Where was Gabriel? She wanted to be with him now. He hadn’t called her back to fill her in on what had happened. Could he have something special in mind for tonight? It would be just like him to do the unexpected. One more thing that Gabriel did for Christine that pleased her so much—he got her not only to expect the unexpected, but to look forward to it.
The man had gotten under her skin, and she liked the way it felt—and that had been unexpected too. There were other aspects that she would have to resolve—mainly that their increased attraction to each other was interrelated with their work.
In any case, she still had tonight. She looked at the police activity around the center, and then it hit her: What if all of this was for Gabriel? Had something happened to him? The heat she had felt at the thought of the night ahead turned cold at the idea. Had something gone wrong?
She straightened up and took her phone out of her purse. She flipped it open. Then she closed the phone and started to walk as fast as she could, the refrain from the New Year’s Eve song repeating in her head. She didn’t know all the words, but the sound of the words along with the melody filled her with regret.
“Whoa,” someone said as he grabbed Christine by the arm and pulled her back. An NYPD officer was holding Christine by the elbow, his grip tight. She couldn’t reach into her purse to produce her I.D. She was starting to explain when the officer interrupted her.
“We’re waiting for you,” he said. Then she found herself being taken by the elbow and escorted across Thirty-fourth Street toward the medical center.
There was a black town car with black tinted windows blocking the intersection. No one tried to move it, or approach it either. In fact, everyone moved around the car as if it were supposed to be there. The beams of the town car’s headlights lit Christine as she went across the street.
The med center was illuminated by floodlights around the periphery and also from above by lighting attached to the roofline. Christine had walked in and out of this entrance hundreds of times, but tonight, as emergency vehicles surrounded it, it looked completely different.
The agent holding Christine Salter’s elbow squeezed with her into the same section of the revolving door as they stutter-stepped around the half circle and into the building. Fluorescent light assaulted her senses and she lost all detail in a glare of white. The hair on her arms and the back of her neck stood up as she realized just how cold she was. A blast of steam-heated air hit her skin and filled her nose, which started to run. She wanted to reach for a tissue, she wanted to change out of this ridiculous outfit, and she wanted a cup of coffee.
“Dr. Christine Salter?” Christine’s eyes had not yet had time to adjust; all she could see was a silhouette shape appear in front of her. “Please come with us.”
“We’ll take her from here,” another voice said. “Thanks for your help. And Happy New Year to you and your family.” The officer let go of the grip he had on Christine’s arm and backed off.
Christine had sometimes felt more comfortable at work than she did at home, but now she felt disoriented, as if she had been caught breaking and entering. The two men at either side of her were now guiding her into the elevator. As the elevator doors closed behind them, the elevator was also flooded in fluorescent light so that she couldn’t see for a second. It wasn’t until he spoke that Christine knew there was someone else on the elevator.
“Dr. Christine Salter,” the voice said.
It was directly after Christine heard this voice and understood that there was an additional person on the elevator that Christine realized the elevator wasn’t moving.
Patsy and George Meet the Captain of the Galaxy
The gangplank leading from the terminal gate to the entrance of the transport plane, a C-5 Galaxy, was thick with people. Patsy and George Salter were among them, and from the looks of it, George thought, they were among the younger ones too, or they were at least lively in comparison. They were to enter the C-5 Galaxy through the open nose of the aircraft, which tilted upward on a hinge on top of the mammoth plane to become a gaping mouth directly ahead. We are marching straight into the belly of the beast, George thought.
He looked to his left and his right; old people everywhere. It was an old plane with two engines, each bigger than the van that had brought them to the airport.
The gangplank, makeshift at best, permitted them to walk two to three abreast. It ran on a steep incline from the open terminal gate to the ramp of the transport. There was a backup of people trying to board the plane.
Patsy and George were with the first group, and they were being pressed by the people behind them. There were recorded announcements that urged everyone to keep moving, but the gangplank was too narrow, too steep, too full of old people who were stepping on themselves and one another.
George could feel a sense of panic rising around him, and then he realized he would have been in that state himself had it not been for Patsy. He was too worried that he might be separated from his wife to panic. He walked behind Patsy, with his arms around her, his fingers locked around her stomach, and he used his knees to push her forward, shuffling his feet without picking them up off the surface of the ramp. He could tell there was no panic in Patsy; she was so relaxed that she just kept gliding. Pretty soon she and George had reached the carpeted floor of the C-5 Galaxy. Other passengers around them were stumbling, and Patsy reached down and hoisted a woman up.
There were Conglomerate Rangers in full gear everywhere, camouflage flak jackets atop black jumpsuits, automatic weapons slung across their backs. They guarded either side of the entrance to the plane. A voice came over the PA system: “Keep moving.”
“Help that woman there,” a male voice behind them said; it seemed to be the voice of someone about Patsy and George’s age. One of the Rangers reached over and took the fallen woman’s arm. George was surprised that these guards would be taking orders from a Coot. He was of medium build, and on the thin side. He wore black pants, boots, and a brown leather bomber jacket, with a white silk scarf wrapped around his throat. He had on dark sunglasses. George didn’t like him right off the bat, nor did George know what to make of him. Then the man spoke again to the guards. “Please show this lady to her seat,” he said, gesturing to a guard who started to lead Patsy away. Patsy stuck her thumb out in George’s direction and said, “Him too!”
“Of course,” the man with the glasses and the scarf said, and off they went. So, George thought, this guy’s in charge.
The attendants didn’t seem too pleased to be ordered around by an old guy, but they had Patsy and George by the elbows and were leading them into the plane. George was surprised once more by the inside of the plane and decided he had better get used to being surprised and try to just take things as they came.
The interior of the plane resembled a warehouse more than an aircraft. Rows of red tape were laid across the floor in a graph that ran the length and width of the plane, and the plane seemed as long as a football field. There were about sixty people on board, scattered about the cabin. One woman, who seemed to have a cut above her left eye, was being led off the plane. George wondered if she was indeed the lucky one, to be left behind. For this was a Coot roundup, and they didn’t know exactly where they were going. Like everyone else, George had heard rumors about what was at the other end of these flights. It seemed everyone knew of someone who had been transported to the camps out West. That in and of itself was scary enough, but neither George nor anyone he knew directly had ever spoken to someone who had made the trip, and that fact had always put a knot in his gut. But now all George knew was that he wanted to stay with Patsy, no matter what.
So when the man with the sunglasses came up behind them and spoke, they both jumped. “I wanted to come back here and make sure you two were okay.” He seemed to bow in Patsy’s direction. George opened his mouth to say something, but Patsy looked at the man and said, “Him too!” The man laughed and said, “I am sorry. Of course, him too.” George had been getting Pat
sy settled, tucking a blanket between her and the window, fastening her seat belt, and primping her in a fashion that Patsy was unaccustomed to and clearly didn’t like.
“Excuse me,” the man said, “I am the captain of the Galaxy.” And he extended his hand toward George, who shook it.
George didn’t want to call attention to themselves; he was afraid of being found out. He went back to what he was doing, bending down to fix Patsy in her seat. But the captain seemed interested in them anyway.
The captain looked at Patsy, and his delight in her made him feel guilty. “Hope to be back soon,” he said, and he walked back down the aisle.
George half collapsed into his seat, realizing that if the guy had really talked to Patsy, he might have found out what was wrong, and that would have meant trouble. Coots with debilitating illness were…Well, he didn’t want to think.
He looked down and felt Patsy’s hand on his leg, giving his knee a little squeeze. He turned to face her so they could look each other in the eye. Then Patsy turned back to the window.
George was aware that Patsy wasn’t really looking out the window. She was living someplace else, and with some other person, which is how George had come to think of her disease. Try as he might, it made him a little mad. Here he was giving her all his care, and he was being replaced by a vision, a delusion. George could get angry about this, his wife choosing to communicate with a hallucination instead of with him, and then George’s anger would be redirected at himself for being in competition with a disease. The disease was kidnapping Patsy’s personality, and her past, and his frustration came from the fact that there was nothing he could do to bring her back. He had tried mental exercises and memory tests. He would review their family tree for her, with their daughter, Judy, and their granddaughters, Christine and Ximena. And even Patsy’s beloved Christine, who was the apple of her grandmother’s eye, brought no recognition now. Damn this disease, he thought, and then he looked at Patsy, right there next to him. He was responsible for her, and their love had gotten them as far as they could get together. It was as simple as that, and George knew that Patsy would have done the same thing for him—had done the same thing, and would still do the same thing.
He leaned back; he didn’t have time to be depressed. Circumstances just wouldn’t allow it. Christ, just look at us, he thought. We look as batty as everyone else on this plane.
THE CAPTAIN OF the Galaxy walked back up the long aisle toward the flight deck, but he really wasn’t looking where he was going. His eyes were lowered. He wasn’t sure if the hum inside himself came from the engines beneath him or from the buzz he felt inside. There was something about that woman. It was highly unusual in circumstances such as this transport for anyone to exhibit an independent act of initiative. If their spirit hadn’t been broken by age, or infirmity, or by the loss of the tangible—and in most cases the intangible as well—the Conglomerates saw to it that they brought the Coots past the precipice and pushed them into the abyss of defeat.
But now he was at the flight deck door, and it was open, and standing in the open doorway was the flight’s navigator, and in his hand was the flight’s final plans, with the latest weather, the route, the expected traffic. The captain was annoyed at himself for allowing this particular navigator to catch him being distracted. He was a report-happy fellow, and the captain was sure he would report the captain to his superiors. The navigator could file a complaint with the Conglomerates, and depending on how the administration received and reviewed the complaint, the captain might be forced to go through neurological testing. It was all a scam. They had no one else who could fly this old plane. A flight simulator was one thing, but actually sitting atop this monster took balls. The captain looked at the navigator. Good luck, he thought.
This C-5 Galaxy was built in 1968, conceived from the funds for the Vietnam War. It cut its teeth in the Middle East and proved itself a warrior during Operation Desert Storm in 1991; that is when the plane and the captain met. The Galaxy had a wide berth in the air and on the ground. There were only a couple of people capable of piloting her. It didn’t matter that the captain was old. He was the cheapest way to transport the most old people from here to the Southwest, and he was one of the few who could do it. Also, the Conglomerates couldn’t care less if a plane full of old people should crash. The C-5 Galaxy had rescued the captain from retirement and had brought him back into service, but it was hardly a rescue. Though the captain sometimes felt it was. He hadn’t had much choice.
Coming back to the present, he thanked the navigator for the flight plan, which was not what the navigator had expected. The man raised his right eyebrow and studied the captain as the captain made his way to his seat. “Let’s have a good flight, shall we?” the captain said, and he meant it. His navigator took it as sarcasm and made a mental note to add attitude to his report.
The captain logged on to the Galaxy system and saluted the camera housed in the panel among the dials of the cockpit. He recited the litany of his equipment checks. He looked at the levels on the control panels and checked his communications. It was then that he made up his mind that he should do some communicating on his own.
He thought of a way that he could get to go back to see that woman one more time. While Patsy’s husband had flitted around her, the captain had known that the man had had every right to be nervous, and he felt sorry for the guy, if not a little jealous. He decided that to help that woman, he really had to communicate with her husband. He wasn’t sure if this was a rationalization or the right thing to do, but finally he decided either reason would work.
He concentrated on what to say to let the man know that he’d better be more vigilant. He didn’t want to raise the suspicions of the navigator, or provide drama for the cameras. But, then again, the captain liked a challenge.
He lowered the zipper of his brown leather jacket and pulled out the white scarf. With the edge of the scarf he reached down and wiped the lens of the security camera, gave it a wink, and finished up the rest of his routine while he contemplated his options. Then he tucked the scarf back into his leather jacket and took the flight plan from his inside pocket. What the hell did he need a flight plan for? he thought. Out where they were going was probably where they would assign him later, like some ferryman to the afterlife, schlepping souls from here to there. The captain felt he knew this route and this Galaxy as well as he knew anything; even the air currents were in his muscle memory. Besides, anyone who picked up this monster on their radar kept their distance, especially the helicopters and small planes of the Conglomerate executives. In a real way this bird owned the sky, and so the captain did too.
After the Gulf War, the captain had piloted this baby through a half dozen corporate consolidations prior to the Conglomerates coming to power. He had more hours refueling this plane in the air than most active pilots had flight hours. Even if the Conglomerates were to find the captain “neurologically unsound,” they weren’t about to find anyone else who could pilot the Galaxy, and until they found a less expensive way of getting the Coots to their place in the sun, they were going to need the Galaxy, and by extension, him.
As for the Conglomerates, they were overextended, and thus they needed the captain, even though he caused a quandary for them. The captain was a Coot, a senior, the enemy. Still, they needed his talents and service. They had tracked him down—not that it had been that difficult, since they could find anybody—and they had assigned him to a community in Arizona and conscripted his talents. The captain hadn’t taken that much convincing. Bereft of his life partner and the enthusiasm one needs to live life, the captain, like so many others, had been glad for the chance to report back to work. He had made no demands on the Conglomerates; in fact, he was pretty much willing to do what was asked of him. But no matter how agreeable the captain was, and how powerless he was within their system, the Conglomerates kept a close eye on him. The captain had to believe that was the role of the navigator, because the captain couldn’t find any othe
r reason, or talent, that would explain why the man kept his job.
The captain nodded at the camera and unfolded the flight plan, positioning the plan so that it obscured the camera’s view. The captain knew it probably was a computer that was monitoring the camera, but you never could be sure. His heart sank as he started to realize this was a hopeless cause. Because really, what could he do for this woman and her husband?
Once, the captain had been willing to do anything to protect his wife from the eventual, willing to do anything to hold on to his prize, his life. But the captain had been unable to do that. He could imagine how that woman’s husband felt. He had to find something to write on.
His pen was clipped inside his jacket pocket. As an old-timer, the captain did not feel complete without a pen, though he hardly ever used it. No one did. Probably no one had even seen his handwriting for years—maybe his signature, and that was a scrawl anyway. If the captain were careful, and he’d have to be, there would be no tracing the note back to him.
He tapped his breast pocket to make sure the pen was still there and at the same time noticed the stack of napkins in the ship’s galley. A napkin wouldn’t necessarily be traced or look out of place.
He refolded the flight plan, tapped the pen again, rose, stretched, and squeezed his way into the galley. He grabbed a handful of napkins, wiped at his nose a couple of times, and went to the crew’s lavatory, saying “Right back” as he closed the bathroom door.
He hung his cap in front of the surveillance camera lens, a common practice among veterans of the crew, and an act that, he hoped, would draw little suspicion. I mean, you have to draw the line somewhere, the captain thought.
He covered the seat, unfastened his belt, dropped his pants, reached down, and removed the napkins from his hip pocket and started to write:
The Age of the Conglomerates: A Novel of the Future Page 4