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by Al Macy

  He flailed around as he floated in the darkness then moved his arms to break his impact with the other side. Too late. The top of his head hit first, and his neck bent back as if landing forehead first on a trampoline. With the power off, the surface of the sphere was about as soft as stainless steel. Pain knifed through him. I’m getting too old for this. His chest hit next. He bounced back into the center of the sphere, drifting slowly.

  Cronkite made a snivel-grunt just off to his right. Jake had no way of changing direction in midair. He reached out blindly and grabbed a handful of coarse bristles. At the same time a delicate hand fastened around his wrist. He grabbed it with his other hand and snapped it off. Like snapping off the claw of a huge, cooked lobster. Excellent. Now we’re getting somewhere.

  A mule kick landed in his stomach, and pain seared his thigh. Both fighters roared.

  Jake struggled to inhale. He released his grip on Cronkite’s hair, and the two of them drifted apart. Jake stuffed the lobster arm into a pocket. He waited for the feel of the floor. Much of his momentum had been absorbed by his encounter with Cronkite. Jake got his wind again and prepared to bounce back to finish the fight. He shivered. The temperature must have dropped twenty degrees already and the air tasted stale.

  He hit the floor with hands and feet together. He pushed off to head straight back to the action, but he only got four feet when the artificial gravity snapped on. He fell with a thud. The lighting was back, too. Maybe he’d have a few seconds to get to Cronkite. Breathing hard, he ran along the sphere’s surface. Too late. A wall sprang up and Jake ran right into it. Cronkite was in control again.

  The universal translator screens morphed into existence once more. On the screen, Walter Cronkite, the world’s most famous news anchor, was crying and had a bloody stump where his left arm had been.

  Jake rested on his hands and knees, taking hard, rasping breaths. He pulled Cronkite’s severed arm out of his pocket and smiled. He brought it up to his face and turned it over. If a huge cricket had hands, this is what they’d look like. The black exoskeleton on the wrist and palm transitioned to tender ape-like fingers with retractable claws.

  The shell of the sphere once again turned transparent, with the furniture and occupants still visible. DJ1 shrank to a pinpoint in seconds. Now where are we going? He held Cronkite’s wrist and waved bye-bye with it. He looked up at Cronkite. The two eye stalks turned his way. Would taunting be a good idea or bad? Fuck it. He waved the dismembered hand the way the queen of England waves. Greetings, Sir Cronkite.

  * * *

  During the long trip back to Earth, Jake tried to engage Cronkite in conversation without success. Jake watched the star field change and Earth increase in size. At one point, they zipped past an asteroid. Now what? Was Cronkite just going to drop him off at the White House? Have a nice day!

  Unfortunately, no. It looked like they were coming in over the Atlantic. They slipped through the atmosphere and Jake watched the endless cloud layer flying up around him. Much better than flying in a plane with tiny windows.

  He was watching water droplets stream around the sphere when the bottom fell out. An iris-like door snapped open and Jake tumbled into the dark clouds. Was this the end of the line?

  The ocean scent washed over him. Maybe this was fog. Maybe he was low enough to survive. Some who had jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge survived. He straightened out his body just in time to hit the water. He was going fast enough that had he been horizontal, the impact might have killed him. There isn’t much difference between water and concrete if you hit it flat.

  Instead he went deep. Very deep. And it was cold down there. A gasp here would be fatal. Had he known when he would hit the water, he’d have been able to take a deep breath. It was pitch dark. He couldn’t even tell how far away the surface was.

  He clawed his way up. Where is the surface? I’ve got to breathe. He rasped in air just as he broke the surface, sucking some seawater into his lungs.

  He was back on Earth. He didn’t splatter onto rocks, and he didn’t drown. But his elation was short-lived. A coughing fit made it difficult to tread water. Dense fog surrounded him. Could he be in the middle of the ocean? Cronkite sure didn’t make things easy.

  The sound of bells drifted toward him. Different tones. Yes! A gong buoy with three bells rocking gently. He struck out toward it. A deep bellowing tone resonated in his gut. Foghorns! Even with modern GPS and radar, ships were still required to blow their foghorns in dense fog.

  The gong buoy was ancient but still doing its job. Jake dragged himself up onto it, raking his already injured thigh over the knife-edged barnacles. Things were looking up. A foghorn buoy or a regular bell buoy would probably not have served his purpose.

  This buoy had three bells, pitched at C, E, and Eb. Jake’s absolute pitch was no help here. But I know what to do. Shivering violently, he examined the three clappers that hung down. He only needed two, so he held his elbow against the C clapper and put his right hand on the E and left hand on the Eb.

  Three quick taps on the E gong, three slower on the Eb gong, and three quick on the E. SOS—the international Morse code distress signal. Every school kid, and definitely every sailor on the nearby boats, knew that. He threw in some cries of “Help!” as well.

  After the first few cycles, he stopped and listened. Weren’t these guys paying attention? Some foghorns sounded so close. His shivering got worse and then improved. Not a good sign. All of the boats seemed headed in the same direction, but were they going into the harbor or out?

  Time inched along. Should he give up and swim? But in which direction? His shivering stopped, and scalding air blew down over him. He tilted his head back. An ancient sea captain perched on the top of the buoy. “Salty? Is that you?”

  “Ahoy!” The sound came from over the water, not from Salty.

  Jake jumped up, almost falling off the buoy. “Helpa, help, helpodo!” He looked up at Salty and pointed toward the source of the “ahoy.”

  A dark lobster boat pulled alongside, and Jake jumped. His body didn’t respond as he expected it to. He landed with his belly on the coaming then splashed onto the deck.

  The captain was huge. Ten feet high? Was that a cigar or a football? Did he see breasts? Salty has breasts? Implants?

  “Mergen. Merchan. Help. SOS. Dah dah dah. Radio. Ra-da-da. Sexy sextant.” Jake was only vaguely aware of the sounds flopping out of his mouth. That is a woman captain.

  “Shut up, now, Buoy Boy. Don’t move.” She disappeared into the cabin then popped back up with towels and a huge sleeping bag. She ripped his shirt off, sending the buttons flying, and stripped off his pants and underpants.

  “Pants, pants, alien hand, pocket, keep.”

  “Just shush. You’re talking gibberish. Trust me, Buoy Boy.” She rubbed him down with a big tuna. Or maybe it was a towel that stunk of tuna. She was rough even on the parts that couldn’t take it. Ow!

  She zipped open the sleeping bag, which also smelled of fish. Everything here smelled of fish and cigar. She manhandled him into it and stripped off her own clothes. Jake wasn’t sure what was real and what was hypothermia. His lucidity came and went.

  She lay down next to him, zipped up the bag, rolled over so he was on top, and squeezed him tightly against her. The old pick-up line came unbidden into his mind: “If I told you you had a great body, would you hold it against me?”

  Woman-Captain tossed her stogie up over the gunwale and out into the sea and then pulled the top of the sleeping bag over their heads. She squeezed him even tighter. “Was it good for you, too?” she said in a whiskey baritone voice.

  What was that pressing against his chest? Like a big foam rubber cushion. Was he having a heart attack? He put his hands up to feel it.

  “Yes, Buoy Boy, those are my double D breasts.”

  “Ma-Ma-mergency. Gob gob. Managua. Jewppy-Conkrite. Cha ch. Radio.”

  “Just calm down Buoy Boy. Once you start shivering again, we’ll think about the radi
o. Take deep breaths. Yes, those are my huge, voluptuous boobs. You’re not dreaming.”

  Several times he tried to get loose, but Captain Double D was having none of it. After twenty minutes she said, “Well, hello. Someone’s recovering.”

  Jake had started shivering again.

  “How you feeling, Buoy Boy?” she asked.

  “Better, but still cold. Thank you for saving my life …”

  “Neptuna.”

  “Really? Your name is Neptuna?”

  “Yes, really.” She turned him around so that they were now spooning. They wormed and humped their way over to the bench. She manhandled him up onto her lap, both still in the sleeping bag. She wasn’t ten feet tall, but she was one large woman.

  “Do you have a radio?”

  “I just got one. It cost me eight-hundred dollars, and it’s not much better than a toy, but it works. We’re in Block Island Sound, ever heard of it? Don’t puke. Okay?”

  Jake nodded. “Near Montauk.”

  “Bingo.” She reached over and pulled a slick, half-smoked cigar out of an ashtray and got it going. Then she picked up the radio’s mic. “Keep your head inside the bag, Buoy Boy.”

  “Jake,” he said.

  Holding the mic close to her lips, she said, “This is the Moxie Neptuna calling the Coast Guard.” She took a deep drag on the cigar, coughed, and spat.

  “Montauk Coast Guard station, come in Moxie Neptuna.”

  “Hi, Beth. Say, I just picked a guy off the gong buoy. He says he needs to make an emergency call.”

  “Did his boat sink?”

  Neptuna looked at Jake and raised her eyebrows.

  “Long story,” he said.

  “It’s a long story, Beth. We’re still two miles out, and he needs to make an emergency call to …”

  “The White House.”

  Neptuna looked at him. “Stand by, Beth.”

  “Look,” Jake said, “I know I was incoherent earlier, but I’m okay now. I’m not saying I have to talk to the president, but I need to contact someone inside the White House. I’ve got to get word to them right away, and then I can sit here and fill you up—in. Fill you in.”

  Captain Neptuna looked into the eyes of the naked man sitting on her lap, took another drag on the stogie, and keyed the mic.

  “Okay, Beth, I think this is the real deal. Can you patch us into a phone call to the White House switchboard?”

  “Stand by, Moxie Neptuna.”

  Neptuna got the vessel puttering off toward the harbor.

  Finally, from the radio, came: “White House switchboard.”

  Jake recognized the operator’s voice and grabbed the mic. “Tom, this is Jake Corby. I have to talk with Stanley Mann, Gordon Guccio, or Charli Keller right away. It’s an emergency.”

  Neptuna’s eyes got wide when she looked at Jake again apparently recognizing him. She slapped her forehead. They sat in silence, waiting. Neptuna puffed on her cigar.

  “Jake?” Charli’s voice had an extra strong upturn at the end. She sounded skeptical.

  “Charli, it’s me. I’m okay. I need the secret service on the line, now.”

  “Stanley’s right here, just a second,” Charli said. “Okay, he’s listening now.”

  “Stanley, Cronkite is going to kill Hallstrom and all the other world leaders.”

  Mann didn’t need any convincing. “When?”

  “I don’t know, but maybe right away. And put a helmet on him. Stanley?”

  “He’s off, Jake. He got the message. Where are you?”

  “Somewhere near Long Island.”

  “Jake, I’m confused. Are you with Cronkite? What are you doing?” Charli asked.

  Jake turned around and looked down at Neptuna’s double Ds. She winked at him.

  “Jake, are you there?” Charli asked.

  “Yes, I’m here. It’s a long story. I’ve had a long day. I’ll talk to you soon. I need a breast right now.”

  “What?”

  “I need a rest right now. Rest. Go to the bunker please.”

  “Okay, Jake I—”

  “Go, Charli. Go now.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Charli dropped the phone and ran into the hall. Stanley Mann and another secret service agent came flying by, holding President Hallstrom between them. Hallstrom’s feet weren’t even touching the ground. Wow, they’re fast. They must have practiced that. She didn’t notice a helmet. Why did Jake suggest that? Charli kicked off her high heels and took off, struggling to keep up. “No running in the halls,” kept going through her head.

  This threat was immediate. No time for Ruby Mountain. They were headed for the White House’s Deep Underground Command Center. Charli caught a glimpse of movement outside as she passed a window. Booms from big guns resonated in her gut, and the roar of a military jet filled the air.

  Just as she caught up, Hallstrom was torn from the grip of the two agents. He flew up against the ceiling. It was like levitation in a magic act only much faster. Hallstrom’s head bounced off a hanging light, and his body slammed into the antique tin ceiling.

  “Dane!” Charli collided with Mann.

  Hallstrom’s back was pressed against the ceiling as if he were on a Gravitron carnival ride. The skin on his face was stretched back like that of a test pilot on a rocket sled. He looked down towards Charli. His eyes were pleading—he seemed so alone.

  Then he fell. The hallway had a ten foot ceiling—higher than a high diving board. Agent Mann caught him awkwardly and got him in a bear hug on the floor. Hallstrom’s right leg stuck out at an unnatural angle. The second agent joined the group hug on the floor.

  “What … what?” Hallstrom gazed up at Charli, who had tears in her eyes.

  A third agent came charging down the hall with a motorcycle helmet.

  “Put it on him,” Mann yelled. “Keep holding him, Steve.”

  The third agent had just gotten the chinstrap fastened when Hallstrom flew up again. Mann went with him. The force affected only the president, so while Hallstrom was pressed against the tin, Mann’s body hung down. His right arm was trapped between the president and ceiling. Mann’s grimace suggested that his shoulder had been dislocated.

  “Get some padding!” His body swung around a bit as he gestured toward the neighboring rooms with his free arm.

  More agents arrived and they all scrambled to find cushions, mattresses, anything soft. Mann spoke to the president. He got no response. Still pinned and hanging, the top agent was feeling for a pulse when the two plummeted back to the floor. The landing was less violent this time. The cushions did their job. All the agents—there were ten now—piled onto the president to hold him down.

  The only effect of this dog pile was that the next time Hallstrom was thrown to the ceiling, there was an explosion of agents—like popcorn.

  It was as if, for the president only, gravity’s polarity switched back and forth. As if a tractor beam were whipping him around. The alternations continued over and over. Charli turned away. Jake’s mention of a helmet—he must have suspected what was coming. The agents tried everything, but soon Hallstrom’s rag-doll body was a bloody pulp. Two of the agents were unconscious.

  After thirty-two cycles, Hallstrom remained on the floor. He’d probably died on the third or fourth cycle.

  * * *

  June 11, 2019

  Two days after Hallstrom’s death, Jake watched the new president, Oswell Offenbacher, walk into the situation room.

  Offenbacher stood at the front of the room with his arms at his sides. He avoided eye contact. “The game is up. There’s no point in continuing this struggle.”

  Jake shook his head. How could anyone give up like that?

  To appease the extremists in his party, Hallstrom had been forced to choose Offenbacher, the former governor of Alaska, as a running mate for his second term. They were able to win the White House before the public realized that Offenbacher really was as dumb as the media portrayed him.

  Offenbach
er made Hallstrom look like Stephen Hawking. For example, the VP had thought his duties would include the day-to-day operations of the senate. He was fuzzy on the history of Paul Revere’s ride, and when asked how long it takes the earth to go around the sun, he’d answered, “Twenty-four-thousand times.”

  “You’re just going to give up?” Jake asked.

  “Do you see any alternative? Cronkite has so much power.” Offenbacher shrugged. “Some of the changes he’s proposing make a lot of sense.”

  Guccio crossed his arms. “So, you want to give up control of the human race to a single crazy alien in a space ship? A creature that looks like a large ladybug?”

  “When you say it like that, it sounds bad.” Offenbacher started to cross his arms and then hesitated and put his hands on his hips. “Maybe it will be an improvement. No more partisan bickering. No more wars. Isn’t this something worth trying?”

  Jake closed his eyes and tilted his head down. “And if we don’t like it?”

  “Then we can cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  “That’s crazy,” Guccio said. “What about the rest of the world? They don’t want to give up.”

  “I’m sorry, that’s my decision, and I’m the … I’m the decider. Decider-in-Chief. And I’m not going to stand here while you gang up on me.” Offenbacher turned and walked out of the room, saying, “My decision is final.”

  Jake shook his head and was about to say something to Charli when the president came back to the doorway.

  Offenbacher put his hand on the door jamb and leaned into the room. “And, by the way, I’m dissolving Hallstrom’s idiotic little reality show. You’re all being voted out of the island. You haven’t really done anything, have you? There isn’t one thing you’ve accomplished. You all have one week, and then you’re fired. And you have to move out. I’ll be getting all new advisers.”

  “What are you going to use them for?” Jake asked. “You’re out of a job. Cronkite is in charge.”