Perhaps it’s all a dream.
* * *
Dream or not, I’m wearing clothes this time. After getting dressed, I step out on the deck, ease the front door shut, and zip my coat to seal out the cold morning. The ocean is calm, beneath dark purple sky just before dawn. My favorite time of day, when so many minds are at rest, the clutter of their thoughts is absent.
Close to sunrise, the sky shows few stars. But one shines bright, twinkling, adjacent to the crescent moon. Not a star—a planet. Perhaps the very planet I will visit soon, a chilling reminder that my future is all but certain.
Around the house to the alley, I find a taxi waiting. I didn’t call a taxi. Or did I?
The driver leans out the window. “Hey there, Adam. Off to find more adventure?”
It’s Jerry. What is he doing here? The sun isn’t even up yet. Of course, the perfect explanation—more dream nonsense.
“No,” I reply. “I’m looking for a bucket.”
He stares at me like I’m a nutcase. “What are you talking about? You’re one silly dude.”
“I need the blue bucket. Take me to it immediately.”
“The only place I’m taking you is to the airport, like Dave asked. What’s wrong with you? Are you even awake yet?”
I hop in the backseat. “Sometimes I wonder.”
He chuckles, and we get going. So Dave sent him. Now it makes sense.
Past a few sleepy avenues, he says, “You should have listened to me.”
“About what?”
Maybe the dream nonsense is coming after all.
He stares at me in the rearview mirror.
“Now your hair looks even worse.”
* * *
For once I wish he would drive like a maniac. The road is clear, why not floor it? But no, Jerry is feeling lazy this morning, taking his time, and filling it with endless opinions about hair fashion, how mine’s a wreck, then where to surf, and wanting to know how I liked his favorite club the other night. What is a polite way to say shut up?
At last we arrive at the airport. On the curb, I slap the door shut and wave good-bye. Jerry stares at me through the windshield like he’s sad to see me go. Or he shares my dread, that I may never return.
At this early hour, the airport is quieter than before, but still lively. Not everyone is sleeping, plenty have business well before the sun arrives. But this time no one notices me, like I’m invisible. Nonsense. That was just a silly dream. They don’t recognize me because of the haircut.
Out on the tarmac, a hint of magenta glows along the horizon, under dark purple sky. Our craft is upright, broken strut fully restored. Matt made good on his promise. Dave strolls around the craft, studying a clipboard then glancing at the hull, and he marks another line off his checklist.
“Hey, Dave, how’s she look?”
“Morning, Adam. Matt has a few tweaks left, but other than that, she looks ready to go.”
No comment about a bucket. So far, so good.
Dave completes his inspection and we climb aboard. Some way to start the day—seal yourself inside an oversized coffee can. The steps retract and Dave secures the hatch, then he says, “You should give Matt a hand.”
“With what?”
“Some problem with the engine. Go find him, you’ll see.”
Following his advice, I go aft and down one deck, and hear Matt hollering.
“You piece of shit. Come on, work right!”
In a compartment cluttered with tools and spare parts, he’s holding a big wrench, poised to strike. Apparently, working on the engine. Working on scolding it, like that’ll do any good.
“What’s the problem, Matt?”
“A flutter in thirty-six.”
A cover is removed from the engine, allowing a clear view of the internal components. Suddenly, it all becomes familiar. I remember this.
Everything in the universe vibrates. The engine generates precise frequencies—extremely precise—within millionths of a cycle. And more than one frequency, a great number in fact. And when the contrasting wavelengths are interlaced correctly, interference patterns result, that become seemingly unrelated harmonics on which we ride, taking advantage of the fact that everything in the universe vibrates. Simple.
“Is the track clean?” I ask. “And the ball?”
“I’ve been through all that too many times. I don’t get it. Everything was fine, then all of a sudden it’s fucked.”
“Something had to change. Machines don’t stop working for no reason.”
“I didn’t change anything, I just turned it on. This fucking junk is a big pile of shit.” He slams the wrench against the cover, adding to dents already scarring the poor thing.
“To start with, Matt, stop calling it a piece of shit, and stop hitting it. Machines don’t like that any more than people do.”
I lean into the open panel. A series of circular tracks stand upright, sandwiched together to form a long tube. Each track has a depression around the internal circumference, where a small metal ball travels round and round. But not an ordinary metal ball. The vital component is constructed from a dense element, rare and difficult to acquire, machined to exacting tolerances, as is the track. The slightest variance throws it all out of whack.
“Start it up, let’s have a look.”
He works a handheld remote wired to the engine. In the center of the circular tracks, a thick shaft slowly rotates. The metal balls follow the shaft’s motion, commencing their endless journey around the tracks. The engine gains speed and the many balls become a blur, racing round and round.
Matt rattles the remote. “See, look at that flutter.”
A display on the remote indicates output frequency. The numbers are flying all over the place. This calls for a closer inspection. I reach for the exterior of the faulty track. Gadgets tell much in the way of symptoms, but touch provides feedback no gadget can match.
As the engine whines, I feel a slight flutter. Intuition has matched the gadget. Now let’s delve deeper, and exchange thoughts on why.
“Bring thirty-six up a notch.”
He tweaks the remote. The rotating shaft is not a solid piece, rather many rings stacked together, each aligned with its corresponding track. At position thirty-six, a segment projects outward, and that ball spins faster.
The flutter changes frequency. My conversation with the engine has begun.
“Now slow it down.”
The segment retracts more than the rest, and the ball goes around slower.
I close my eyes and listen through touch, easing my hand across the track’s exterior, searching for the slightest difference in vibration. Reaching lower, my fingers detect a rumble, not audible, and extremely faint. I’m moving the right direction. Lower still, I arrive at the track mounts. A vision overtakes all perception—Matt with his wrench, and a small part in his other hand.
Matt interrupts the dreamy vision. “What are you doing?”
“Finding the cause.”
“What do you call this technique? Hands on?”
Smart-ass.
“Turn it off. I want to look at something.”
The engine winds down and the balls settle at the bottom of each track. I remove a lower access panel near the track mounts.
“Well here’s the problem, Matt. I’m surprised you hadn’t noticed yourself. Look, the nut’s cracked.”
He strains to see the tiny flaw, a defect so minor, only the most intent inspection would reveal it.
“I’ll be damned,” he says. “That never happened before.”
Probably why he didn’t think to check. What has happened before is a great place to start, but when it fails to yield a cause, you must look further—there is always a reason. Always. And finding it can be as simple as looking in the obvious places, as well as those not so obvious. You must question everything, and entertain all possibilities.
He roots through a box of spare parts and finds a suitable replacement, then puts his wrench to work—doin
g what it was meant for. He cinches the nut tight and starts the engine. He studies the readout, then looks to me.
“Adam, you’re magic.”
Magic? I don’t know about that.
* * *
How is it that one day goes all wrong, while another, everything works out perfectly? Some call it luck, magic, the stars are in alignment or other nonsense, all too often concluded as the explanation for success. Or take the example of different individuals struggling with the same problem. One fails miserably, while another under identical conditions, handles everything brilliantly. Magic? I think not. It’s called genius—looking, thinking, and acting, based solely on clues from the environment, without influence from any preconceived notion.
Doesn’t mean it’s easy. Genius is hard work, just like everything else, even when it appears effortless. Physical strain is obvious, a mind exerting itself is not. And at times, the mind is burdened far beyond anything the body could bear.
Unfortunately, the mind is seldom rewarded for its efforts. The result of its conclusions, favorable or not, are quickly attributed to magic or luck, good and bad, and this invalidation of the true source only weakens the fine instrument. The being as well, whose intent commands the mind. When intentions are denied, you’re eroding the ability to project intention, the means by which we mold existence. Deny intentions—for example, I didn’t mean it—and a dwindling spiral begins, the universe becoming whatever it is, rather than all we intend for it to be.
Further damage exists outside the being, body and mind—the opinion of others. This keeps the mind at bay, and souls unsure of whether to cast their intentions. To express pride, or announce how splendidly the mind performs, rather than calling it magic or a stroke of luck, can be considered arrogant, which at times, makes others uncomfortable.
I’d explain all this to Matt, but he’d only think of me as cocky, if not worse. Better left unsaid. For now, I’ll let Matt believe it was magic.
* * *
Space travel has got to be the most boring activity ever. Once underway, the calm ride is monotonous, like we’re not even moving. We could be stuck in one spot while the universe passes by. I know that sensation means something.
Being stuck in a spacecraft with two guys doesn’t help. At least when Madison was aboard, a few nearly exciting situations developed, and her pleasant, at times aggressive, personality kept my mind busy. But now my mind wrestles with an uncertain future, and determination must battle apprehension to breed confidence. Which I hope, fuels prudent judgment and intelligent planning. A long list of virtues that continue eluding me. The lack of planning could spell our end, but I have to keep telling myself—better to act with no planning than to plan endlessly with no action. A perfect justification to throw myself and others into a dark unknown. The only virtue driving this crazy idea is my impatience to find her.
Dave suggests that we get into our costumes and become the Bobs we hope to deceive. In our berthing compartments, we change, then return to the cockpit. We have done well, the hair, the jackets, every detail, but something’s not right.
As Dave and I study each other, he seems to share the same conclusion, taking in the sum of my disguise and straining to pinpoint why it doesn’t add up.
“What’s missing?” I ask.
Busy in the pilot seat, Matt twists around to look us over. “It’s your face.”
“What’s wrong with my face?”
If we’re going to talk about someone’s face, let’s start with his.
“You look like a little boy,” he says. “Playing spy.”
Dave smirks. “Maybe because he is.”
“No,” Matt says, “not what I mean. It’s just, your expression. You look curious.”
“Well, I am. What am I supposed to do about that?”
“Look, Adam, if you’re going to fool them, you have to do more than dress up in a costume. You have to act the same.”
I try a scowl.
Dave laughs.
“And you,” Matt says to Dave. “You can’t laugh all the time. They don’t laugh.”
“How do you know? Maybe they do.”
“Think about it,” I say. “What would guys like that have to laugh about?”
Dave considers it. “Okay, so how’s this?” He scrunches his face.
“No,” Matt says. “You got it all wrong. They don’t laugh, and they don’t smile, but that doesn’t mean they’re pissed off all the time. Look emotionless, with that stupid wide-eyed stare they have, like you’re dumbfounded.”
Given the uncertainty we face, that expression won’t take much acting.
“Is this better?” Dave aims a blank stare at nothing.
He’s got it—he looks like a goon. Then he glares at me.
“What?” I ask.
“I look like a penis, I know it.”
Matt says, “Just make sure it’s an emotionless penis.”
“A limp dick?” Dave says.
Matt snickers. “If the shoe fits . . .”
Dave rockets at him, fills a fist with Matt’s shirt, and nearly rips him from the pilot seat.
“Knock it off.” I pull them apart. “Both of you, this is serious. Dave, you had it perfect. Try again.”
He duplicates the empty expression.
“Just like that,” I say. “Keep that face and we’ll be fine.”
“Maybe. Let’s see your best face.”
I give it a try, staring mindlessly at nothing.
“Better,” Matt says. “But keep working on it—a lot—and hope you get it right before we get there.”
Dave says, “And what is the rest of your brilliant plan? Land on the roof and hope no one notices?”
“Obviously not. We’ll have to drop off further out, and make our way in on foot.”
“We have to walk?”
“A little walking won’t hurt you.”
“Sure, but what if we run into someone? What are we supposed to say? Don’t mind us, just out for an evening stroll. Yeah, agents do that all the time when they’re not laughing.”
“You could at least try to make this work, instead of making a joke of everything.”
“I’m serious here. You ever see them walking anywhere? The goons have transport, they don’t walk.”
“He’s right,” Matt says. “You’ll look totally out of place.”
Unless there’s a perfectly logical explanation for our lack of transport.
“We could be pilots,” I say.
“What good does that do?” Dave asks.
“The surviving crew of the scout craft we destroyed. We can say we were shot down and captured, and escaped after being tortured.”
“Aren’t you being a little dramatic?”
“Whatever makes a good story. And whatever the story is, we need the same story, or we’re busted.”
“All right, so we’ll be shot down, tortured pilots. You expect anyone to believe that?”
I’d reply with honesty, but I require his confidence, the lack of which now has me wondering if any of this will even work.
“Someone will believe, trust me.”
* * *
The passage of time is agonizing, not knowing the challenges that await. I can only imagine, and wish something else occupied my mind so it would stop entertaining the worst possible outcome. In a few days I’ll be Carl again, wondering if life is even worth living. Or long past that miserable experience and speeding toward the next, someplace even more unpleasant, wherever that may be. But then, I wouldn’t know the difference, without a memory of anything better.
All of time outside this moment holds infinite possibilities. Horrible ends and triumphs, in a past we can recall, and as many in all moments yet to come. I tried to convince Madison of this sensation of time, when I’ve hardly convinced myself. I know it’s true, the past and future are incredibly similar, while a universe apart from every new moment, but clinging to the fanciful idea is useless. There is nothing I can do with it. Knowing this aspect
of time only makes me feel helpless, lacking any clear method that puts the idea to practical use. If only there was, perhaps I could remember the future, and see the mistakes I’m about to make.
In time we do arrive, the purple globe slowly growing larger as the distance closes. Craft of immense size orbit the enemy planet, standing guard. The massive battle cruisers sprout guns from stern to aft, and we’re gliding into their sights. One alone could make our puny ride a smudge hanging in the void of space.
However, when we cruise past, the giant craft take no action. Then we skim the atmosphere, whipping up flames across the nose. Someone must notice that. We plunge into a thick overcast and the flames cease. Murky clumps of vapor stream past, then we burst from the clouds over a darkened landscape, and near the horizon, a glistening metropolis brightens the night sky.
“How do you do it?” I ask.
Busy piloting, Matt glances over his shoulder. “Do what?”
“How come they can’t see us?”
He grins. “Holograms, and a few other tricks. We don’t look like we really do. Like you guys.” He waves across our outfits and hair.
“Oh, I see.”
Dave says, “And they don’t.”
The engines roar as Matt brings the craft to a hover. Dave and I head for the rear compartment, he snaps the latch, and the exterior door swings open. The engines howl as the craft hovers above darkness.
Dave shouts over the noise, “This is it. After you.” He extends a gracious hand toward the black unknown.
I peer out. No telling if there’s even ground below. Landing on the roof might have been a better idea after all.
“Sometime this week?” he says.
Out the hatchway, I follow my feet and brace for impact. One after the other we crash and tumble across a grassy clearing surrounded by forest. On my back, the grass doesn’t tickle and the sky is dark, other than light streaming from the hatchway we left behind, surrounded by a wavering mirage that resembles starry night. The craft, disguised. So that’s how he does it. The hatch closes and the wiggling mass of starlight-dotted-blackness shoots away, growing less distinct until it’s just another patch of night blending with the rest.
Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1 Page 25