“You know, worry and speculation isn’t going to help your mental state.”
“I know that, but I can’t help it. It’s human nature to worry.”
“I suggest getting some sleep before ASL notifies you when you can get out of here.”
John sighed. “Yeah.” He took another sip of the Irish hot chocolate.
“Neither the caffeine nor the alcohol in that drink are going to help you.”
“Misti, you’re starting to sound like my mother.” John’s mind flashed back to the day before his twelfth birthday, when he stood in a suit next to her grave, while the minister read the last rights. He pushed the thought away.
Misti smiled at the comparison.
“I’m too wired to sleep,” John said.
“Take a sleeping pill.”
“I think I will. I’m sure room service can get me some. John called them using his implant, and the necessary item was at his door within minutes. He chased it with the hot chocolate, then mentally commanded the light in the room to dim slowly. He changed into pajamas and climbed under the covers.
“Goodnight,” Misti said.
“’Night.” Misti’s display switched off, leaving her silver surface looking like a coin once more. The now-opaque window blocked all light from outside. Only the dim blue glow from the clock on the nightstand illuminated John’s thick, stubbly face, reflecting from his still-wide eyes.
The loud bang woke eighteen-year John Rees from a sound sleep. The oppressive Louisiana heat and humidity pressed in from every side, drenching him in sweat. Something was wrong, very wrong. The sound of a high-pitched, evil laugh tore through him. Somehow—those moments were blacked out—he went from his bedroom, with its poster-covered walls, to the kitchen. There, John’s world turned upside down as he looked into the dying eyes of his father, Bryan. Blood soaked the front of his denim shirt, as he clutched his chest, prone on the tiled floor. He nodded towards the front door, which was fifteen feet down the hall, behind John. Go, his father mouthed.
John ran towards the wide open door, hearing footfalls on the gravel receding into the distance. And then he froze, looking straight into lined and bloodshot eyes of Brad Whitewood Sr., standing some forty feet off. Brad’s face, illuminated weakly by their porch light, bore the most evil of grins. Brad put his left index finger up to his mouth, then brazenly flashed the Colt pistol in his other hand. Blab and you’re next, boy. Brad nodded once, slowly, then turned and resumed running towards the tail lights of the pickup truck at the end of the driveway. Brad’s son Tommy sat waiting in the driver’s seat. Brad jumped in the passenger side and, with a whooshing spray of gravel from the tires, they were gone.
* * * *
The skeleton figure on the card young John was holding gripped a scythe. It was the “death” tarot. John had just torn it from an envelope that contained nothing else, as he stood in front of the mailbox. The impressions in the gravel were still visible where Tommy Whitewood had floored it as they fled. The card was a confirmation. The deed was done. The Whitewood duo had died at the wrong end of a pistol, just like his dad. John’s world tilted once more. The killers John had hired using his father’s insurance money, after traversing the deepest criminal underworld in New Orleans, had done their job. There was now blood on John’s hands.
* * * *
John sat bolt upright. “Nooo!” he cried. The quiet, climate-controlled darkness of the hotel room was still around him.
A quarter-sized circle of light came on, on the nightstand. “John?” Misti’s pretty face inquired, her brow furrowed and voice edged with concern. “John?”
John heard only the pounding of his heart and the blood rushing in his head as he took deep, ragged breaths. “John?” Misti’s voice was calm, even, and patient. Motherly.
“Misti? Did I do wrong?” John managed, between gulps of air.
“You had the dream again, didn’t you?”
John nodded. “Was it justified?”
“Your revenge on the Whitewoods?”
“Yes,” John panted.
“I can’t judge human morality. You know that, John.”
“Why not?” he demanded.
“Because I lack consciousness.”
“Never mind philosophy, give me a damn answer!”
“I really wish I could; I know how much you want one. But, I’m not qualified to give it. I would be doing you a disservice if I even tried. I recommend…”
“A priest or a therapist, I know. But, you know I can never risk telling my secret to anybody. It’s mine to carry alone.”
“You would unburden yourself if you could talk to another conscious being.”
John sighed. “If only I could.”
“So why don’t you?”
“I can’t risk being exposed. There isn’t a statute of limitations on murder. If I was found out my life would be ruined. Far from going to the stars, I’d rot in jail for the rest of my life.” Misti was programmed to be totally confidential. Hence, she was the only one who knew John’s secret.
“I understand.”
“No you don’t! You’ve never had or lost parents, or love of any kind!”
“It’s true that I can’t love or hurt as you can, but I can synthesize sympathy for you.”
“That doesn’t help.” The truth was it did help—if John pretended Misti was human, which he frequently did.
“I know,” Misti said, in a consoling tone. “If I had a body, I would hug you. I know how important that is to humans.”
“I wish I did have someone to hug me right about now.”
“Yeah, I know,” she sympathized.
John was quiet, and after a long moment, Misti spoke again. “I know how much you want to be redeemed.”
“Yeah. Some kind of absolution. I feel like I’m dying inside, Misti.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The floor-to-ceiling window of the cafeteria gave a splendid view of the other side of the giant circle in the center of the IDSA campus, a kilometer away. The artificial star atop the monument almost made up for the gloom of late October in northern Europe. The wind whipped leaves, fallen from the rows of trees lining the paths radiating out from the star spiraling up around the buildings.
"You look like a wreck," Nandi said. Although she was forty, she looked closer to thirty. Her pretty Chinese complexion was offset by medium shoulder length dark hair that had a few light streaks going through it.
"Being shot across twelve time zones in two hours will do that to you," John grumbled. “Didn’t get much sleep the night before, either.”
"Have you been to your hotel room yet?" Nandi asked, eyeing the red duffel bag next to John on the floor.
"Not yet. I haven't had time." Nandi nodded, now looking off into the distance, somewhere above John's shoulder. She was accessing content on her neural implant.
"I feel like I'm losing my mind," John said, running his fingers through his hair. "The combination of spacelag and stress is killing." John winced slightly at his unthinking use of the last word. Nandi nodded sympathetically. "What time’s the meeting again?" John asked, still looking outside.
"Six."
"Not long then."
"Yes."
"Okay."
Nandi's expression suddenly turned fierce and her jaw clenched tight. "You know it's really unfair the way the media's been attacking us, saying the IDSA sent them to their deaths. The unknown has always been a part of space exploration, from Apollo to Titan. This mission just happens to be a bit further afield than before. We sent enough robotic missions ahead of time that we were as sure as we could possibly be that it was safe…”
"They aren't all saying that by a long shot," John said. "There's a lot of support and concern being voiced too.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Nandi’s eyes betrayed her exhaustion. “Anyway, I’d like to get over there early.”
“Same here. Let’s go.” John grabbed his bag. He and Nandi walked across the large, nearly deserted cafeteria, with its
red plastic chairs and dark blue carpeted floor, into the main corridor, where white walls curved slowly out of sight in both directions. They headed down a floor on an escalator, to another passage that was identical apart from having a moving walkway that cut its checkerboard-tiled floor in two down the center. They jumped on and were whisked around a small part of the circumference of the complex.
“Here they are,” Nandi said, as the walkway took them towards a knot of people gathered outside the door of a conference room about the size of a large hotel ballroom.
Colleagues of white, Asian, and black descent stood around, talking in hushed tones in groups of two or three, as Nandi and John alighted from the walkway. “Hey Nandi, John,” a tall black woman said in a heavy Caribbean accent, looking up from her group.
“Malik,” Nandi greeted her. John forced a half smile and a nod. He headed into the room, while Nandi stopped to talk. John looked around the still mostly-empty rows of chairs, and found a seat on the left, halfway towards the back. This was as far as he could get from the only other person sitting down.
* * * *
Flight Director Robert McFadden took the podium at the front of the now-full room. The gray-haired man’s permanent frown had etched hard lines into his face. His cheap blue department store shirt had two buttons open at the collar. “Well, the first thing is, there’s no new information at all. Ulysses is nearly back at the NES now. When she gets there, she’ll be completely stripped down and inspected with an electron microscope. We’ll aim to get every possible scrap of information from her. We already know, of course, that she’s not going to tell us anything that will change the next thing I’m about to tell you: Colonization Mission 2 will now be about rescuing whoever’s still alive. This mission will now no longer fly in six months, but two.”
Gasps and whispers of “How in the heck are we going to manage that?” rippled throughout the room, as the stunned crew and other workers absorbed the news.
Once it was quiet again, Robert continued. “Preparations were on track to have Atlas ready to fly in April. That was allowing a month for space trials and final checkout. It has now been decided, and I concur, that she will depart for Epsilon on December 24th. Crews will be working on her around the clock. Her time in orbit will now only be one week, instead of four, at which time she’ll enter warp flight. In addition, she will now be crewed by only eighteen people, instead of 100. That’s the minimum crew level to fly her safely,” he stressed, over the loud objections of the room. This is, of course, to allow adequate space on board to bring back the crew of CM-1.”
* * * *
Several people rushed to crowd Robert McFadden as he stepped down from the podium, but John made sure he was there first. No sooner had both of Bob’s wingtip-shoed feet landed on the parquet floor then John spoke. “Bob, I’ve got to be on that mission. You have to pick me to fly.”
The lines around Robert’s eyes grew even deeper as he frowned. “I get it John, I really do. Everyone wants to go. But, it’s not just up to me. There’s a committee, of which I’m only one member, that has to make the ultimate crew selections.”
John’s forehead glistened with sweat. “No, Bob, you don’t understand. I really have to go.” My life depends on it, John thought.
“John, is there something you’re not telling me? This situation is hard on everyone. We want to know what happened, and all of you guys have been working towards this mission for years, I know. But, to be honest… you’re acting like an overanxious schoolboy.”
John sighed. If I don’t get a hold of myself, they’re going to figure out who I really am. “Yes, you’re right Bob. I’m sorry.”
Robert nodded and, without another word, headed towards the door. A flock of people followed him, pressing in with questions.
Nandi walked over, and touched John’s elbow. “You okay? You seem… upset. Well, even more than the rest of us are.”
“I’ll be fine,” John growled. But inside he felt anything but fine. I have to fly. I just have to. I’ll give anything, including my right arm.
CHAPTER FIVE
Several Weeks Earlier
The tag on her white flight suit said Morgan Page. Next to it was a small Union Jack flag. She was of average height, and her light brown hair was done up in a bun—mostly. A few stray strands above her ears still floated free, sticking straight out. “Dammit, I meant to cut those off,” she said, tugging at the ones on the left.
Floating nearby in the tiny cabin aboard Hercules was another woman whose tag read Sally McKesson. Her flag was the Stars and Stripes. Together, they watched a news broadcast, received twelve days earlier, while Hercules was still in Earth orbit.
The scene showed an unruly mob throwing stones, bottles, and sticks at a line of police officers. All of the latter had on yellow high-visibility vests over their uniforms, and all sported the classic British bobby’s helmet. Then the crowd charged, roaring with fury. A volley of Molotov cocktails was hurled from somewhere out of the camera’s view, aimed straight at the barricade. The flames exploded all around the officers, shattering into pools of gold and yellow fire in the road behind them. Some hit the cops’ clear plastic riot shields, turning them into torches. Then one of the flaming bombs exploded across the body armor of one unfortunate officer. He immediately fell to the ground and began rolling to extinguish the flames. A colleague quickly produced a fire blanket and covered him with it.
The backdrop to the chaos was a typical English high street: shops with aluminum mesh shutters over their windows, a pub, and a church steeple visible. The text at the bottom of the screen read: STOURBRIDGE, WEST MIDLANDS.
“Why do you keep tormenting yourself by watching that?” Sally asked, in her Midwestern accent.
"I'm obsessing about my mum, and just hoping she'll be okay. She lives less than two miles from where all this is happening." Morgan said, shaking her head at the scene in front of them.
"The escalation in the West Midlands is merely the latest attack spurred on by the European conflagration of the Right-to-Work wars," a woman news anchor said in a broad southern English accent, as the footage of the riot shrunk to a small inset box on the top right corner of the screen. "This sub-conflict of the decades-long global unrest has been smoldering all across Europe for more than five years. It appears to be spreading from nearby Birmingham, where clashes with police left six people dead last week, and at least a dozen city center buildings burned."
Sally turned towards Morgan. "Why do you think they’re still funding the insane expense of interstellar spaceflight, with the entire world in an uproar?"
"Well, my theory is that we distract people from what's really going on,” Morgan said. “Or so what the cynical side of me says, anyway. The more positive view is that it’s to give the population a sense of hope— of progress. Having a human presence among the stars is a dream, probably since cavemen started looking up at the night sky.”
Sally nodded. The two women were quiet for a time.
“I can't believe we’re going to see Constantine up close less than one day from now, and then actually set foot on Epsilon,” Morgan said, her expression brightening.
"Yeah, I can't quite believe it either. I’ve been training and working towards this moment for ten years."
"I just hope we don't find Earth has burned itself to the ground when we get back."
* * * *
Morgan and Sally sat strapped in side by side in Hercules’ large passenger compartment, wearing their white flight suits and ready for the return of gravity. The chairs resembled those in the first class section of an airplane.
“Dammit, still forgot to trim that,” Morgan said, running her right hand across her temple and feeling the stray hairs sticking out at an odd angle.
“Seriously? We’re about to be the first humans to set eyes on an exoplanet right outside the ship, and you’re worrying about your hair?” Sally said, frowning.
“I’ve got my little selfie cam there, see.” Morgan pointed to
a dime-sized device stuck on the white back of the seat in front of her. “I’m going to use the picture on the cover.”
“Tsk. You and that darn book. Are you sure you’re really here for the science, and not just to make money off the whole thing?”
“Well of course I’m here for the science.” The truth was that Morgan saw the trip to Epsilon as a way to boost herself to the status of superstar, as much as anything else. The money from books, movie rights, and speaking engagements would set her and her family up well, even after she was long gone. “Girls can do anything. Believe it, and you can achieve it,” she would say over and over again, to schoolchildren and anyone else who would listen. The speech was already composed in her head. The book wasn’t far behind. The money would also enable her to move Mum away from the dangerous urban areas of central England, and ensure that the prospect of chronic long-term unemployment would never be an issue for her, Mum, Dad, or her two sisters.
Sally’s blonde hair was also tied back. They were surrounded by forty-six other crew members, all gathered in the sterile white environs of Hercules’ upper passenger compartment. Fifty more were seated in the lower level.
The flight deck was situated at the front. Pilot, copilot, chief engineer, and navigator sat in a row. There were no windows, only an image that covered the entire semicircular surface in front of them. It showed the view outside as clearly as if it were transparent.
"Who wants to go full glass?" came a voice from the flight deck.
"Me!" almost everyone answered in unison.
"Then glass it is." The walls, floors, and ceiling of the passenger compartment disappeared, replaced with the view outside, much like the virtual window in the cockpit. It appeared to be completely black outside. Hercules was still in warp flight. The Albucierre warp drive worked by actually bending spacetime so that the craft was outside of it. While in that state no form of matter could be seen. The only way the ship could navigate was via gravity waves: the gravitational pull of various celestial objects, including faraway stars, gave the crew a pretty accurate idea of where they were. The greater the proximity to celestial bodies, the stronger and more closely spaced are the gravity waves, and hence navigation could be much more precise. At that moment, the holographic display at the front of the flight deck showed the planet Epsilon, in rendered relief.
Missing: The Lost Colony Series, Part One Page 2