The Stranded Ones

by Jay B. Gaskill

  With a couple of puffs from his MU, the hand held maneuvering unit, he reoriented, rotating so that he directly faced the Sparrow’s stern. Another puff of gas from his MU sent him coasting over its surface. His almost invisible shadow preceded him as he came to a stop directly over a sealed hatch. He lit the beacon, tracing a faint rectangular line in the hull. He narrowed the beacon and aimed it at a tiny circular depression just outside the outline of the hatch, marking the place where he would arm the bomb.

  The thermonuclear weapon he had covertly acquired, installed within, had deliberately not been connected to the new sensors that his technicians had installed; the measure was a launch fail-safe. Of course it was a shoot-on-sight terror offense to even possess the bomb, much less to bring it into orbit. The weapon would be entirely sufficient to destroy Advisor Station at close range, especially if the alien ship was carrying the other atomic weapons.

  What I do, Jack mused, pulling a wrench from his tool satchel. The circular depression exposed a fitting. Three simple turns of the special wrench and an electronic clock inside the Sparrow was initialized. He would have only five minutes to arm the bomb before the mechanism locked him out…a safety precaution.

  While holding the end of the wrench for purchase, Falstaff turned himself slowly around. He had sensed the approach before he saw it. He was facing the Others’ immense Transfer Vehicle. It was a utility tug; released from the larger station but under remote control. It appeared as a huge unlit chaos of metal girders strung around a central core, looming against the star field. The floating machine had approached to within 200 meters while Jack was engaged.

  “Defender,” he said, “I am arming our gift now.” This was said over a tight laser beam beyond the possibility of interception. He twisted the wrench further; the circular depression rotated slowly and a small hatch slid partly open. Falstaff released the end of the wrench. “I am reaching in.” He then typed a complex number string on a recessed, lit keypad, silently cursing the clumsy VacGloves.

  “Hurry!” Defender said.

  “Initializing,” he said, then after two beats, “Got it!”

  The Alien Transfer vehicle was closing in very quickly. It was now a fathomless black outline against the star field, obscuring any sightline from Advisor Station.

  “Ta, ta.” Falstaff said as he aimed the MU away from the hatch, and fired its tiny cold engines (compressed gas was used), careful to keep the Sparrow in the line of sight between his retreating form and the alien ship. He was floating free in the lightly armored VacSuit using a propulsion device that on Earth could only propel a child’s toy. I might as well be in a bloody rowboat in the Antarctic Sea, he thought.

  “Bye, bye,” Defender replied.

  The dark orb of the Advisor vessel began to dwindle.

  Jack began to spin slowly in his VacSuit, due to a slight asymmetry in the MU’s thrusters. From the aliens’ point of view, had they noticed, he would have become a tiny speck then a dot, then invisible.

  “Closssse enough in four,” Defender said over the com channel. “Three, two, one…Bye, bye, Papa Jack.”

  Defender’s last words.

  On the Australian desert

  Darkness. Something tugged at his arm. Jay Robertson opened his eyes. More darkness, the smell of chill desert air. He had actually dozed in a metal chair.

  “Jay, buddy, the beauty rest is over.” It was Springer, the big man looming over him, a dark form.

  “Christ. Is it time?” Robertson asked.

  “Come away from the lights. You won’t believe this.”

  Outside on the tarmac of the unlit airfield, the wind had swept the night absolutely clear. Everyone was gathered looking up. Donald Wu stood next to an instrument panel; his face lit in the glow of screens and LEDs. Robertson looked skyward where Springer pointed. Ruth and Finnegan stood close by looking up. Hugh stood near Sam who fiercely gripped his hand.

  “Are we far enough from ground zero?” she whispered. Hugh felt his heart begin to hammer.

  “Sure,” he said comfortingly, not believing a word.

  A technician was in the cockpit of the nearby jet plane, using a red lamp. The wind moaned through the nearby tents and trailers. A tiny light stood out clearly against the field of stars and moved slowly across the sky.

  From somewhere behind him, Hugh was whispering to Sam.

  “What am I looking at?” Jay asked.

  “You are looking at a battle scene,” Springer said. “That’s the Sparrow. Advisor Station is too dark to spot.”

  For a brief second, the larger, brighter light seemed wink out. Then…

  In space, the explosion was a soundless star, light erupting everywhere, obliterating everything around it.

  On the ground, where a handful of men and women watched from a darkened airfield, the light in the sky dimmed to black. After a shocked moment, Wu’s voice broke the silence. “I have the readings…” Donald took a few painful seconds. “It was a 50 or 60-megaton blast. There is nothing left up there…nothing at all…”

  “Jack…”

  “Everything is gone,” Wu said. “…the Advisor Station…the Sparrow…everything…”

  “Then it is over,” Gael said.

  Ruth stood, feeling the sting of tears.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - ENDINGS

  The Citisle - Two days later

  Ruth Rosenbaum did not sleep much after leaving the desert on the way to the Citisle. She stared out of the bubble window at the cloud-riven sky while the ‘copter descended slowly to the landing pad. An uncovered walkway led from there to the Citisle’s lower deck. Donald Wu waited on the walkway, his blue and red nylon windbreaker flapping like a flag. Ruth and Finnegan got out immediately, and ran to Wu. Springer got out of the ‘copter second, clad in a crimson jumpsuit emblazoned with the GFE logo. Hugh and Sam followed, hand in hand through the narrow doorway. Hugh slapped Springer on the shoulders, then looked over at Ruth. She stared solemnly over Finnegan’s shoulder. Windling emerged last, closing and dogging the door behind her. While Windling remained behind to fasten the aircraft to the deck’s mooring grapples, Hugh and Sam joined Ruth and Finnegan, who walked down together. Word of Torque’s arrest had been confirmed. Everyone was going home.

  At GFE Australia, three weeks later

  Falstaff’s meeting room seemed empty without its host. Samantha was standing just inside the doorway among the potted ferns. Ruth pressed her cheek against Samantha’s. Her eyes glistened.

  “He’s really gone, isn’t he?”

  Sam nodded.

  Later, glasses clinked as Robertson busied himself with the liquor cabinet in the dining area. He passed out Scotch to everyone. Even Sam took a glass.

  “It’s been almost a month now,” he said. “No change. The Sparrow is not answering. We sent the Kiwi into the battle area the minute we knew Advisor Station was taken out and they’ve been up there for the whole time. Jack was using a standard VacSuit. They can carry enough air for maybe two days, probably less…”

  Jay paused to recapture his composure. “To Jack Falstaff, who saved us all,” he toasted. He drained the glass and Ruth followed immediately, the liquor burning in her throat. Finnegan drank next, then Sam, who coughed softly.

  Hugh drained his in silence. “To Jack Falstaff, wherever and however he is,” he said. “And to Defender…” After the second toast, Ruth walked to the glass table where Samantha had set down a case.

  “Time to open the present Jack left with his lawyers for us,” she said. “He apparently broadcast all his instructions to them from the Sparrow. It was his last communication.” While Springer was occupied turning the box, looking for a seam or latch, Ruth just stared out the far window, hiding her tears. Dark clouds drifted across the Australian desert.

  “Found it,” Lew said. The box split at the center. A compact memory drive was buried in packing material wadded in the center. A short cable led to a hologram-projector. Springer carefully set the two units side by side on the tab
le.

  “Well?” Finnegan said. Hugh stepped over and touched a switch in the side of the memory drive. Suddenly, a faint glow shimmered in the air over the projector, brightening and resolving into the image of a study, where a man stood alone in the tiny library aboard the Sparrow. It was Jack Falstaff. His image flickered then became solid.

  “Assuming that this is to be my parting comment, it is my wish that my friends, all of whom are probably here, would choose to continue the enterprises Finnegan and I have started. My dear old friend, I deeply regret the dishonor in my concealment of the Little Ones now in your care, and of other matters of grave concern I have just shared with Ruth. I’ve charged Jay with the Little Ones’ protection and patriation. I hope you will honor that arrangement. You will discover, however, that their enemies, the so called Others, are defeated, decimated, hopefully gone forever, and that our little friends have the hope of a future in their new homes. That rat bag Marius Torque will have a lot of explaining to do. With any luck, he is in custody by now. I left a ‘packet-of-interest’ with certain well-placed prosecutors. What a waste of human flesh. I had so hoped to see his…

  “Well, in the sorry scenario for which I made this recording, I will have run out of options. I hate dead ends…” He smiled. “Ah, well. Any life worth living is a life with risk, or so my great, great grandmother taught me. I do hope to see you again someday. If not, well…that’s that…” The image vanished, leaving saddened faces staring at each other.

  “Shit,” Ruth said. Outside, wind kicked up the desert dust. A windstorm was brewing.

  In a Quebec condominium, one year later

  The letter from Falstaff’s lawyers had arrived the week before. “Mr. Falstaff having directed that part of his trust funds be expended to repair the damage to Mr. Gael’s residence, you are or soon will be…”

  Hugh and Samantha were invited to spend a weekend with Ruth and Finnegan in a condominium near Saint-Exupery’s Village. It was dawn. Sam had awakened to a sound, a strange, broken song, played on something like a cello made of ice. She had stepped outside the bedroom to the deck. Seeing nothing, she noticed that the sliding door to the living room was open. The ice-cello sound was louder there. She walked in to see Finnegan standing in the kitchenette where he had started coffee.

  “What is that sound?”

  “Our little refugee. The last of his kind,” he said.

  “Oh. Of course,” Sam said.

  “What the hell was that awful noise?” The question came from Ruth who had appeared in a white terry robe.

  “Just Sandy,” Sam said.

  “He’s in mourning,” Finnegan added.

  “Good,” Ruth said.

  Hugh entered the room. “God, what a racket.”

  “What have you got there, honey?” Finnegan asked, looking at Ruth.

  “An overnight fax,” Ruth said, “to the secure line. Here.” Ruth handed Finnegan a single sheet.

  “It’s from Jack’s lawyer. Looks like ‘Toad Hall II’ is finally complete.” Finnegan looked up. “Dinner in Quebec anyone?”

  Toad Hall II, two days later

  The large sedan negotiated the hairpin turn along a narrow road in a Quebec forest. It was a fine, gentle afternoon. The season’s first snow was falling among fir and spruce on either side of the car. The Rolls kicked up great clots of fresh mud while the sharp smell of wet dirt and trees blew through the partly opened window. Gael, Springer and Robertson got a two-hour head start, Hugh thought, but I wasn’t going to be rushed.

  Ruth stared out the front window, her tears falling freely again. Sam reached forward and put a gentle hand on her arm. “It’s okay,” Ruth said. “I’m short on sleep, and I don’t want to face Finnegan’s cooking.”

  “Nor do I.” The voice, like a bass viol, came from the other side of the back seat, where Sandy’s life-support module sat next to the window. An acutely uncomfortable cheetah sat between Ruth and the alien.

  “You, at least, will be spared.” Ruth snorted. Then Schröd peered into the glass bubble with predatory interest.

  “Why do I always feel nervous when he does that?” Sandy asked.

  “Now Schröd,” Sam purred from where she sat, “I told you Sandy wouldn’t taste good at all.” Sandy produced a hissing noise and Schröd turned disdainfully away, looking over Ruth’s shoulder, pretending to occupy himself with something outside the window.

  The Rolls accelerated at an open stretch in the road. Sun broke through the clouds, glaring against the windshield. Sam placed her hand on Hugh’s arm. “How much longer?” she asked.

  “Any time now,” Hugh said. “Ruth, could you check the new map? This doesn’t look right.” Ruth retrieved the LitePage from the door sleeve. Their passage was marked by a white dot that on a scrolling map. A snaking green line marked the meandering course of the poorly maintained forest highway. A blinking point about three clicks ahead identified their destination.

  “Two minutes at this breakneck pace,” Ruth said.

  “English idioms still intrigue me,” Sandy intoned from the rear seat. “What is a ‘breakneck pace’?” the alien asked. Schröd snarled.

  “Show me your neck, dear,” Ruth said sweetly, “and I’ll demonstrate.”

  “Do I detect irritation in your tone, Rosenbaum?”

  “Pretty perceptive for an alien,” Hugh said. “You may live a few more days yet.”

  They approached a two-storey farmhouse on a hill, surrounded by the muddy remnants of a vegetable garden and low shrubs. Ruth peered out the window with renewed intensity. “This looks very familiar.” A large, covered stable was attached and several horses milled in an adjacent corral. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say this is on the outskirts of our old property.”

  The Rolls continued past the corral, and rounded a copse of birch trees. There it was. Toad Hall II, totally restored, and re-landscaped. “How did they do it?” she squealed. The door to the Rolls was open and Ruth was running to the house before Hugh had taken in the scene and its implications.

  The front door was open. Inside, Finnegan Gael and Wheels II stood at the ready, carrying a tray of snacks. Finnegan Gael hugged Ruth for a full minute, tearing up, then looked at his guests. “Jack planned for every eventuality,” he said.

  It was the following morning, just at the break of first light, when Sam heard the shriek of her cat. She was out of bed heading for the door before Hugh was able to sit up. Pulling a robe about him, he stumbled through the moonlit bedroom into the hallway.

  The lights were on in the dining room. Squinting, he saw Sam holding Schröd tightly about the neck. The large cat faced Sandy’s Life-support Module on the other side of the room. The glass bubble was askew; sand had fallen across the cowling of the LSM and was pooling on the wooden floor. The air smelled sharply of rotten eggs.

  Schröd strained against Sam’s grip as the creature crawled across the dining room table, leaving a trail of scorched wood in its path. A cord trailed behind the little creature all the way to the LSM. Then Hugh noticed Ruth who was standing at the door to her bedroom, staring at the table with wide eyes.

  “My apologies,” Sandy said. “I meant to finish this without such a disturbance.” Its voice came from a speaker recessed in the LSM. “I really had hoped to end this quietly.”

  “End what?” Ruth asked, drawing her silk robe about her as she entered the chilly room. “…a midnight snack?”

  “Ah, Rosenbaum. How fitting. I refer to ending this one’s miserable, isolated existence. Even with your generous sanctuary, my survival here is problematic at best, acutely unpleasant in any event. My home crèche is gone. I am abandoned. Now it is my days, Rosenbaum, that are numbered short.”

  “What can we do?” Sam asked.

  “My prospects of actually going home vanished with Jack Falstaff. So please release that wretched animal. It would be a merciful end for me and a real education for the cat, if it survives.”

  “How long do you have outside your LSM’s env
ironment?” Hugh asked.

  “Hopefully, long enough to self-eulogize.”

  “What are you talking about?” Hugh asked.

  “I have been cut off from all of my friends and colleagues. Many are dead. Many are gone, never to return. The rest will hate me forever. I am a fish out of water, I think the expression goes…without any other fish…at least ones who love me.”

  “We’ve all suffered losses, Sandy,” Ruth said.

  “But we both have not equally experienced gains, have we now?”

  “So you choose to die?” Sam asked. “Give me a break.”

  “I can’t break you,” Sandy said, “whatever that expression means. I simply choose not to live under these conditions. It is one thing to spend time among your species, as an alien creature without friends, without any ties to my history. But now I am an individual cut off forever from my own kind. My history is amputated. I am cut off, cut out and reviled. No…reviled is too weak an expression. Oh, if I could only…”

  Sandy’s eulogy never came.

  Epilogue

  After light erupted everywhere, obliterating everything around it, there was darkness. When his helmet shield opened and the faceplate became a window again, Jack awakened to wonder. He was rotating slowly, encased in chill armor. Thousands of stars were passing before his eyes in cold, brilliant precession. Jack Falstaff was the only witness to his starry isolation, listening to the susurrant music of space, the music of his space, the sound of his own breathing.

  When his oxygen began to run out, Jack shut his eyes and tried to breathe as slowly as a tree. After a time, when he began to lose consciousness, his dreams were of home.

  The old dream returned one last time. It was the same and not the same. He was alone, as strangely and terribly alone as he could possibly imagine, yet this one time, in this final dream…he was safe.