by Mack Maloney
"Wait for it," he said.
A moment later, there came a tremendous roar, and suddenly three aircraft zoomed through the sky not a hundred feet below him, trailing long exhaust plumes.
These weren't spacecraft, Hunter knew. They were jets. Jet fighters. That's what his craft was — or, more accurately, used to be.
The three planes turned and passed by again. They were long and thin, very short wings, high tails.
"T-38s," Hunter whispered. Again, something from his past had gurgled up.
"That's right, Hawk," the man said to him. "Now be careful, but lean out there and get a bit of a better look."
Hunter did so, grasping the restraints tightly. About a mile or so below them was an ocean. By leaning out a little farther, Hunter could also see a large rocket-launching facility along its coast. He could clearly pick out gantries, huge control buildings, support vehicles. And people everywhere.
"Cape Canaveral," he whispered.
"Exactly," the man said.
He pulled Hunter back from the precipice.
"Let me fill you in," the man said. "Below is the Kennedy Space Center. The year is 1987. Down there, you are about to lift off as part of a crew of something called the space shuttle. In one of your lives, you will not be able to make this trip because something called World War Three is about to break out. But, if you should pass through this portal now, I can arrange for you to be in one of those jets and for it to have engine trouble and you can simply step through with a parachute, land, and be rescued. There will be no World War Three. You will be the youngest person to fly in the shuttle. You will lead an adventurous, exciting life. The life you should have led before all this craziness entered into it."
Now it was Hunter who was almost in tears.
This part of his life came flooding back to him. He was the youngest kid ever to attend MTT, the youngest ever to fly for the U.S. Air Force, the youngest ever to be accepted for a shuttle flight by NASA. World War Three, between the U.S. and the Soviet Union, threw all that into turmoil and then — well, like the man said, the craziness began.
"It can be yours again, Hawk," the man told him. "Just say the word."
Hunter turned back to him. He didn't want to ask the next question, but he knew he had to.
"What's the catch?" he asked the man.
The man just smiled. He seemed like a good guy. Someone Hunter almost felt close to.
"I think you know the catch," he said. 'Tell me why you are here."
Hunter shook his head. "I can't."
'Tell me who you came here to see then," the man pressed him.
Hunter looked back through the hole in the sky. The T-38s were still flying around, and the ocean below looked very inviting. There was even a parachute within his reach. It wouldn't take much for him to slip it on. Jump through. Go back to where it all began…
He turned back to the man.
"Sorry," he said.
The woman was crying as Hunter walked back down the hill, leaving the old house and the strange things beneath it.
He knew what was going on here. He was being tempted with the most important things in his life.
This life. His previous life. And just as Tomm had told him through his image projection, the people doing the offering could absolutely follow through on their promises. There was no doubt in his mind about that. All Hunter had to do was break his confidence about why he came here and what was behind him seeking out the one he had to talk to — and, by inference, the end of his trip would be at hand, his mission would end, and he would go on to a much better place.
It was brilliant. Like the colossal minefields and the light-years of "barbed wire" debris and the Saturn 5s and the Phantoms, now that he was on the ground, so to speak, these temptations were just another part of a very sophisticated security system. One designed to keep whoever Hunter had to see here insulated from the rest of the Galaxy. These people didn't really want to know why he had come or who he was here to see. They already knew these things. All this was just a way of testing whether he could keep a secret or not. And that secret could only be the identity of the person he'd come here to see. But who could this special person be?
He sat at the side of the road for a few minutes before he saw another vehicle approaching.
It was an automobile but was not anywhere near as glamorous as the limo or as racy as the Corvette. It was big and green and ugly, with wood paneling, four doors, and a pull-up hatch on the back. A station wagon.
It arrived with a screech and a cloud of dust right in front of him. Another kid of about eighteen or so was behind the wheel. He seemed as bored as Hunter's first two drivers.
"Hey mister," he said wearily. "Need a ride?"
Hunter silently climbed in.
They continued down the paved road, the landscape changing from the cold and dampness of the house on the hill back to fair weather and a more rural setting.
Hunter didn't speak, and neither did his driver. The surroundings changed again, to a terrain more woodsy, and the road straightened out. They passed a sign that read Montana Route 264, and another spark of familiarity went off in Hunter's head. He'd seen that sign before somewhere.
They continued on, passing under an overpass, and now there were trees on either side of the roadway. A mountain loomed ahead. His driver wordlessly slowed down and turned onto an unpaved dirt road, and soon they were traveling deeper into the forest. Hunter sniffed the air and detected not just the scent of sweet pines but also that of burned rubber and combusted fuel.
The woods thinned out considerably. The stink the air was almost to overwhelming now. Around one more corner, and the driver stopped. Straight ahead, in the clearing next to the mountain, lay die remains of a large aircraft. It had fallen out of the sky, time indeterminate, but obviously quite a while ago. Hunter looked at his driver, who simply nodded, indicating Hunter should get out.
He did, and approached the crash slowly. This was an ancient airplane. Long, swept-back wings, a long silver fuselage. Very primitive thrust-producing engines on its wings, four in all. On its tail were three letters that had been painted over; but the paint had melted away in the crash. The three letters were TWA.
Hunter reached the edge of the crumpled fuselage. He knew this plane was a Boeing 707. An airliner — that's what they used to call them, way back, wherever it was he'd come from.
Though it still seemed as if the crash had happened some time ago, there was still a lot of heat around the site. The ground was steamy, and some bare patches of snow at the base of the mountain had melted into warm mud. Everything around the site was very, very quiet.
After a short climb, Hunter reached the back of the airplane. One of the rear doors had been torn off in the crash, and this provided a means of entry. He stepped inside.
The interior of the plane was empty. No seats; the plane had been a cargo carrier. He started making his way forward, naturally drawn to the cockpit. It was slow going at first: the plane's fuselage was badly crumpled. Strangely, the floor was covered with long strands of weeds— hay was the archaic word for it.
He saw scatterings of an ancient grain called oats.
He eventually reached the cockpit door. It, too, was smashed and twisted, but he was able to squeeze his way through to what was left of the flight deck.
There was a body strapped in the pilot's seat, wearing a tattered green flight suit and helmet. Hunter froze. Did he really want to do this? Only compulsion pushed him on. He made his way up next to the body to find it was a skeleton.
Its hands were still locked in a death grip on the plane's control yoke. Its mouth was open, almost as if it was caught forever in a devilish laugh. Hunter felt he had to find out who this person was — or used to be. Very gingerly he reached into the skeleton's breast pocket and found a piece of heavy paper inside.
He removed it and unfolded it.
It was a photograph of a woman.
Hunter felt like a lightning bolt had hit him in t
he chest. A sizable portion of his past lives had come back to him during this bizarre journey, but at that moment he was suddenly aware of another, much deeper truth. He'd lived lives that a million other souls combined could never hold a flame to. He'd flown faster than humanly possible, he'd invaded a titanic empire, he'd led huge armies and fought gigantic battles. He'd been to Heaven and back, for God's sake. And through all these things, the excitement, the absolute tidal waves of adrenaline, and whatever the hell else was running dirough him, had peaked and peaked again, to the point that it seemed he was always in the middle of some kind of body rush.
But nothing was like the body rush he was getting now. Because the picture he was holding in his hand was the same as the photo he'd found in his pocket when he woke up on Fools 6 that day so long ago. The photo of the mysterious woman that had made the transition along with the tattered American flag.
But this photo was not faded and worn like his. In this photo he could see the woman's face clearly.
And for the first time since coming here, he knew who she was.
Her name was Dominique…
The absolute love of his former Me.
"Hey mister," he heard a voice from below the cockpit yell. "Wanna go see her?"
They were quickly back on the road, he and his driver and the station wagon.
They had driven out of the forest, had returned to the highway, had passed around the mountain, and were heading back into the beach terrain again.
And this time Hunter was being very vocal.
"Go faster!" he was screaming at the kid. "C'mon, boot it!"
And now it was die kid who was looking concerned.
"This thing wasn't built to go that fast, mister!" he yelled back at Hunter.
The driver had simply told him he would bring him to see the woman in the picture, and at that moment Hunter wanted to do nothing more in his entire life. He was caught up in some preposterous game here, some kind of incredibly elaborate charade just to see if he could keep a secret. Well, yes, he could keep a secret. But that didn't even matter anymore. He knew every time he had looked at that faded photograph that the woman behind it would hold more to the key of who he was and why he was here and more important, where he had come from than anything he could find or be tempted with here, be it his airplane again, or even an alternate, better life.
He had to see her.
"If you people are so scary smart," Hunter was badgering his young driver, "why didn't you send the Corvette to take me to this point? This piece of crap can barely do fifty miles an hour!"
The kid was always too busy driving to reply. He just kept telling Hunter over and over, "Just calm down, mister. We'll get there soon. Just calm down!"
They finally did get there. They climbed a beach road that led up a hill and eventually broke out into a small cliff. Now Hunter could see the water — finally it was an ocean. A real ocean. He could hear the waves breaking; he could smell the salty air.
They drove up to a small house — smaller even than the other house on the hill. Hunter knew immediately where he was. This was his house, way back then, way back in that other time and place. It was his farm. His hay farm. He'd lived here with Dominique.
It was called Skyfire.
He jumped out of the station wagon even before it stopped moving. He hopped the gate and ran up to the front door. He went inside. Everything looked just as he remembered it He walked through the living room and into the kitchen. Everything still familiar. He walked to the screen door that led out to the backyard.
And that's when he saw her. She was outside in the garden, picking herbs.
He stood at the back door for an eternity of moments just watching her.
She was beautiful. The photograph did not do her justice. She was wearing a long white gown and a wide-brimmed hat. Even working in the garden, faced smudged a bit, she was gorgeous. The gown was low cut, and he could see her unencumbered breasts. She had long blond hair, delicate hands, delicate bare feet. She was smiling, singing to herself. She did not see him.
He felt his chest become filled with pure emotion. The circle had been completed. Here she was, and here he was. End of chapter. End of book. End of series. He wanted nothing more than to swing mat door open, walk out onto the porch, and call her name.
Screw the battle against the Fourth Empire.
He wanted to stay here with her forever.
His thumb was on the latch of the door. His boot was up against its bottom; he knew he would have to give it a little kick, because it stuck every once in a while.
Her name was on his lips—
But then he stopped. Stopped moving. Stopped breathing. Stopped thinking — except about one thing.
He couldn't do it.
He believed this was real and that he could stay here and live with her and never have to fight in a war again.
But a buzz in his brain told him no. He started walking backward, out of the kitchen, turning only when he reached the living room, and then quietly leaving by the front door. He did not want her to see or hear him.
He staggered back down the front path and went through the gate this time. It was loose on the hinge, and he remembered that he was always meaning to fix it.
Too late now, he thought.
The station wagon was gone. He made his way back down the road, walking quietly until he was out of sight of the house. Then he slumped to his knees and put his head in his hands.
What kind of life is this?
No matter what he did, he could never be happy, never be free of worry. Never just be.
Why him? Why had this mantle been handed to him? He had one talent: he could fly machines that went very fast. So what? Why was he involved in all this other cosmic crap? He had bare memories of him having to save the world back in one of his former lives. Now, it was up to him to save the whole freaking Galaxy? And in order to do so, he had to first go through all this heart-wrenching past-life regression. Why? Why was he doing this again?
He found his hand go to his left breast pocket, digging for the other thing he always kept there. Not the faded photograph but the tattered American flag.
He took it out, unfolded it, and ran his fingers along its stars and stripes. He felt a surge of electricity go through him — and then he had his answer. After more than five thousand years, this flag still meant something. Not just on Earth but in the vast Milky Way as well. It stood for basic freedoms and basic truths. It stood for heroes past. It stood for the kind of life where every person has a right to be themselves, to do what they want, just as long as they didn't infringe on anyone else's right to do the same thing. To be a good American was nothing more than that. And the simple understanding of this basic belief was worth defending, worth dying for, so that others could be free, too. That was America. Way back then on Earth, and now, all across the Galaxy.
Why was he doing all this again?
He held the flag up to his face.
"Oh yeah," he thought aloud. " This is why—"
18
He walked about a mile down the road before he heard another vehicle coining up behind him, It was not any kind of car; it was a truck. Old, battered, cracked windshield, with yet another kid behind the wheel. He stopped a few feet from Hunter and stuck his head out the window.
But Hunter already knew the drill.
"Yeah, I want a ride," he told the kid.
He walked around to the other side of the cab but found the door was locked. Hie kid just looked at him and then gave him the thumb, indicating Hunter had to sit in the back. He hesitated only a moment, then walked to the rear of the truck and climbed aboard.
The rear was filled with boxes made of very thin wood. Hunter took a seat among them, then looked inside one of the boxes.
They were packed with turnips.
They rode for a very long time.
The road never changed, but the terrain did. From the beach, to the mountains, to the long, straight fields again. It was a bumpy, uncomforta
ble ride, but Hunter could have cared less.
He was beyond worrying about his own personal comfort now. He just wanted to get to the next stop, because he was convinced it would be the last in this long charade.
The kid driving the truck acted more like he was driving the Corvette. He was moving at high speed and never met a bump he didn't like. They were approaching a mildly steep hill when the truck hit a pothole so violentiy, Hunter went airborne. The truck and its contents went one way, and Hunter went the other. He was thrown from the back, landing hard in the roadway, a broken box of turnips smacking him on the head.
The truck driver never even looked in his rearview mirror. No brake lights. No downshifting.
Nothing.
He just kept on going.
Hunter picked himself up, dusted himself off, and started walking up the hill.
He reached inside his back pocket and found the remains of another apple. It was crushed and mostly mush, but he ate as much of it as he could. It tasted awful but, he supposed, it was better than eating a turnip.
He reached the top of the hill, only to find the road dipped and then led up to another hill, this one even steeper. Hunter stopped, scratched his head, and wondered if he was going in the right direction.
He turned around and was astonished to see an enormous blue screen had appeared right behind him.
Now this froze him to the spot. When he took part in the Earth Race, part of the competition was to pass through huge blue screens — huge as in infinite. The screens were part of an elaborate mind-blowing obstacle course. Passing through one screen meant that the next obstacle was coming up, each one matched to the personalities or the fears of the individual contestant. For Hunter this included everything from saving a girl from being assaulted to trying to get his craft through the teeth of a gigantic set of jaws.
On the other side of each screen was something that was always crazier than before, until that is, he broke through the final one. The strange thing was, they'd been popping up every once in a while ever since.
Now he was looking at this one, and it really did go in all directions. He didn't want to pass through it, especially since it was behind him; only something unpredictable could result. If in fact this thing was real.