by Bryan Davis
“My counterpart assures me that we should make it. Time passage here in comparison to the other dimensions has been increasing of late.”
I flopped my arms at my sides. “All right. What do I have to do?”
“In both Earth Red and Earth Blue, an airliner crashed at O’Hare airport in Chicago on this date.” Simon withdrew a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. “This describes how the aircraft failed. The engine on its left wing fell off due to an improper replacement procedure, and it stripped the hydraulic system and retracted the slats, keeping the pilot from knowing what to do to properly correct its tilt. Our task is simply to prevent the crash on Earth Yellow by using Quattro. This way, we can study how we might harness its power in the future.”
I scanned the article. “Why don’t you call the airline? Just say something like you got a tip that a terrorist messed up that engine, and they should check it out.”
“That might work quite well, but it also might not. I am not willing to put two-hundred-seventy-one lives at risk.” Simon withdrew a pair of tickets from his back pocket. “I need agents on board who will make sure the passengers survive.”
I stared at the tickets. One bore my name, and the other, Kelly’s. It was as though Dr. Simon held a pair of execution orders in his stubby fingers, and Kelly and I were the condemned prisoners.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I took the tickets. “So you want us to fly in a doomed jet.”
Simon shook his head. “Not at all. The airliner won’t be doomed if you prevent the disaster.”
“I get that, but let’s just warn the airline.” I pushed the tickets toward him. “It would be crazy to fly with them.”
“Keep the tickets.” Simon folded his hands. “If warning the authorities is a sufficient rescue plan, then they will either repair the engine problem or conduct the passengers to another plane. If you are confident in this course of action, and you care for the lives of your fellow human beings, why should you fear taking the flight?”
“Because … well …” I heaved a sigh. “Okay. You got me.”
Kelly patted my shoulder. “He wants to skip the flight, because he has to get back in time for the funeral.”
I shook my head. “I could use that excuse, but it wouldn’t be true. I just have cold feet.”
“As I said,” Simon continued, “you should have no fear. If you do your job wisely, you will be able to complete your mission, whether by the power of persuasion or the power of Quattro.” He turned and gestured for us to follow. “We have dawdled too long. Now we must hurry.”
As we followed his lead, Kelly swiveled her head. “I don’t see a car anywhere.”
From a pocket, Simon withdrew a small key ring and tossed it to me. “I have been told that you are capable of riding a motorcycle.”
I caught the pair of silver keys. “Yeah. Pretty well.”
“My counterpart from Earth Blue dropped me off with two Hondas that I hid under some fallen branches.” He passed a line of broken trunks and stopped at a pile of debris that rose twice as high as his head. “Can Miss Clark ride as well?”
“Like a pro,” Kelly said. “I have my own bike at home.”
I laid a hand on her shoulder. “Look, Kelly. You don’t have to risk this. I can probably get it done by myself.”
Narrowing her eyes, she planted a hand on her hip. “What’re you going to do? Leave me out in the woods?” She pressed a finger against my chest. “And whose life is it, anyway? If you’re going to risk yours, I’m with you to the bitter end.”
I gazed into her determined eyes. Her courage was amazing. And her loyalty? Breathtaking. I gave Simon a nod. “Sounds like we’re in this together. We’ll both need a bike.”
Simon pulled one of the large branches off the pile of debris. “I expected you to stay together, but you might have misunderstood my question. When I asked if the young lady can ride, I was wondering if she would be able to ride with you, not on a motorcycle of her own. I don’t have another mode of transportation for myself.”
“All right if I drive?” Kelly asked me. “I know you’re Mr. Super Spy, but it’ll give me a chance to prove my skills.”
I waved a hand. “Maybe you’d better not. I’m sure you’re good, but if things get ugly, I’ve got more experience in getaways.”
She flashed a hurt expression. “We’re not going to run into trouble between here and the airport.”
Simon pulled two more branches from the pile. “I don’t care who controls the motorcycle, but we must leave immediately. You will ride together on the blue motorcycle in whichever manner you decide.”
“Look, Kelly,” I said, spreading out my hands, “I’ve ridden in — ”
“Never mind.” Kelly began helping Simon clear branches, her tone defeated. “You don’t have to explain. I’ll ride in the back.”
I pulled a limb off the pile and set it to the side. Her disappointment was obvious, but I had to stay firm. I really did have a lot more experience.
After clearing off the bikes, I loaded the violin and mirror in the blue motorcycle’s saddlebag, hopped on, and adjusted one of the rearview mirrors. “Looks like it has plenty of horsepower.”
“For our needs, yes.” Dr. Simon climbed aboard a similar red model and pushed a helmet over his head. “Helmets on, please.”
While Kelly pulled an elastic band from her pocket and tied her hair back, I grabbed a shiny blue helmet from a handlebar and put it on. Without a word, Kelly took a sparkle-coated maroon helmet from the other handlebar and slid it on. She then climbed onto the back of the saddle and grasped the sides of the seat.
Dr. Simon started his engine and revved it a couple of times before easing his way through the mangled forest.
I started our bike and followed. As we headed away from the road Gunther had used to find the area, we zigzagged to avoid branches and splintered stumps while bumping over hidden dips and swells in the otherwise flat land. Kelly let out a few oomphs but kept her grip on the seat.
Within a few minutes, we reached a hardened dirt road. Simon gave us a thumbs-up signal and sped away on the smoother surface. Leaning forward, I gave chase and quickly closed the gap before slowing to stay a few bike lengths behind.
When we merged onto a paved highway, Kelly wrapped her arms around my waist. “I’m sorry,” she shouted over the engine noise.
As the stiff headwind whistled, I twisted my neck and shouted back. “Sorry for what?”
“For wanting to be the driver even though I knew you’re more experienced.”
I laid a hand over hers, interlocked under my ribcage. “Don’t be sorry for that. I like assertiveness. I hope you’ll always tell me what you want.”
“I won’t if you don’t give me a chance. Let me prove myself. If you shoot me down, I’ll stop being assertive.”
I pondered her words but not for very long. She was right, without a doubt. I slowed to a stop, set a foot on the pavement, and looked back at her. “Show me your stuff. Catch up with Dr. Simon.”
She grinned. “Now you’re talking.”
We got off and switched places. When she set her hands on the handlebars and I held to her hips, she called out, “Hang on, Mr. Spy!” We took off like a shot and accelerated to breakneck speed. As she closed the gap between us and Simon, she swerved from side to side, apparently getting a feel for the bike. She really was quite good.
Once we came within a few bike lengths of Simon, we turned onto an interstate highway and settled to a steady cruise for about two hours. When we arrived at Chicago’s O’Hare International and pulled into Terminal Three’s passenger drop-off zone, we rolled up beside Simon and stopped. I checked my watch — 2:17.
I took off my helmet and tucked it under my arm. “What time does the flight leave?”
Simon slid off his helmet, mussing his hair into a frazzled mop. “The actual runway time in your world was a minute after three.” He handed me the keys to the red motorcycle. “Leave
the helmets. It will lighten your load.”
After Kelly and I dismounted, I set my helmet on the seat and stuffed the keys into my pocket. “We’d better hurry. Getting through security might take a while.”
“I have heard about your nine-eleven terrorist attack,” Simon said, “but it hasn’t happened here. Security is not as tight.”
Kelly gave Simon a suspicious glare. “What are you going to do while we’re risking our necks?”
“My counterpart will arrive soon to pick me up, but we will stay long enough to ensure that the motorcycles are not taken away. Assuming that you will successfully prevent the disaster, you may then use the bikes to go back to the observatory site. From there, you will return to Earth Blue before you resume your journey home to Earth Red.”
I raised a finger. “Just one more question. Do I have to play music to get through the mirror or does it have to come from the Earth Blue side?”
“You may control the mirror’s functions by playing a certain melody on your violin.” He withdrew a slim iPod from his shirt pocket along with attached ear buds. “We have recorded on this device from your world all the known compositions that open the cosmic passages. If you look at the display screen you will see a note that explains where the compositions work and to which destinations they will take you.”
“Cool. That’ll help a lot.”
I reached for the iPod, but Simon pulled it back. “The music device isn’t yours to keep.” He dialed up a selection and handed me the ear buds. “Do you recognize this?”
When I plugged the buds in, a familiar piece filtered into my ears. After I listened a few more seconds to be sure, I nodded. “It’s Waxman’s Carmen Fantasy.”
Simon arched his brow. “Can you play it?”
“Mom loved that piece, so she played it a lot.” I took out the buds and gave them back to Simon. “She tried to teach me, but I never could get it right. I have some of it in my head, but I don’t know how much.”
Simon wrapped the wires around the iPod. “Let’s hope you don’t have to test your memory. If Interfinity’s mirror is tuned to Earth Blue and the music is playing from that side, you shouldn’t have a problem. Just use the sun for a light source, as I heard you planning.”
“The way things have gone,” Kelly said as she hung her helmet on the handle of Simon’s motorcycle, “something will go wrong.”
I detached the saddle pack from the motorcycle and held it at my side. “Let’s move. The more time we have to convince them to cancel the flight, the better.”
After passing through the terminal’s sliding doors with Kelly, I checked the flight number on my ticket and searched the listings on a monitor. “There it is. Flight one-ninety-one.” We picked up our boarding passes at the ticket counter and hurried to the security checkpoint. As my saddle pack passed through the X-ray machine, I leaned close to Kelly. “This is nothing compared to how it is in our world.”
“Good thing. Even a mirror might be considered a weapon.”
“Or a violin.”
When we arrived at the gate, the passengers had lined up at the jetway door and were slowly filing in. I marched straight to the check-in desk where a tall, slender young man stood typing at a computer terminal. He looked up and gave me a mechanical smile. “May I help you?”
I tapped a finger firmly on the counter. “Listen, this might sound really stupid, but what if someone had a bad feeling about this flight, like a premonition about an engine falling off the wing, would you check it out?”
Dropping his gaze back to his desk, the clerk scratched a note with a pencil, apparently unmoved. “Sir, that happens all the time. Many people fear flying, so they have nightmares about their flights, and with the recent epidemic, more than half the passengers on any flight have had nightmares about their plane crashing.”
The mention of the nightmare epidemic raised a bunch of new questions, but I didn’t have time to ask more than one. “Aren’t some of the nightmares coming true?”
“Some, yes, but we can’t possibly check out every bad dream.” The clerk looked up, again wearing the mechanical smile. “In any case, air travel safety hasn’t changed at all, so passengers are flying at the usual rate.”
“I guess that makes sense.” Backing away, I gave him a friendly nod. “Thank you.”
I bumped into Kelly and spun toward her. “I could make a ruckus and claim the engine is messed up, but they might not believe me, and then they’d probably haul me off for interrogation. I’d never make it to the funeral in time.”
“Call in a bomb threat. No one would know you did it.”
“You mean use a pay phone?”
“Or a customer service phone.”
I scanned the area and found a yellow phone on the wall near the gate. “Those might be traceable. As soon as they answer, they’ll know exactly where I am.”
“Then I guess the pay phone is the only way.”
I reached into my jeans pocket. “I have some change. I hope I can find the number for the airport.”
“Just dial the operator or nine-one-one.”
“Did they have nine-one-one thirty years ago?”
“I guess you’ll find out soon enough.”
I looked down the long corridor and spied a bank of six phones about a hundred paces away. Three men and one woman stood chatting at the ends of the short, silver cords.
With Kelly following, I hustled toward them, but as soon as I closed in, a forty-something woman in a business suit took one of the two open phones, and a teenager wearing a Northwestern T-shirt took the other.
I pivoted and whispered to Kelly. “We can’t afford to wait. Let’s get on the plane and speak to the pilot. They sometimes have the cockpit door open when passengers are boarding.”
“What time is it?”
I checked my watch — 2:36. I looked at a monitor to verify. A digital clock in one corner displayed the same time. “Two thirty-six. It’s going to crash in about twenty-five minutes.”
We quick-stepped back to the gate and stood at the end of the line, now dwindled to about ten passengers. A gray-haired man in front of us turned around, nervously tapping his cane on the floor. “Another procrastinator. I know how you feel.”
“Really?” I said. “How do I feel?”
Although the man’s bare forearm rippled with muscles, animating the tattoo of a fierce-looking dragon, his fingers trembled around the cane’s hooked end. “If you’re like me, you’re scared as a cat in a rocking chair showroom. I had a bad dream about this flight, and I was going to skip it, but my wife said I was being silly. She said everyone’s having nightmares, and the trip was too important to cancel because of a dream.”
“Why are you going to Los Angeles?” Kelly asked.
“Booksellers’ convention. I’m an author, and my first book’s coming out. I’m a retired cop. Lots of stories to tell, you know.”
When we arrived at the jet’s entry door, I peered toward the cockpit. The door was already closed — no chance to talk to the pilot.
Hot prickles spread across my neck, followed by a stream of sweat. What now?
As I turned into the closer of two aisles, a sea of faces across the cabin seemed to rotate toward me — a young woman with a pixie haircut settling a newborn in her lap, a uniformed Hispanic man pushing a military duffle bag into an overhead bin, and a little girl bouncing in her window seat, shaking her red Shirley Temple curls as she clutched her daddy’s hand — precious lives, souls who had no idea that only a few minutes separated them from a meeting with the Almighty.
While I waited for the soldier to finish loading his duffle, Kelly grabbed my hand from behind. “It can’t be more than fifteen minutes away,” she said, her whisper turning hoarse. A muffled clump sounded from the front of the cabin. “And they closed the door.”
“I know. I know.” I had to get the pilot to come out, but how? Noise? Maybe music? But it would have to be a piece that would cause a ruckus, something to scare the passengers. D
anse Macabre ought to do it.
I nodded toward my saddle pack. “Can you get my violin?”
She unzipped the bag, withdrew the violin case, and flipped open the clasps. “What are you going to play?”
“I have something special in mind.” With every head turned toward us, I set the violin under my chin, raised the bow, and let out a nervous laugh. “A bon voyage piece, if you don’t mind.”
The redheaded girl clapped and shouted, “Play Turkey in the Straw!”
The girl’s father reached for his wallet. “Do you take requests?”
I gave them a smile. “Sure, but let me play this one first.”
As soon as the violin sounded the first note, a female voice interrupted. “What are you doing?”
I twisted toward her. A flight attendant stood behind me, an angular-faced brunette with a confused look on her face. I restarted and played while speaking loudly enough for everyone to hear. “One of the passengers told me he’s scared the plane is going to crash, so I thought I’d calm him down. This piece is called Dance of Death by Saint-Saëns.”
“Dance of Death?” The attendant cleared her throat sharply. “Sir, I must ask you to stop and take your seat. You’ll frighten the other passengers.”
“But it’s such a lively piece.” While I continued playing, another flight attendant picked up a telephone and pressed a button.
The first attendant pulled my arm. “Sir, I must insist that you stop.”
I lowered the violin and nodded toward the front of the plane. “May I speak to the captain?”
Just as the attendant turned, the cockpit door opened. The captain, dressed in a navy blue jacket and white shirt, thumped toward us and halted about three rows away. He crossed his arms in front. “What seems to be the problem?”
The attendant pointed at me. “This gentleman — ”
“Sir,” I said. “May I have a word with you in private?”
Narrowing his eyes, the captain glanced at the attendant briefly, then nodded. “Come to the front.”
After handing the violin to Kelly, I followed him to the boarding area. The pilot spun sharply and spoke in a harsh whisper, barely moving his lips. “The comfort of my passengers will not be compromised. I cannot tolerate any action, even the playing of a violin, that might upset their confidence in the safety of this craft.” As he leaned closer, his eyes seemed to pulse with rage. “Do you understand?”