softly telling of mystical dreams from their long sleep. Sunlight flows through the bedroom curtains.
“Unreal and all too real,” Gail says, her bare thigh across his belly. She kisses his neck.
Downstairs they prepare breakfast on a camp stove. Gas and electricity are not working. Nothing moves outside, from their windows the street looks a mess. Several isolated homes have burnt to the ground. Across from them a front wall is smashed outward, as though something very large within desired to leave. There is no television, no bars on their phones. The battery radio finds vague static.
The psychologist’s laptop is fully charged. Absently he reads through his notes and interviews. Sees an interesting thread. Begins writing up a new theory which he might call Complementary Parapsychology. Gail, near a sunny window in the wingback armchair, reads a book. Interspersed with their talk of events at the Pentagon over the last six days, he becomes aware of interesting ideas, not knowing whether they are waking thoughts or sleeping dreams, shared psychic fields and instantaneous phenomena. In his mind there forms a bare outline of his research paper. Understands he’s been wrong about many things.
Too mechanistic, too materialist.
Friedman was trained to see living beings as mechanisms. Complex and biological, but mechanisms still. Why had he never questioned that? Unbidden, a thought strikes him: Nature is alive and has purpose, evolution has a goal. He is shocked at the clarity of the ideas. He is pondering those as another head-spinning idea comes: biological inheritance is conscious.
Living organisms with self-determined goals? Friedman wants to pursue that, asks himself, what if all matter is conscious? What if every living cell has a point of view? His excitement grows. He feels a truth here that will take him years to realize, becomes fixed on a notion, one he cannot in this moment hope to prove, but believe it he does. Friedman watches the image form within his head, a universe that is conscious and self-aware. In his vision, consciousness is not the illusion, but the source of all reality. The mind reaches far beyond the brain, in time as well as space. He finds himself pursuing a theory he wants to call Conscious Universe, and sets his mind with quiet intention to that end. Friedman works through the morning, until it is time to sweep his wife into his arms and gratefully hold her.
The five Hindu priests at the Pentagon, instead of taking the Sleep, have spent their night in meditation. Emerging from silence nineteen hours later besid
e their VW bus, they find themselves on the threshold of another existence. Four of them, now in a state of parinirvana, just prior to vanishing over some mystical event horizon, hug lovingly the fifth. He is not quite baked. With smiles and high fives for his dematerialized brothers, the radiant man walks cheerfully toward the rising dawn.
Many people around the planet, whether they survived being awake or passed through the mystical sleep, emerge into the dawn from a dream that integrates mind, body, and spirit, a dream rich in feminine energy. Many awaken knowing they want more in their lives than the next hot gadget, feel their hunger for gratitude, sharing, and peaceful lives.
Strewn randomly about the parking lot and within the RockMeBaby Luxo Stratoliner buses, scores of Catholic priests begin to wake. Above them stands the enormous figure, motionless and with eyes long closed. He seems not such a threat. There is knowledge to be gained from him. And serenity. Father Tilton leads a group of priests in prayer. Tilton wants to know how the lovely and peculiar goddess-girl made it through, there is much she can teach him. But there are no bars on any phone. The priests board the buses and make ready to leave. Many faithful will be needing their help in the long recovery ahead.
A gold-red sun rims the desert thirty miles from Creech Air Force Base. On a lonely hilltop, a single tree grows. Strong and richly curved, the tree is rooted where a subterranean lake lies deep. Around it where before the sands were bare, green flowered bushes stretch toward the sky. High among rich leaves, a brightly-colored Sonoran Coral Snake clings herself to a sturdy branch, senses alert. It is her first morning. The tree knows she is there, holds her in his comforting stillness. Her tongue flickers, tasting the air, as their new life together dawns across her face.
In a Georgetown living room, a graceful gold-dappled frog squats on the keyboard of a laptop computer, its screen long dead. A bowl of grapes rests nearby. Strewn over the floor, a woman’s underthings, a lavender T-shirt with writing on it. Bound in tiny white threads, a fly buzzes helplessly amid the grapes. The frog sends out her long sticky tongue and draws him into her gullet. Swallows, blinks.