The already defuse jungle light was growing murky. Not having matches to build a fire and fearing that the Americans would spot its smoke if he did, Juan found a tree to sleep in and worked his way up into its sheltering branches. He didn’t sleep a wink, as the nighttime jungle sounds, many of which were animals (some predatory), were constant.
The following day, consumed with a powerful thirst, he set out through the jungle in hopes of finding civilization. By late afternoon he’d become feverish. In spite of his thirst, he refused to drink the water, fearing it contained parasites. This decision only served to make his fever worse.
After stumbling across a well-defined pathway, created either by humans or animals, Juan staggered northward, following the path even as darkness closed around him. His fever was growing steadily worse. He started hearing strange noises all around. When he saw a light ahead, he wasn’t clear if it was real or part of a fever dream. Staggering faster, he broke out from the path and into a clearing. What he saw should’ve struck fear in his heart, but his exhaustion overpowered his fear. All he cared about was that he’d found a human settlement, even if it did contain grass huts, scattered bonfires, and barely clad natives, some of whom were holding spears. He lurched forward, hearing unintelligible songs coming from the natives, who were still unaware of his presence—though not for long.
Looking sick and bedraggled, he staggered into the firelight, drawing sharp cries from most of the women and some of the children. The men turned their spears in his direction and leapt to shield their families. In his feverish state, Juan was completely unaware of their fear and anger.
His head was swimming. Taking another shaky step forward, he saw the bonfires spinning back and forth like a merry-go-round in his field of vision. Falling to his knees, Juan Hernandez, the man who would eventually become Solomon Chavez, pitched forward in relief, not caring if the natives were friend or foe. As a black cloud of unconsciousness engulfed him, his last coherent thought was of an image he’d burned into his memory from the day before: the image of his wife, Maria, and his daughter, the beautiful, angelic Selena.
PART THREE: HITTING THE MARK
“I was here from the moment of the beginning, and here I am still.
And I shall remain here until the end of the world.
For there is no ending to my grief-stricken being.
I roamed the infinite sky, and soared in the ideal world,
and floated through the firmament. But here I am prisoner of measurement.”
— From the poem “Song of Man,” by Khalil Gibran
10
ONBOARD THE ARROW: TEN AND A HALF YEARS INTO FLIGHT
“It looks like he’s coming around.”
Whoever spoke, their words sounded distant, ethereal to Solomon’s ear. Was he imagining things? No, he was definitely hearing words. It took a moment before his brain interpreted their meaning. Had his brain turned to thick, gooey paste?
“It should only be a few more seconds.”
The words were closer, their meaning clearer. The blackness had turned to gray then pink.
Where am I? Who am I? Oh, yes, I’m Dr. Juan Hernandez … No! I’m Solomon Chavez … can’t ever forget that! I’m on an interstellar flight to the Epsilon Eridani star system. My mission: help colonize to a habitable planet. Yes, everything’s coming back to me now.
Solomon opened his eyes and blinked from the light, despite its dimness. It would take a few minutes for his vision to adjust.
“What—” he cleared his throat; his voice sounded hoarse. “What’s happened? Why haven’t we left yet?”
Two people stood beside his cryo-chamber, gazing down at him: Admiral Katherine Axelrod and Dr. Gurdev Singh, ship’s doctor and head of Life Sciences. Solomon turned his attention to the doctor, who was leaning forward, his broad, amiable face lit with a smile.
“Ah, but we have already arrived, Dr. Chavez. We have reached our destination.”
Was it possible? Had they succeeded? It felt as if he’d fallen asleep moments ago—except for the disorientation he was experiencing, and the pounding headache, and the unsettling thought of waking from a dream he couldn’t remember.
“Wonderful,” he croaked. “There’s so much to do before we—” He tried to lift himself up onto his elbows, but his body was too weak.
“Not yet, Dr. Chavez,” Singh cautioned. “We must first strengthen your muscle tone. Over the next twenty-four hours, you’ll engage in a regimented series of reconditioning exercises. This is not optional,” he stated firmly. “However, that should not preclude you from receiving status reports.”
“That’s right, Solomon,” added the admiral. “There’s been, let’s just say, a few wrinkles we need to discuss.”
Solomon didn’t like the sound of that. Her mentioning the word wrinkles made him wonder if she was referencing his age, which prompted him to wonder if his secret had been discovered. He studied the two closer. They weren’t acting like he was in trouble. It must be something else.
“But first things first, Dr. Chavez,” Singh added. “We need to get you up and about.”
At that point, the admiral said her goodbyes and exited the stateroom. Singh waved over two orderlies, who helped Solomon from the cryo-chamber and into his clothes, then placed him in a wheelchair. He was barely listening as Singh talked about taking him to Life Sciences, where he would receive a comprehensive examination and some nutrients. Sadly, the nutrients to which Singh referenced were an IV full of vitamins and electrolytes, designed to rev up his metabolism and replenish his body. For the first twelve hours, he would be restricted to a liquid diet before being allowed any solid foods. He understood the necessity, but that didn’t mean he liked it.
Two hours later, while being given a stress test, Admiral Axelrod entered the medical ward. Solomon stepped off the treadmill, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, and picked up a towel to wipe the sweat from his brow and upper body.
“How’s he doing, Doc?” the admiral asked.
Dr. Singh shook his head as he typed the test results into his Medical Interlink Device. “He’s in perfect shape; a truly remarkable specimen of humanity, I must say.”
Solomon tossed the towel aside. “I’m starting to feel like an actual specimen … having been probed and prodded all day.”
“Are you almost done with him, Doc?” asked the admiral.
“Very nearly. All that’s left is to take a urine sample and blood test.”
Solomon didn’t like the sound of that. A urine sample would be most likely problematic, but testing his blood was definitely out of the question. For over a hundred years he’d zealously guarded against such invasive procedures, not allowing any of his DNA to fall into the wrong hands. Not only might his secret be discovered, but some pharmaceutical company might get hold of a sample and find a way to unlock the viral code that extends his life.
After his escape from the Nazis, and his subsequent injection of the serum, the virus had made him feverish. That, combined with his dehydration, had caused him to pass out after stumbling upon a native village. Thankfully, they weren’t cannibals or headhunters: they took him in and nursed him back to health. He then lived with the tribe for nearly two years, helping them hunt and fish and learning their ways (for the most part). He’d grown quite fond of them and was sad to say goodbye when word came that the war was over.
With their help, he’d made his way to a town with a bus station and a Western Union office, where he sent word, informing a colleague that he was still alive. Money was wired, and the following day he was clean and clothed and traveling home to Brazil.
His wife’s family was happy to learn of his survival, but he could tell they blamed him for Maria and Selena’s deaths, adding to his guilt. His colleagues were overjoyed when he returned to work, but it wasn’t the same; he’d been scarred by his experience. When the authorities questioned him about his research at the compound, he’d lied, telling them he’d been forced to work on finding better,
stronger antibiotics for German soldiers. They were skeptical, but ultimately had no choice but to believe his story. In his spare time, he’d run tests on his blood and tissue samples, but was unable to determine how the virus changed his physiology. After almost a decade, he left Brazil and moved to England, hoping to make a new start. That’s when he realized that not only had he not been sick since the night he stumbled into the Argentinean village, but he also hadn’t aged a single day. The serum had worked.
This, however, posed a serious problem. Unless he came clean and announced his discovery to the world, he would be forced into moving every ten years or so to avoid the inevitable questions surrounding his appearance. Solomon wrestled with the subject for the better part of a decade. By then, DNA had been discovered by Drs. Watson and Crick, leading him to believe that the virus had altered his chromosomes.
With the dawn of the sixties, the world’s population was exploding, and violence seemed to be the norm. Societal changes were taking place that made him wonder if his discovery would do more harm than good. He’d amassed a considerable fortune by then (still a fraction of what he would eventually be worth) and realized that only the wealthy would be allowed to benefit from his discovery. The average person would never be given the treatment. Even if the production costs were minimal, the cost of treatment would be artificially inflated to prevent the world’s billions from living for centuries or perhaps millennia. A world full of healthy, ageless people would be unsustainable: society would collapse under the strain of overpopulation. On the flip side, if the serum was sold only to those who could afford it, a new caste system would develop, creating an insurmountable chasm between those at the top of the economic ladder and the common man, who would riot in the streets. To Solomon, those disastrous outcomes outweighed any benefit the serum might provide. In the late sixties, he decided it was too dangerous to reveal his secret.
That being the case, he couldn’t allow Dr. Singh to take a blood sample.
“Will all six thousand colonists be poked and prodded like me, Doctor?” he asked.
“Oh no, far from it,” Singh responded. He was eyeing the syringe in his hand and failed to notice the icy edge to Solomon’s voice. “They’ll be watered and fed a nutrient shake, then given a list of exercises to regain their strength. You’re the exception, being such an important part of this expedition. I wanted to make sure you—”
“In that case,” Solomon snapped, “we’re done here. As you said, I’m in perfect health. I feel great and therefore shouldn’t be treated any differently than the others onboard. When we disembark, you’ll find me with hammer in hand, or plowing a field, just like everyone else.”
Singh frowned. “But you are different, Dr. Chavez. You’re not just a man, you’re a symbol.” He gave Solomon an imperious look, “If you truly wanted to be treated like everyone else, your cryo-chamber would’ve been stored with the others, not in a locked, private stateroom. Now give me your arm.”
Solomon’s temper flared. He took a step forward, his fists balled. “I can tell you where you can stick that syringe, Doctor.”
Singh’s mouth fell open. “W-what was that?” he sputtered.
“You heard me,” Solomon growled, snatching up his t-shirt and coveralls. “Come on, Kate, let’s go to your ready room. You wanted to talk to me about something.” Donning his t-shirt and angrily zipping up his coveralls, Solomon strode away. The admiral followed, trying desperately to keep from grinning.
•
“You do have a way with people, Solomon,” the admiral said.
They’d been largely silent en route to her ready room, which gave Solomon the opportunity to gain control of his temper. “Yes, well … Singh has a habit of getting under my skin.”
“He doesn’t have the best bedside manner,” she responded, “but he’s an excellent doctor.”
Solomon shot her a look. “I know … that’s why I hired him.”
The admiral stopped beside her desk. “Don’t get snippy with me, Solomon. I won’t take it as well as Singh did.”
Chastened, Solomon looked away. “Sorry about that, Kate. I’m still recovering from cryo-stasis.”
“Think nothing of it,” she said. “I was even more of a bitch, when I was decanted.”
Despite his age, Solomon had yet to master the art of patience. Even so, he was particularly surly. The effects of cryo-stasis had affected him more than he realized.
“So, you wanted to discuss some incidents that took place during transit?” he said, changing the subject.
“Quite right. We had two incidents that occurred during transit, and one that occurred before launch. We wouldn’t have even known about the first and third incidents if the second one hadn’t taken place. It’s the greater mystery.”
She went into detail, explaining the strange space/time fluctuation that occurred three years into the flight. “I received the report nearly a year ago, after being decanted. I must admit, I’m flummoxed, as are the quantum engineers studying the event. Also, the ship’s computer has been running a subroutine for the past seven years, with no results. It claims there’s not enough data to formulate a theory. It’s supposed to be the most advanced computer in history, yet its first real test throws it for a loop.”
Solomon rubbed his chin. “Hmm, that is unusual. The ship’s computer was designed by Dr. Mona Levin and contains quantum algorithms. It should be able to extrapolate an answer even with minimal data.”
The admiral leaned forward in her seat. “Speaking of which, I have a video to show you.”
Solomon gave her a quizzical look and then directed his attention to the HV screen embedded in the starboard wall.
“Computer, display the video from evidence log 1A-a on the primary ready room monitor.”
Solomon was puzzled. The video showed the door to his stateroom, recorded from a spy-eye in the corridor. Mona Levin exited his stateroom, and then stopped, looking uncharacteristically nervous.
“Computer, fast forward five minutes and eighteen seconds,” the admiral ordered.
Mona’s movements looked jerky as the video increased in speed. It slowed to normal just before the door to his stateroom opened. Mona glanced back down the corridor at someone who had unexpectedly drawn her attention. The med-tech who placed him in cryo-stasis was exiting his room, but Mona blocked her from leaving. As a tall, baldheaded man came into the frame, Mona pulled an envelope from her pocket and told the med-tech that … what?! She was in love with him? And she was pleading to leave him a love letter? At that point, the med-tech reluctantly allowed Mona to reenter his room, alone.
Admiral Axelrod saw the flabbergasted expression on his face. “You appear shocked at the thought of Dr. Levin being in love with you, Solomon.”
“Well, yes, I, uh … we’d been colleagues for over a decade and she never hinted—” Solomon stopped speaking, unable to finish his thought.
“As you’ll soon learn, her rather awkward declaration of love was nothing more than a ruse.”
Solomon was even more confused. “I don’t understand.”
“Computer, fast forward to the point nine minutes and thirty-five seconds after Dr. Levin’s exit and the stateroom door closes.”
The med-tech and the assistant engineer quit speaking, and the video picked up speed. The door zipped open, Mona popped out of the room, and all three disappeared in a flash down the corridor.
Solomon was frowning, a bubbling suspicion rising to the surface of his awareness.
“Computer, skip ahead to the requested point in time,” said the admiral.
Seconds later, Mona suddenly reentered the HV video frame, trying to catch her breath. She pressed the stateroom entry button but nothing happened. Solomon chuckled, believing his security protocol had denied her entry. That was until Mona spoke to her PID, which, shockingly, revealed his password: Selena!
“What the fuck?!” he shouted, half rising from his chair.
Admiral Axelrod remained silent, observing his
response carefully.
Gritting his teeth, Solomon watched as Mona punched in his password—and then, instead of walking inside like a normal person, made a mysterious move and leapt into the room. The door slid shut behind her and the HV screen went subsequently blank.
Solomon rounded on the admiral and snapped, “What the hell’s going on, Kate? What did I just see?”
With a soft chuckle, she answered, “You just saw your colleague, Dr. Mona Levin, turn from being one of the world’s most respected doctors into a stowaway … and there’s more.”
•
Solomon boiled inside as he stood in his stateroom watching Mona’s cryo-chamber slip from its hidden compartment. He felt betrayed, yet not surprised, by her actions. She had, after all, tried many times to convince him that the mission rules shouldn’t apply to her. He should’ve seen this coming. Nevertheless, her betrayal still stung.
“Ensign Jeremy Fletcher is our top computer technician. He discovered the operating code for Dr. Levin’s cryo-chamber,” Dr. Singh said, standing nearby. “She programmed the chamber to start the decanting process while the crew’s attention is diverted by the first away mission. With you scheduled to be on that mission, she’d be able to recuperate without you showing up to catch her in the act. Ensign Fletcher rewrote the code so that we could wake her up at our convenience. Naturally, we’ve been waiting for you to be decanted before taking any action.”
“In ten minutes,” Singh continued, “all of her vital signs—temperature, oxygen, blood levels, and such—will be back to normal, and the re-enervation process will begin.”
Dr. Singh eyed Solomon, still annoyed over the way he’d been treated earlier in the day. “I wish you’d allow me to complete your examination, Dr. Chavez. There are important questions that need to be resolved, such as why the—”
“I don’t intend to rehash this, Doctor,” Solomon said, shooting Singh an angry look. “I feel fine, so let’s leave it at that.”
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