The Stranded Ones

by Jay B. Gaskill

  “Maybe I’ll post my resume and hang out here waiting for a better offer.”

  “Good one. You will be my ‘executive assistant’ for now, closer and more trusted than my own departed mother. She, after all, wouldn’t cover for me.” Falstaff took off his glasses and gave Donald Wu a candid stare, barely concealing his amusement.

  “You won’t regret it.”

  “Donald, you have one virtue I prize above many.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You are bloody lucky.”

  “If this was bloody good luck, save me the bad…”

  Jack grinned. “I think you and I will get along well. In the meantime, I should warn you: I would never have hired you if I entertained even the tiniest suspicion that you are less than completely trustworthy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Hold onto your gratitude. You have to live up to your reputation with me. I never confuse a resume with reality. Your track record with me is all that counts…and it starts now.”

  “Understood.”

  “But do you understand the nature of my business?”

  “You buy and sell that which officially does not exist.”

  “Well put. That and the related endeavors…Here is your first loyalty test: That creature inside does not exist. This encounter did not happen. Are we clear?”

  “Very. I have a question about what just did not happen.”

  “Try me.”

  “That thing was a bad imitation of a man on a wheelchair. You just called it a ‘creature’. So what was it - this creature that does not exist?”

  “…A bad imitation? It was probably one of the older models.”

  “An older model of what?”

  “I have picked up some strange and resourceful enemies. They are now your enemies as well. As you can see, they have taken advantage of the deference we show the disabled.”

  “Hah! Coddle the disabled in Siberia? Not a chance…”

  “Your wheelchair creature had probably reached the bottom of the pecking order. I’m not surprised they don’t waste the newer models out here.”

  “Who are these enemies? Have you seen these ‘newer models’ disguises? Can they actually pass for real people?”

  “I have. And yes, they really can. You can have an ordinary conversation, and never catch on. I’ve even taken one to lunch.”

  “That must have been fun.”

  “It was a business lunch. I made a deal I now regret. By the way, I brought a dog to that lunch. Canines can always smell them.”

  “But you knew going in?”

  “I suspected going in, and knew coming out.”

  “Do all dogs react?”

  “Cadaver dogs do better. Sometimes we can smell them, too…because their life-support units occasionally leak. The odor is unforgettable. Think of rotten eggs and burning brake lining.”

  “I thought I’d seen everything by now, but slimy, stinky sea creatures, hiding in wheelchairs?”

  “Not from the sea…” Jack pointed a long finger at the clouds.

  Wu didn’t miss a beat. “Oh. Slimy ETs hiding in wheelchairs…using Disney animatronic cripples for cover.”

  After Jack Falstaff stopped laughing, he slapped Donald Wu on the back. “Good one, Donald. You’ll do just fine.” Then his expression suddenly became serious. “From now on, my only name is Jack Falstaff and I am a simple businessman from Perth, Australia. Anything you may or may not have heard to the contrary is…inoperative. Understood?”

  “Jack Falstaff…No aliases. Just an ordinary businessman. No ET creatures. An uneventful outing in the snow. Everybody’s having a good time. Got it.”

  Falstaff grinned. “We’ll need to pack up quickly. In a few minutes, that snow machine and this cabin are going to burn very brightly…right down to a fine ash.”

  “I have nothing to pack, Boss. Burn away…”

  An island somewhere in the Pacific, a year later…

  Outside, a car door slammed and footsteps crunched on gravel. Finnegan Gael, the famous high-risk venture capitalist, had arrived. Wind rustled through the unmarked warehouse as Jack Falstaff crumpled the scratch paper, then let his meeting prep notes flutter into the cane wastebasket by his desk.

  A shaft of light from a ceiling vent formed a large illuminated puddle around the meeting area. Jack waited for his guest there, as if on a stage set in a dark theater. His well tanned face and guarded eyes would betray intense concentration, but little else. To Finnegan Gael, Falstaff would first appear as a lanky figure of indeterminate age wearing a tropical shirt…and as someone not to be underestimated.

  Falstaff had sought out the man who was approaching on the gravel walkway on the basis of several qualities that he found in himself. Of course, these were qualities he valued only in those he could fully trust. It naturally followed that Finnegan J. Gael was potentially dangerous. But “all life is risk,” as Jack was fond of saying. Besides, there was no other option open to him in the present circumstances. Jack had squandered far too much capital on a risky, very possibly idiotic purchase. The details were far too dangerous to ever talk about. Now he could not go forward without more money. That made Finnegan Gael a necessary partner.

  Fortunately Jack had more than his recent purchase to bring to the table. He had acquired several profitable secrets from his “down under” friends and they would be a perfect fit in the growing portfolio of F. J. Gael.

  The muffled sound of ocean waves crashing against the docks abruptly sharpened. Sunlight splashed across the wooden floor near the doorway. Falstaff remained seated until Gael became a silhouette. “Over here,” he boomed.

  “Jack Falstaff?” The man’s voice echoed in the empty steel building.

  “Please come in, Mr. Gael.” Falstaff walked to the doorway, pausing just a fraction of a beat to regard his guest carefully; then he held out his hand and grinned. He saw a round, intelligent face, a polished, tanned forehead, with close cropped white hair around the ears and penetrating, but gentle eyes. F. J. Gael’s grip was immediate and firm. He communicated the solid self-confidence of someone who had earned his way through life. It seemed to confirm what Jack knew of Gael’s reputation…a man known for honor and shrewd dealings.

  Honor was a value widely ignored in this expedient culture. Jack would have to treat very carefully with this man, because when honor is given, honor is expected in return. He knew from experience that any honorable man willing to take great risks with his own money was as rare as a rainforest in the outback. Jack was withholding some secrets from this man that would never be for sale.

  “Please, join me at the desk.” Falstaff pointed to the lighted area in the middle of the warehouse. “We can both sit there and talk.” Gael seemed to hesitate. “I understand that you sometimes deal in the trading and protection of technological information,” Jack said. “It’s my special interest, too.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Finnegan said as he walked towards the stage lit area. “That’s why I agreed to meet with you.” F. J. Gael entered the full overhead light; he was dressed in a tropical suit, no tie, no jewelry, not even a watch. When he arrived at the edge of the desk, he stopped, smiled and asked, “What else do you know about me?”

  “Just enough to be able to trust you…” Finnegan nodded as if to say, “We’ll see”. “What do you know about me?” Jack asked.

  “Our mutual friend, General Blackmore, who served our favorite Prime Minister…”

  “Mother Liz?”

  “Yes…Australia’s Maggie Thatcher…Blackmore was very impressed with a conversation you two had in a pub in Sydney a few months ago. He was almost…enthusiastic.”

  Falstaff smiled and nodded. “I have a proposal…” He paused, choosing his words with care. “It is a proposal of very long range mutual benefit.” Jack motioned to the worn leather chair facing his desk. “Please, let’s sit down and talk about it.”

  When they sat down on opposite sides of Falstaff’s desk, Finnegan held the silence
for a moment, looking amiable, but thoughtful. “I came here to listen,” F. J. Gael finally said. He was choosing his words with equal care.

  At the end of the conversation a new partnership was formed. The papers that later were to be drawn up for “Gael-Falstaff Enterprises” were of secondary importance to the two men. The handshake was sufficient.

  That night, Jack Falstaff had a dream in which he was floating in space. In his dream, he was jolted by a shrill alarm in his helmet. Because it was a dream, he didn’t question what he was doing floating in the vacuum of space. Jack Falstaff had never been higher than a Lockheed Chrysalis could take him, about 120,000 feet, safe in a comfortable seat, a drink at his side.

  In the dream, he was in an acute state of emergency. The “Others” had recovered from the recent attack on the “Little Ones”. In the dream, Jack knew who the Little Ones were, as he did when awake. Jack also knew who the Others were, of their malevolence and dangerousness. And the Others were active again, obviously busy with repairs. His time in short supply, Jack eased his descent pod out of its hole. He guided it as it floated into position, drifting next the immense hull of the larger ship. The tiny pod was a minnow in the shadow of a whale.

  And, in the dream, the whale was his ship. His own spaceship. Its silver skin gleamed darkly in the starlight. It was an absurdly large, streamlined shape, fitted for atmosphere landings and takeoffs and deep space. In the starlight the hull was obsidian black, almost invisible in the cone of darkness behind the night-side earth.

  Another vessel, the ship of the “Little Ones” was floating somewhere in a lower orbit, momentarily cloaked by the darkness, temporarily protected by the distance and the disabled sensors of the predators he – and they - called the Others.

  The wounded predator vessel was an immensely dangerous war machine. In the dream, Jack did not question why he knew any of this. Their still-dangerous warship was tumbling only ten thousand meters away from his position, faintly visible as a dark mass of spider web girders and interconnected cylinders.

  Abruptly, soundlessly, the warship of the Others sparkled and became a rotating island of lights. That signaled imminent peril. The Little Ones were only minutes away from target status and Jack himself would soon be exposed to the Others’ deadly beam weapons.

  As the sun’s corona broke its recurring eclipse, the ship of the “Little Ones” inexorably began emerging from the cone of Earth-cast darkness. Jack stared as the target flashed red, orange, then a searing white. Soon he would be in sunlight, too.

  It was such bad timing: The sun was lighting up the targets just as the Others’ weapons systems were powering up. If the Little Ones were lucky, their vessel could still plummet safely into the atmosphere of the blue world far below…to Earth, if there was enough time for them.

  Jack’s VacSuit was still tethered to his ship, still hidden in the earth’s retreating shadow. The tether reached into an open hold, a cavity visible only as a jet-black rectangle in the ship’s almost-black skin. The descent pod, Jack’s lifeboat, was a three meter long non-reflective capsule, now drifting free, linked by a single cord fastened to his VacSuit. When Jack’s ship tether decoupled, only his magnetic soles would hold him back.

  “Release!” Jack’s command was directed to the on-board computer pilot, using a collimated infrared channel that the Others could not detect. The tether unhooked him and swiftly vanished into the hold. Jack tugged at the pod cord, until his boots broke free of his dream spaceship, and he began drifting. Under him, the bay door swiftly and silently clicked shut. Then a smaller hatch in his descent pod opened for him, lit only by a single red LED. Before Jack could signal “Ready!” his ship had powered up and was receding into the distance. It flashed silver as it entered the sunlight, then swiftly dwindled to an indistinct point…and vanished.

  Jack was now quite alone. He would have sighed, but in a sharp panic he realized he was asphyxiating. Where is my oxygen feed? How can this be happening? His chest burned. He began to struggle like a fish on shore.

  I am going to die…

  Jack woke from his nightmare, gasping for breath. A sense of anoxia lingered and carried the flavor of an again moment, as if this was a perpetually recurring dream. But the sense of deja vu swiftly dissipated. Even as all the details of the dream slipped away, Jack was once again drenched in sweat and again filled with dread and a sense of oppression.

  He was still breathing heavily. As his respiration and heartbeat slowed, and before Jack could fully reassure himself, he entertained the terrible thought, typical of all his dreams: What if this dream was a reality? A familiar panic congealed around his heart. Nonsense, he told himself. He was Jack Falstaff, late of Perth, Australia, an entrepreneur, a businessman working on the edge. And he sure as hell hadn’t run out of oxygen.

  He had grown up in a station down under and had not traveled at all until he ran away from home at the age of 15. Then it was a series of odd jobs, time studying in Adelaide, followed by more jobs, more study. He hadn’t even traveled to the UK or the States until his late twenties.

  But all that changed when he stumbled onto the little aliens and learned of their enemies. He was a skilled trader, and the secrets he acquired, brokered, traded or kept had made him immensely wealthy…until he squandered a fortune on one damned purchase. When, if ever, could he tell Finnegan Gael about that? Not now…not now…

  Probably, the oppressive suffocation he felt was the crushing weight of responsibility. Jack blinked in the dark, momentarily confused: Responsibility for what? Jack was an adventurer, a skilled trader in exotic merchandise, not a worrier. What a cocked up, silly business, this dream nonsense! Jack opened a window, raided his refrigerator, then went back to sleep; his dream was soon forgotten.

  He awakened at dawn to the sound of the surf outside the window. In spite of the gentle breeze, Jack still felt an unexplained sense of suffocation. And there was a vague teasing at the back of his mind, a sense of something very, very important he had forgotten. These feelings haunted him only for a few seconds, then they, too, vanished with the smell of coffee…

  As a child, Jack Falstaff had been warned that his life would be a short, dangerous one. The warning was probably apocryphal, no doubt one of those family legends concocted by bored ancient women. Was it his great, great grandmother? He couldn’t recall. In any case, it was someone who had died shortly after repeating her prediction for the last time…but that was…when? Jack’s head always hurt when he tried to remember too far into the past.

  Whatever…He didn’t believe in superstitious prophesies.

  Or dreams….

  CHAPTER TWO - THE ENCOUNTER

  Chicago Seven years later

  Hugh McCahan closed the door to his offices. He turned to look through the bulletproof glass into the waiting area. McCahan, Springer, and Associates, Industrial Information Security Specialists appeared in gold leaf, while a dim night-light cast a yellow glow across the receptionist’s desk. The reflection of a craggy, angular face, with prominent black eyebrows and a shock of almost neat black hair, looked back. One eyebrow was raised in a characteristic quizzical expression. A moment later McCahan was on the elevator at the end of the carpeted hallway.

  McCahan publicly operated at the fringes of the law and privately well outside them, but he and his partner, Lew Springer, were not common criminals. The commercial world had changed radically when Hugh was a young college student. The very notion of intellectual property had been upended, in favor of public ownership for the common good. The law of unintended consequences immediately generated a vast black market in secrets, and a new profession of men and women dedicated to their protection. This had become a profitable career opportunity for Hugh.

  In the very first year after the legal status of valuable technological information was thrown into doubt, there erupted a need, and therefore a market, for the services of operatives like McCahan and his old friend Lew Springer. They and hundreds of other men and women traded in useful dat
a, processes and discoveries. It was prohibition all over again and the role of the vice cops was filled by powerful bureaucrats like Commissioner Marius Torque, who with the help of a coterie of armed agents, terrorized research facilities, pharmaceutical makers, laboratories, and new-product industries all over the Western Hemisphere. Torque operated from an inconspicuous office building in Denver, Colorado.

  Hugh took the depredations of Commissioner Torque and his ilk in stride, often with characteristic black humor. “You know what, Lew? That little jerk Torque is our rainmaker.” Of course Hugh hardly thought of himself as a moralist, but he was as true to his own personal code as any sworn cleric was to “the word.” Unlike many in the latter category, however, his code was founded on the fierce protection of his little circle of friends, a militancy leavened by rough kindness, and humor…and a dedication to the human creative spirit.

  Outside, the street lamps had begun to glow, tires hissed in the wet streets, and a heavy snow had begun to descend. The parking garage was a block away. McCahan pulled up his overcoat collar. He said he was in the “information business”. He and Springer were private spooks in an era where the overturn of all patent laws made secrecy as much a commodity as the inventions themselves.

  So when he saw the homeless man in an alcove, a sealed entrance to a little used warehouse, his first reaction was suspicion. Then he relaxed. In fact, McCahan had walked by the same man for weeks, pausing occasionally only to drop a coin into a cardboard box. But this one evening, McCahan did something different. Maybe it was the incoming blizzard, the flickering light of the man’s miniature stove in the dark corner; maybe it was the dignity of the hunched form, the glazed stare of a blind man. For whatever reason, this night McCahan stopped.

  The man’s half gloved hands were cupped around the tiny flame. Propped against the cardboard donation box was a small, hand-lettered sign. “Blind and abandoned by my government.”