by E. R. Mason
“You know what gets me the most about this place?” said Danica, as we rode the automatic stairs up.
“Gee, there’s so many possibilities.”
“Well, the majority out there on the street are the cute little Enuronians, but there’s an awful lot of other visiting species, as well. But the atmosphere walking along the streets is pretty much identical as if you were walking along Times Square. People are intent on getting where they’re going. They seem to be preoccupied with the problems of the day. If you block out the alien faces, and plug in New Yorker faces in their place, it’s the same. And if you think about it, there are some pretty strange creatures walking the sidewalks of New York, or Chicago, or Los Angeles, anyway. So it’s like no different. No matter how strange the different species look, there’s a certain familiarity to it all.”
“Wow! Am I speaking with Sigmund Freud?”
“No. Really, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, except what we see out there are only the species capable of interacting in this kind of community. From what I saw in the SID documents, there are others not so socially adaptable.”
“Yeah, but we have those on Earth, too.” Danica paused for a moment in thought. She refocused on me and her expression became strained. “Now that you mention it…”
“What?”
“I guess I need to get this out in the open sooner or later. You and R.J. are already suspicious. Maybe now’s a good time.”
As we entered the habitat module, she suddenly paused, then went back to her sleeper cell. She lifted her bed and drew out a brown, imitation-leather satchel. Back at the conference table, she placed it on the floor, hesitated for a moment as though she might change her mind, and finally unzipped it and drew out something the size of a melon wrapped in ash-colored terry cloth. She placed it on the center of the table between us, sat back and stared with a look of disdain, then looked at me as though she was again having second thoughts.
I tried to sound reassuring. “If you back down now, I’ll go insane.”
She gave a big sigh, reached out with one hand and gently peeled the terry cloth away.
It was an exquisitely crafted crystal skull. The soft lighting from the ship illuminated it within. Hazy reflections of light beamed out from the eyes, giving it an aura of power. There were glows from within that seemed to fade and change. It was a stunning thing to behold.
“Holy crap, Danica.”
She seemed to remain as mesmerized as me, and said, “There’s nothing holy about how I got it, unfortunately.”
“You’re not known for your thievery.”
“I am now.”
“You’re kidding!”
“It was the only thing I could think of.”
“Who did you steal it from?”
“Ever hear the name, Dorian Blackwell?”
“Maybe, but I can’t get a handle just now.”
“He was the primary investor in the construction of the Griffin.”
“I’ve got it now. He ended up in prison for something.”
“Off-world smuggling. He was, or I should say is, incredibly wealthy and powerful. It surprised most people that they were able to convict him.” Danica squirmed in her seat. “The government confiscated the Griffin at the same time they arrested him. We were still flight-testing it at Bonneville at the time. But that’s another story.”
“So maybe you’d better tell me the whole thing from the beginning.”
“After Charles Rutan finished his design concept, he had a lot of trouble getting financing for the prototype you and I are now sitting in. He used up every lead he had and struck out. The accepted story is that he called in favors to get the Griffin built, but the truth is he ended up going to Blackwell. Blackwell had a really questionable reputation. Maybe that description is too kind, really. When Blackwell finally got busted there were rumors he had messed with classified technology, or something like that, something that set the government off so that they stepped in and locked him up on some kind of Earth security violation. Nobody really knows what it was about. Anyway, he served a lot of time and was released just about a year ago. The word is, this skull was secretly delivered to his estate before he got out. He is still a rich bastard. Two of his companies were still operating and his portfolio was pretty much intact, being carefully watched over by his lieutenants, you might say. He contacted me personally a few months ago. At first I thought it was just some kind of catch-up call. I expected him to ask about the Griffin, but he didn’t. After the usual trivialities, he said he was calling because he needed a test pilot. One of his companies had just pumped out a new style of personal air vehicle. They were concerned about a technology leak in the company. Blackwell wanted a test pilot from outside to do the initial parking tests on the two prototypes. As you know, that’s where you take the vehicle up to twenty feet or so, put it in park, then do every roll and spin you can think of to prove somebody’s crazy teen can’t crash the thing. You do that every day for a month, and then get certed for cross-country testing. I was kind of bored at the time, and the credits offered were generous, so I took the job on the condition it was temporary. That seemed to make ex-con Blackwell very happy. For the first week, the testing went just as expected. Sitting in that transparent eggshell was a blast. Blackwell began wanting daily reports over drinks at his place. He has a way of keeping you off balance, like he’s figured things out one step ahead of you. At first, I was worried about some kind of come-on, but the aura wasn’t there. Finally, one day the subject of the Griffin came up. He kept it real casual, then changed the subject pretty quickly. But as the days went by, there were more and more incidental Griffin questions. Where was the ship now? What had they done to it? Who had control? He knew you by reputation. Next he began to talk about an upcoming trip he had planned outside the solar system. He was thinking I’d be the perfect pilot in command. He began to give himself away, making the trip sound like a spacewoman’s dream. I kept my cards close to my chest. I began to see that he had ulterior motives. Finally, one day when he thought he had me in the palm of his hand, he brought out this skull. He said it was part of a major deal he had been making before being interrupted by the government and sent to prison. He said it was his most treasured possession. It’s not crystal, by the way. It’s diamond.”
“My god, you’re kidding!”
“Well, that’s what he said one evening when he’d had too much. Anyway, as the PAV flight testing got near completion, I had to start thinking of ways to extricate myself from the world of Dorian Blackwell. I had no intention of going anywhere with him, even though he was convinced he had sold me his bill of goods. I had never agreed to any of it, but I had been afraid to deny him outright. A few days before the final test flight, we had our usual briefing drinks and he seemed a little more distracted than usual. He rambled on about needing a final piece for the skull. That night, during our talk, I fucked up. I said something about wanting to tie up some things at home and he picked right up on it. From that moment on, his attitude changed. We both began to pretend things were moving along as planned, but he was distant and trying to conceal it. He had obviously told me too much. I soon came to understand I had become more of a liability to him than an asset. It scared the hell out of me. I had gone from trying to strategically withdraw from his world to realizing my life was probably in danger. It was too late to agree to his trip and plans. As far as he was concerned, I could no longer be trusted.”
“And there was nothing to go to the police with, either, was there?”
“Not a thing. That last week it became clear to me that I was either going to have an accident, or just disappear on an involuntary, off-world trip. And even if I made a successful escape before then, his network would find me. I’d never be able to stop looking over my shoulder. I could think of only one thing that might protect me from him. I had to steal the diamond skull, his most prized, important possession. As long as I was the only one that knew where it was, he could not have me
killed. I could make arrangements that if he laid a hand on me, it would be automatically turned over to the authorities with an explanation of what was going on, and that’s about where I’m at now.”
“But how could you possibly have gotten access to it? It must have been Fort Knox there.”
“Easier than you would think. He’d never let it out of his sight. He kept it in a safe, in a safe-room. State-of-the-art alarm systems. It was impossible to get near the thing, except when he was with it. That was the weak link in the chain. You ever hear of a Caton lamp?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“It used to be that some people who looked directly at red light for too long became catatonic, particularly people with epilepsy. Some scientist eventually derived those same effects and engineered a lamp that can do the same thing to anyone. During one of Blackwell’s debriefings, I secretly photographed the skull in 3-D. I emailed the images to a friend using an outside computer line. This friend had a crystal duplicate of the skull made. Every day, I had to make a five mile trip to the flight testing facility. My friend flew in with the fake skull and a Canton emitter and met me on the road to the plant.”
“Must’ve been a really good friend, Danica.”
“Yeah. That’s a whole other story. She’s an engineer with a taste for murder mystery novels. When the time was right, I packed a small travel bag with the fake skull hidden inside and went to my usual meeting with Blackwell. I explained that an urgent matter had come up and I needed to leave to take care of it and return in the morning. I knew he wouldn’t allow it. He was sitting with his skull, staring at it even more distracted than usual. I sat on his couch across from him with the Caton emitter pinned to my jacket as jewelry. When he angrily looked up at me and began complaining, I flashed him good. He sat there staring right at me while I switched skulls. He came out of it just as I folded my hands in my lap. I apologized and said I could probably get a friend to handle the problem. Otherwise, I’d let him know. He never knew any of it had happened. He just went back to staring at the fake skull as I left.”
“I will never turn my back on you ever again. But how did you manage to get out of there in one piece?”
“Yeah, on the final test flight, I pre-inspected the vehicle the night before to be sure it hadn’t been tampered with. I didn’t think they’d do it that way anyhow. They really did need the cert on their PAVs. I hid all the stuff I needed aboard and at the next morning’s test flight I climbed in with only standard test pilot gear so they wouldn’t be suspicious. Then after all the rolling and flipping was done, instead of lowering back down, I took off like a bat out of hell. I had an airplane prepped and waiting for me at a nearby airport. Dumped off their PAV right there, and headed for Cape Canaveral. Never did get paid.”
“So what’s the rest of the plan?”
Danica’s face went blank. Finally she said, “To be determined.”
“Well, at least we have seven trillion miles to figure it out.”
“I’m not sure that’s enough,” she said uneasily.
“One thing I don’t get.”
“Which thing is that?”
“The Griffin questions Blackwell kept asking you. Were you thinking that the Griffin is somehow connected to this skull?”
“I don‘t really know, but maybe. The skull was his main thing. I think I was brought there to answer questions about the Griffin, not because an outside test pilot was needed. Maybe he had plans for the Griffin, and he needed someone who knew how to fly it. I’m really sorry about getting you involved in this thing, Adrian. I didn’t know where else to turn.”
“Maybe you did me a favor. Maybe I’m getting a heads-up that bad guys will come calling.”
“Blackwell seemed really frustrated about that last piece he needed for the skull. That’s got something to do with all of it, but that’s all I know.”
“To quote a famous prophet, 'These people sound like a wretched hive of scum and villainy. We must be cautious.'”
Danica gave a hesitant laugh. “We need to hide this thing real good.”
“I have just the place.”
Most aircraft and spacecraft use the space under the pilot’s seat for storage. Being the shifty character I have come to be, I took the time to improve upon that in the Griffin. I left enough space beneath the seat to give the impression of a proper storage compartment, but sectioned off the area that extended below the flight deck floor. I created a pressure cover with four real pressure bolts and twenty fake bolt heads. On the cover plates I engraved the words “DANGER GEAR HYDRAULIC PRESSURE WELL. NO ACCESS.” In smaller print, I added instructions for removal of the cover, instructions that would take any normal man a good eight hours to comply with. In reality, the cover can be removed very quickly with just the four bolts, and it was there we hid what was undoubtedly the most valuable diamond known to man.
Chapter 7
By 03:00 hours, two of my crewmen had still not returned from the Cistern. I sat, a worried mother, slouched at the conference table sipping black coffee, my mouth still asking for the blue drink. I was having trouble deciding who to worry about the most, R.J. or Wilson.
The forward airlock door remained open. Just as I was deciding to go in search of them, there finally came the sound of a ruckus outside. I made it to the door in time to see Wilson and four or five Norsican buddies staggering through the security dome screen, some singing, some chanting, all holding on to each other for balance. Wilson was in the middle, a large heavily engraved mug held high in one hand, his other arm draped around the shoulder of a very merry Norsican companion. They sang their way to the stairs, and stopped and looked up at me, swaying silently together in unison. The biggest of the bunch gathered his gusto and called out in slurred overtones, still honestly translated by my earplugs. “Captain, we are returning this warrior for proper duty. He is worthy of honor guard and minstrel. We salute you, sir and the fine crew of the…..” He looked at his companions, still swaying.
Wilson blurted out, “Griffffinnnn.”
“Fine crew of the starship, Griffffin.”
With that, the Norsican seemed to forget the context of what he’d been saying.
Wilson’s teetering head looked up at me and then back at them and they all broke out in such laughter the whole bunch nearly fell in a heap. Only their obvious experience with such inebriation allowed two of them to support the others enough to prevent the collapse. Before I could respond to their salute, a flurry of backslapping and celebration broke out and the troop separated and wavered away in a resumed chorus of some Norsican victory chant, as Wilson teetered unsupported below, one hand on the rail, the other raising his mug to them as they disappeared through the security curtain.
To my surprise, he made it up the moving stairs. Onboard, he swayed, handed me his irreverently carved mug of very naked alien women, then fell forward toward the sleeper compartments. Once there, I turned him to face the correct cell, and tapped the open button. He fell in, instantly asleep, butt sticking out so that I had to lift his legs inside to close the compartment.
That left R.J.
Ten minutes later, a new entourage arrived.
The three females that were holding him up were no more than four feet tall. They were blue-skinned and wore form-fitting violet suits that looked like wet suits except they were adorned with wonderful designs of luminous colors. They had Spock ears and tiny mouths below pert little noses. Their eyes were dark and inviting. In place of hair, they had such delightful indefinable patterns of dull color that I could not tell if it was a form of tattoo or natural markings. Overall, each of them was so cute, they were nearly irresistible. Their appearance made you want to hug one or all and take them home and keep them forever. They seemed to know every man felt that way about them.
To say R.J. was disheveled would have been an understatement. His hair was thoroughly messed up and rose upward in a shape that could have almost been described as the Eiffel tower. His facial expression was that of
a drunken Stan Laurel. He did not seem certain of where he was. His flight suit was crumpled and wrinkled and looked like someone else had put it on him. The right side of his mouth seemed to be stuck in a half-smile.
None of the cute little women spoke. They gently rode up the stairs with him and patiently waited for me to take over. They paused for a very long smile, then one of them came forward and handed me a fancy flat black case the size of a tablet. I opened it to find a set of twelve perfectly-cut matching diamonds. I looked up at them, not understanding, and somehow without speaking they conveyed to me that it was payment for R.J.’s music. With a final set of seductive smiles, they turned and hurried away. I guided the non-communicative R.J. to his center sleeper cell and helped him in. His eyes were still open, staring at the ceiling, the half-smile still locked on his face as the compartment door slid closed.
The Enuro sun was rising in the south. Work on the underbelly of the Griffin had continued through the night with only occasional noise from below deck. With my wayfaring crew securely tucked in, I finally began to think about my own sleeper cell. Coffee had not seemed to diminish the lingering effects of the Enuro blue. As I looked in on the flight deck, the noise of someone stirring behind me interrupted my instrument checks. Danica, in pink silk pajamas, came forward rubbing her eyes.
“I don’t know what was in the blue stuff, Adrian, but I slept like a log. How about you?”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I sleep.”
“What? Aren’t the…”
“Just now, the last of them anyway.”
“Dad stayed up all night worrying?”
“The Norsicans brought back one. Three little blue elves, the other.”
“Geeez…. Were they…?”
“Just a bit.”
“The work went on all night?”
“Enuronian technicians apparently never stop. With your approval, the ship is yours. I shall now acquiesce to the effects of the blue stuff.”