Saturday, December 8, 2012

The Sphere of Invisibility.



“What are we supposed to be looking at?” muttered Doctor Phelps impatiently.

It had taken some dragging to get him here.

“Remember Doctor Johnson was working on the invisibility thing?” Ralph asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Oh! But surely you don’t mean—”

“I’m not sure what I mean, because if he’s not actually invisible, in that goofy metallic sphere he built, and which formerly sat right in the geographic epicenter of this room,” Ralph laid it out. “Then I’d surely like to know just where in the hell he got off to.”

Phelps was the senior research fellow in this department. Ralph was the janitor.

“And yet, as you can see, the sphere is not visible,” explained Doctor Phelps. “His theories as to why surfaces reflect light, due to irregularities and imperfections in the crystalline latticework structures of their molecules, stands on the shoulders of giants, and goes right back to classic color theory. I admit, I could never really get the part about how you could see right though all of those multiple layers, how he expected to make things totally transparent, without distortion or diffraction. In that sense, it’s not a paint that he was working on…”

“Yeah, I know, you can get all that off of Wikipedia. Considering all the empty space in a molecule, I think it’s the weak nuclear forces, a kind of gravitational bending of light wavelengths,” Ralph said before the dummy bolted right back to the staff luncheon, where they were serving a rather nice bouillabaisse, and an indifferent little Merlot. “It has something to do with the corpuscular nature of light, like a sperm swimming. This is just my little theory, but I think most of the light actually does go right through, and only that light which hits stuff due to its wavelength, versus the size, shape and aspect ratios of the crystalline structure, actually gets reflected back to our eyes.”

“Oh,” said Phelps, then went silent for a moment while he attempted to digest this.

“Well, what’s the problem?” he asked again.


“The problem, is that he’s not here, Doctor,” Ralph told him, elucidating slowly and carefully. “The doors are quite small, as you may have observed.”

The doctor’s jaw dropped, and his eyebrows rose up real high and then froze in place.

“He what—?” gasped Phelps.

Ralph walked over to the other side of the lab, right through the middle, weaving past the four curved, bracket-like, heavily insulated supports the sphere rested upon, under dangling cables and hoses and wires, all of which were still live, simply throbbing with electricity, or super-cooled liquid nitrogen, or whatever, according to the readouts and displays.

“He’s not here,” he repeated, staring at Phelps from twenty metres way, across the open space, where originally, the machine that was to become the sphere of invisibility had once rested.

“That bit about an electron going from point A to point B, splitting into two, and how one of them must be going into an alternate universe…I think Doctor Johnson may have accidentally built some kind of time machine, or sent himself into another realm,” Ralph said with a rising sense of impatience. “He’s maybe popped over into the next dimension.”

No one ever listened to Ralph, and it was his lunch hour. As Doctor Johnson once told him, he didn’t get paid to think, ‘just sweep the floor, man.’ Johnson’s equations were seriously flawed right from the outset, and he never listened either.

“Well, what do you want me to do?” Ralph prompted the good Doctor Phelps, who was standing there, gasping like a landed carp. “Do you want me to shut the power down, or leave it running, or what?”

“How…How?” gasped Phelps. “Why didn’t you stop him?”


“I didn’t know! I was sweeping the floor, man. I looked up, and there he was…gone,” Ralph explained as best as he could.

Doctor Phelps was mortified. On the one hand, this institution had made a discovery of epoch-making proportions, and on the other hand, he had no clue as to how it actually worked, and that idiot Johnson hadn’t even left a simple scribbled note on the fridge door.

“Well. It’s up to you, Doctor,” Ralph said.

“But, but,” spluttered Phelps.

“Look. All chemistry, at its most basic and fundamental level, is the study of electrical phenomena, right?” Ralph asked Doctor Phelps.

“Right!” he seized on it like a drowning man.

“Color, or lack of it, is a chemical property, right?” he asked just to be sure, because he dropped out of school in grade ten.

“Yes,” he stammered. “Yes! Yes it is.”

Pointing up at all the thick cables draped over supports and dangling down over the center of the floor, Ralph went on.

“We’re presently burning about fifty-eight million giga-watts of electricity, and the Board of Governors will be asking questions,” he said.

“Turn it off!” he gasped, and Ralph smiled at that, because that would have been his suggestion as well, but it wasn’t his responsibility and he didn’t want to have to make the decision.

He stood clear and switched it off, and they were grateful to see the sphere slowly but surely begin to re-emanate from some other realm, with its dark, dark surface slowly lightening up, waves of something flickering over it. It sat there, right where it should be, ticking and snapping a little. It sucked the heat out of the very walls and floor of the room. With a quick nod to Doctor Phelps, Ralph pointed at the release handle on the front door of it, and Phelps stepped smartly forward with a funny look on his face. Ralph went back to the boiler room and had soup and Merlot a half-hour late. With all the screaming and shouting going on in there, it didn’t seem like poor old Ralphie was going to get much sweeping done in lab 24-B for a while.

He could have told them that was going to happen, but no one ever listened.

It wasn’t his job, really. Although they say, the greatest scientific discoveries in history were purely accidental.

END

This story originally appeared in Spanish, in the online magazine 'Axxon,' (Argentina.) Here's an article in Photonics.com where they talk about the cloaking problem and spheres of invisibility.

Oops! Almost forgot. Original photo: 'Rama.' Wiki Commons.






Friday, December 7, 2012

Batwing Head Guy.







Jimmy was walking home from school when he heard a loud hiss from the alley beside Cross’s Pharmacy.

“Hey, kid!”

Jimmy drew up short at the sight that greeted his eyes.

“Wow,” was all he said. “Whoa!”

“Kid! Come here for a minute,” said the strange apparition peeking around the red brick corner of the building.

His instincts aroused, but curiousity piqued, Jimmy drew a little closer. He stared at the Batwing Head Guy suspiciously, with eyes as round as saucers.

“What?” he said.

“Is there a big black limousine parked in front of the salon?”

Jimmy took a quick look down the street.

“Nope,” he said. “Who are you? What’s this all about?”

The person stuck his head around the corner and took a good, long look for himself. He sighed deeply.

“It’s a long story, kid,” the Batwing Head Guy told him. “I can sign an autograph for you, if you like. Looks like they’re gone anyway.”

“No, that’s all right. Why are you all dressed up like a woman?” asked Jimmy, taking in the stretchy jump-suit, the high stiletto heels, the ruby-red lips, plucked eyebrows, and a few other bothersome details, including a long, red silk cape.

“It’s a long story, kid.” replied the itinerant transient superhero.

“I got plenty of time,” Jimmy said.

The superhero grinned appreciatively.

“So you’re after the Tic-Tac-Toe Gang,” murmured Jimmy in pure speculative style.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that I am after the Tic-Tac-Toe Gang,” Batwing Head Guy said. “Anyway, all suspects are innocent until proven guilty in a court of law.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But why the crazy get-up?” asked Jimmy.

“Look, kid. It’s a kind of tradition. Superheroes have to dress crazy. And pretty much everything else has already been done,” patiently explained the Batwing Head Guy. “I have to be honest, it was a bit strange at first. But you can get used to anything, given a little time.”

“And the mask?” asked Jimmy.

“Would you wear this get-up without a mask?” asked Batwing Head Guy with a short grimace. “Anyway, I have a full-time day job. Sometimes adults have to do things, and maybe sometimes work in places, for people they don’t like too much. And I guess maybe adults need those jobs, and don’t want to get fired. Maybe.”

“I wouldn’t wear it with a mask,” said Jimmy. “Are you telling me that you wear support hose, and that they’re just really good for your varicose veins?”

“I’m not going to lie to you, kid. They’re surprisingly warm, and I guess I just like the feel,” admitted Batwing Head Guy. “It’s a way of getting in touch with my expressive, nurturing side. Real men do like babies and stuff, you know. Otherwise there would be no good fathers.”

“Are you married?” asked Jimmy.

“Er, no,” admitted Batwing Head Guy.

“Got a girlfriend?” asked Jimmy.

“Well, no,” admitted Batwing Head Guy.

“That’s a surprise, considering your fashion sense,” said Jimmy. “Are you queer?”

“No!” sputtered Bat Wing Head guy. “Look, kid, shouldn’t you be playing hockey? Or something?”

“Well, that’s what I was trying to do…when you so rudely interrupted me,” said Jimmy. “I was just going over to my friend Mark’s house and play hockey.”

“Well, why don’t you run along then?” suggested the Batwing Head Guy.

“You’re the crazy old man that runs that little greasy spoon diner, down near the corner of Eglinton and Bloor.”

“No, that’s not me, kid. Besides, everyone in the world has a twin, didn’t you know that?”

The Batwing Head Guy was beginning to sweat just a little under the boy’s interrogation. He should have known better, in this neighbourhood. And the kid was definitely interested in this strange and unusual occurrence. You could hardly blame him, really.

“I don’t take orders from you,” Jimmy said. “This is my street. Who the hell are you? Some guy in red leotards with a crazy mask and bat wings sticking out of his head.”

“Yeah, okay. I guess I can see that,” admitted Batwing Head Guy, somewhat morosely.

Now that the Tic-Tac-Toe Gang were finished their morning ‘metro-sexual’ shave, trim, mud-pack and pedicure, he figured they were heading to the cop-shop in this rinky-dink little town to make the monthly payoff.

Batwing Head Guy was at something of a loss. How could he penetrate the cop-shop and get the goods on these creepos? And how do you explain to a little kid, ‘send a thief to catch a thief?’

“Mister?” he heard.

The boy was still there, observing him with a kind of editorial detachment.

“Why don’t you just wait by Wharf Three and take a picture of them dumping a body?”

“What?” gasped the Batwing Head Guy.

Jimmy repeated the suggestion.

“Do they do that?” he gasped. “When? How often?”

“About once a week, usually on a Sunday morning, just before sunrise,” Jimmy said. “I deliver papers, but the government deducts the money off my grandma’s disability.”

That would explain just why the kid was up so early on a Sunday morning. He was done delivering papers, and just wanted to play some hockey.

Batwing Head Guy grabbed the kid’s shoulders.

“Are you sure about this?” he queried forcefully, then relaxed his grip as he didn’t want to traumatize the boy.

“Sure as shooting. Sure as God made crack-pipes,” allowed the boy. “Sure as the Pope’s Catholic. Sure as…sure as your momma must have had some sour milk.”

But Batwing Head Guy stopped him right there.

“No need for blasphemy,” he allowed. “Anyway, thanks kid. I may just do that.”

He stood there, with a faraway look in his eyes.

“Can you fly?” asked Jimmy.

“What?” asked Batwing Head Guy a little impatiently.

“Can you fly?” Jimmy repeated.

“No, I can’t fly,” admitted Batwing Head Guy.

“Superman can fly. Johnny Flame can fly. Wonder Woman can fly.”

“Yes, I know,” said Batwing Head Guy a little ruefully. “I know.”

“Well, you ain’t much of a superhero, if you can’t fly,” said Jimmy.

“I’m saving my Air Miles for a trip to Jamaica next winter,” noted the Batwing Head Guy in a wistful tone.

“That’s not the same thing!” said Jimmy.

Batwing Head Guy sighed deeply.

“I suppose you’re right,” he admitted. “It’s not the same thing.”

Jimmy stood there regarding him.

“Well, I just think it’s a little weird,” he informed the Batwing Head Guy.

“All right kid. It’s weird,” said the Batwing Head Guy in resignation. “But I got to be honest with you. This is the first time I ever seriously considered retirement.”

“How the hell do you run in those shoes?” asked Jimmy.

“I shouldn’t have to run anywhere,” patiently explained Batwing Head Guy. “I use my head. I think things through. I shouldn’t have to wrestle around on the ground with these people. My knees aren’t too good. If I over-exert myself I get hypoglycemic. Anyway, law enforcement is about following proper procedures and stuff like that.”

“So you have a notebook?” asked Jimmy. “A pen? A piece of paper?”

“No. Look, kid, it’s in my other purse,” he explained.

How could he shake off this kid?

“How did you get here?” asked Jimmy.

“I took a cab!” said Batwing Head Guy peevishly.

“Well, it takes all kinds to make a world,” noted Jimmy. “Anyhow, you’d better get going before you have some kind of wardrobe malfunction. Honestly, you’re a walking violation in this town. You better get off the streets before city council gets on the cop’s backs for some kind of sweep.”

“All right kid…” sighed the Batwing Head Guy, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. “Listen, I try to look good on a limited budget. I do my best, and why don’t you just try to find high heels in a man’s size eleven these days…”

“Yeah, yeah, red’s your colour. I’m just saying, you might want to consider some kind of fashion consultant, some kind of image consultant,” said Jimmy. “Perhaps a higher neckline to obscure the unshaven chest. How about some long sleeves. To cover up those bulging biceps?”

Batwing Head Guy nodded in some inner pain. There was nothing here he hadn’t already considered a time or two in the past.

“All right, kid, and thanks,” he said, sounding distinctly ungrateful.

“Just remember, the Tic-Tac-Toe Gang doesn’t take prisoners,” noted the kid. “The cape has a kind of slimming effect, if that’s any comfort.”

“Thanks, kid, I’ll try to remember that,” agreed the Batwing Head Guy. “I always figured I had pretty good legs…?”

“No comment!” blurted the kid. “Let’s not go down that road!”

Batwing Head Guy took a deep breath and prayed for it to be over.

Finally the boy was done, and with one backward glance, Jimmy was gone.

“Whew,” said the Batwing Head Guy. “Mother warned me there would be days like this.”

And Batwing Head Mother was usually right.

End

Editor's Note: The Management regrets its inability to find an appropriate copyright-free, royalty free photo of everyone's favourite cross-dressing superhero. But we're on a tight budget and just doing the best we can.

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Advanced Fighter Control Wing #313



August 17/2017


United States Army

Southern Theatre of Operations Command (S-TOC-AFCW- #313)


Major Paul Garson was behind his desk, catching up on some important technical bulletins, when a distinctly unwelcome knock came at the door. He was about to call out, ‘enter’ when his door popped open and Captain Jeremy Timmermans stuck his head, neck and a shoulder in around the jamb.

“It’s urgent, Major.” The deep, rumbling voice of his second-in-command broke into his peace and quiet, and then Jeremy, Captain Timmermans, was gone.

It wasn’t that the captain wasn’t the total professional soldier, in fact he was very much so, but he was also very young in Garson’s eyes. What might constitute an emergency could be anything from an airman feeling ill, to a request for transfer, or worse, a visiting general. That notion had him up and out of his desk with alacrity. He grabbed his jacket off the coat-rack and followed Timmermans with a measured haste befitting his status. He saw the other go into a door just yards away.

The captain was stooped over at the back of Lieutenant Richard Bell’s combat booth.

“What’s up?” The combat centre was barely ten metres away and straight ahead from his office door.

He was just doing up the last button.

“It’s one of them enemy fighters again, sir.” The lieutenant reported. “He’s climbing up to the south, he’s going to try to get into the sun.”

Bell hit a blue button on the right-hand control stick, speaking clearly and succinctly.

“Red Tail Two; keep coming along at four thousand.” The major heard two clicks over the booth’s audio monitors. “He should be port, thirty-five degrees, level.”

They heard two more clicks from Red Tail Two. The senior pair of officers looked at each other in anticipation.

“Captain? Another fighter?”

“Yes sir. This is their third attempt to shoot down our reconnaissance birds this month.”

The clipped and dry bass voice of Captain Timmermans was impressive in its professional simplicity. The enemy was trying to interfere with tactical support missions to their troops in the field, and this involved putting bombs and guns on target. These also needed to be on time, in the event of an attack or, ‘a measured response,’ or it had to be on-demand, and give quick and reliable service in the event of an emergency call-up by hard-pressed ground troops.

Timmermans stood at ease with hands clasped in front of him, patiently still while Garson reviewed the basic situation.

"Okay.” Garson watched impassively.

Then came a tight, happy little smile.

“Carry on.” He had a certain grim relish, and then he turned to lean in and monitor Bell’s progress.

From a propaganda or morale point of view, from the enemy’s point of view, a kill would be useful. And of course the enemy would try to upgrade the capabilities of their aircraft, and their tactics. The enemy believed in on-the-job-training, but then so did the U.S. Army. The key was to learn your job faster than the bad guys. The enemy didn’t like these tactical, photography missions, and would put a stop to them if they could.

All in all, this took priority over the photo op. An interesting puzzle for all concerned. With the enemy flying in the sun, it dazzled their weapons-system’s sensors to a certain degree.

“They’re also getting a little better.” Garson spoke in a flat tone. “Lieutenant?”

“That’s right, sir.” Lieutenant Bell agreed in a quick aside over his shoulder.

Somehow the enemy had to navigate these things, intercept a target, and then maneuver them in three dimensions in order to attack that moving target. Not bad for illiterate, gun-toting jungle tribesmen. Not bad at all. Of course, you couldn’t believe all your own propaganda.

“Bell's our best.” Timmermans’ reminder was unnecessary. “Remember, he almost made fighter training.”

“Bad heart.” Bell’s body English reeked of a supreme confidence.

There was a contempt as he smoothly maneuvered his bird, that Garson didn’t personally share.

Bell rolled in and powered up, a virtuoso performance. Bell only had about three hundred forty hours on these birds. Most of that was in training.

Garson watched as Bell began to maneuver to meet the attack head-on, his reconnaissance sortie momentarily taking second priority. The major was practically hanging on the left corner of the back of Bell’s combat armchair, with Timmermans on the right side.

“Are we certain there’s no one flying that thing?” The Major had never been sure. “I’ve got Corps on the phone all day long asking that question.”

“That’s a tough call.” The captain agreed. “Bell, and especially Lieutenant Novakowski; say they’re either running some dumb little program, or their remote pilots have maybe even worse visibility or field of view than we do. With all due respect, et cetera, that’s actually kind of hard to visualize. Right, lieutenant?”

“Shut up sirs.” The lieutenant and the senior men fell silent.

There was a little whiff of something, perhaps tension in the atmosphere, perhaps adrenalin-induced sudden sweats, as the lieutenant spoke up again.

“They may just be badly trained, sirs.”

The senior officers looked at each other for a moment, eyebrows raised. Bell knew more about actual combat flying than either one of them. That much they both sort of admitted privately, with a look exchanged quickly between them.

“Coming around, I’m climbing to meet the threat, he’s in the sun. Where’s my wingman?”

“Four kilos south, four thousand.” The air crackled with reports from Red Tail Two. “Holding south, coming to your twenty. I’m hot. Over.”

The two officers hovering at the back of the combat booth were now listening on headsets, and watching the three major screens and a couple of smaller side-view ones. Garson kept looking at the displays, for Bell didn’t always tell them what he was doing when he flipped over a mechanical switch or clicked on an icon on his tactical screens. The two green dots representing Red Tail One and Red Tail Two crept inexorably towards the slightly larger red dot of the bogey, an ancient word that still had validity. With their stealthy materials and radar-deflecting surfaces, both their own craft and the enemy’s were difficult radar targets. Their planes showed up well on the tactical screens due to their IFF, ‘International Friend or Foe,’ transponders. The enemy’s perhaps a little less so, making it tough to maneuver against them.

At times like this, in the absence of a rear-view camera, waiting was a kind of anguish, but that was why Bell was climbing, maneuvering left and right for reasons best known to himself. Garson realized he was just stalling, killing time while Red Tail Two got in position…suddenly the enemy blip sped up, according to the readout numbers.

“He’s coming down, coming down now.” Bell spoke clearly for Red Tail Two’s benefit.

He wrenched the plane around to meet the attack.

The glowing hot ball of the sun, bleeding huge streamers of electronic flare across the screens, loomed up suddenly. The two senior officers watched in sick fascination as Bell flew the machine far outside of its design parameters. The things were surprisingly strong, and so far no one had pulled the wings off of one. Originally the Pelicans, a robotic-drone and remotely-piloted series of aircraft, had been developed for sea-borne missions; launched and recovered from small craft. They were meant for a light ground-attack and surveillance role, short-range interdictions over a friendly border, as in the case of the situation along the Afghanistan-Pakistan border, or even up into Canada, if things went bad up there too. Too lightly-built to survive in a high-technology, conventional warfare environment, the drones were really meant to stealthily penetrate undefended aerial environments. They were seen as perfect for anti-guerilla or anti-insurgency operations. They were cheap to make and cheap to run…

But this new war, this war against insurgents in the rain-soaked and mountainous jungles of the southern hemisphere, meant that old weapons must be adapted anew. The full-sized, manned aircraft were simply too expensive to operate this far from their dedicated bases in the Homeland. At the price of a hundred and fifty million a copy these days, perhaps the fighter jocks, the ‘real’ pilots, had priced themselves out of the marketplace. Garson had the luxury of an inactive overview, and had often marveled at just how quickly the most bizarre sequence of thoughts could go through one’s head in combat…one’s life really did flash in front of one’s eyes from time to time.

Bell put the sun directly ahead of his machine, pushing full power to the pair of small jet engines, and then he pulled back slightly on the stick. A rapid-fire growling noise assaulted their ears as Garson and Timmermans winced in shock.

“He’s gotta be there…” Bell muttered in the headphones. “Ugh!”

Suddenly both men were hooting and hollering as a dark blotch of smoke, and little chunks of what had been the enemy machine fluttered and spun past the camera view out of the front of Bell’s Pelican. Garson marveled at the young fellow’s eyesight. He hadn’t even seen the thing coming. He felt the sudden urge to let something loose.

“Wow! You got ’em, boy!” Garson yelled, overloading the audio circuits in a howl of feedback.

“Red Tail Two coming in now, I’m watching your tail, over.” The firm but youthful voice on the headset was calm as a cucumber. “I got a picture, Captain. It’s a confirmed kill for the big three-thirteen, over! Yee-ha-ha-ha!”

There was yelling and shouting all up and down the long hallway in the bunker, coming from the booth where Red Tail Two was operating. As usual, there would be a gaggle of backseat drivers, either training or simply spectators. Major Garson found Captain Timmermans’ sober grey eyes holding his own for a moment, a grin of sheer, unrepentant glee evident on the other man’s features.

Garson cracked a grin of his own at that point, and the two men exchanged a spontaneous high-five, their palms slapping together resoundingly.

“I’ll get you a case of beer and two days leave for that, Bell.” The Major might have spoken too soon.

The view screens lurched alarmingly in a great slewing arc and both officers found themselves irrationally clutching on to the seat-back for dear life.

“Break, break, break right.” There came a sudden call as the adrenalin rush came back with a vengeance.

Garson was aware of Timmermans’ heavy breathing in the earphones.

“He’s got a friend!” Red Tail Two blasted everyone’s ears with a high-pitched squeal, as Bell was trying to talk at the same time. “I’m on him, too far back, coming around to your right again, do a one-eighty! Turn right! Do it!”

“Red Tail One coming around.” Bell shut up abruptly.

There were two seconds of silence, as the officers watched, enthralled by the horizon sloping up and off to the right as the aircraft came around. The slight curve of the Earth was visible, even at this relatively low altitude, and the dark and forbidding forest down below looked like heaps of wet spinach.

Bell was pulling a lot of gees; then he let up and unloaded the airframe. He seemed to wait for an eternity of time, but it couldn’t have been more than two seconds…

“Pull your nose up, power up, I’m bringing him around…” Bell and Red Tail Two chattered back and forth.

“I got ‘im! Break right.” Bell had acquired the target, and again came that rattling-buzzing note of the weapons-system gun-noise, completely artificial but a necessary part of the pilot’s feedback.

The two officers watched as a tiny black silhouette, a delta-winged fighter of small dimensions, wobbled and wavered in the gun-sights. A low, moaning, warbling note was now sounding in the headphones. The thing just popped up out of the edge of the screens, literally coming out of nowhere, and again Garson cursed the limited visibility from these aircraft.

“Shoot him! Shoot him!” Timmermans gasped in sheer frustration and Major Garson reached over and clutched his arm to shut him up.

His subordinate caught himself, with a kind of guilty look.

Captain Timmermans reached up, switched channels on his headset, and stepped back out into the hallway for a moment. Garson watched the action, and then after a minute or so, Timmermans came back. Garson lifted up the earpiece, as Jeremy bent close.

“Reconnaissance Team Two reports no opposition.” Garson nodded in acknowledgement.

Number Two seemed to have a total grip on his demeanor again, as Garson gave him a nod of approval. Bell was having trouble getting a strong radar-type missile-lock on the tiny, ever-shifting profile of the machine, and all the heat came from the back. Reports from ‘Red Tail Two,’ indicated that he couldn’t turn tight enough to get off an infra-red missile shot or use his guns either.

Somehow this fighter got away, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Bell had missed his one opportunity, and in sheer flying terms, it got more technical all of a sudden. Bell and his partner were attempting to cooperate in their attempts to attack the enemy fighter. While their tactics had turned the tables somewhat, neither was getting the chance to take a good visual shot with their cannons. As Bell had been saying lately, these aircraft were not really designed to operate in three dimensions, as in the, ‘vertical element.’ Yet this was where Bell seemed to excel, diving down from above, and swooping away quickly as his wingman focused on covering Bell’s backside from enemy attacks. Garson watched Red Tail Two break up several attempts to attack Bell.

They kept trying, with both pilots continuing an expletive-ridden commentary that Garson was finding amusing in some objective fashion. The stress of the remote combat was audible in the voices of the two pilots, perhaps less so in Captain Timmermans’ occasional short comments and suggestions. But Timmermans didn’t have to fly the planes. While the photo operation looked to be scrubbed, they were still gathering valuable intelligence. Garson was aware of a grudging respect for whoever had programmed, or whoever was flying, these little black drone fighters.

They were fast, and maneuverable, and while so far, they had been lightly-armed, clearly they had a lot of potential for development. Whether or not the enemy would be able to build them in sufficient numbers to seriously disrupt operations, remained to be seen. In the meantime, anything they could learn about the enemy machines was useful.

Technical Sergeant De Wayne Leckie was right there all of a sudden, proffering cigars, but Garson waved him off.

"I’ll put them in your office.” The sergeant mouthed the words quietly and exaggeratedly, and Garson gave him a quick nod and grin of gratitude.

“He’s diving away.” Bell and Major Garson patted him on the shoulder in proud congratulations. “I can’t catch that guy in a dive.”

“Okay, check your fuel.” Captain Timmermans took over mission control again. “Both you guys, check fuel, check fuel.”

“Red Tail Two, we’re going home at two thousand, we have fuel for busters.” Bell’s calm, cool voice came, and Garson marveled at the physical and emotional resilience of the young.

“We have a replacement reconnaissance team orbiting just outside the zone.” Captain Timmermans explained for the Major.

Garson nodded his understanding.

‘Busters,’ meant full-throttle all the way, in the unique parlance of what was rapidly becoming a crack drone-fighter squadron. The boys and girls of this squadron were cooking up their own lingo, and it spoke well for morale and the squadron’s esprit de corps. With Billy Novakowski’s almost accidental kill two weeks ago, and now with Bell looking pretty hot, they might even have the first fighter-drone-ace in the history of the world on hand. And even though it was all remote-control, and there was no real blood-letting, the stress of battle, the sharp mental edge required in the cut, thrust, slash and parry of aerial combat was real enough.

The toll it took was real enough.

Under his shirt, Major Garson’s armpits were soaking with sweat, and he didn’t actually have to fly the darned things.

End

Author’s Note:

Science fiction, according to Robert J. Sawyer, is about the near-term, because trying to predict what the world will be like in five thousand years is very difficult. But I think this scenario will certainly happen within twenty years, because aircraft can prowl where ground based missile systems are passive. Flying radio control combat, I could see my buddy’s plane from the ground. Yet in this video, we see just how hard it is to line up another aircraft for a gun or missile shot, and the enemy plane is in our sights for very brief snatches of time—roughly analogous to the sort of situational awareness and maneuverings in the story.

Photos: Top: Wiki, Public Domain, Centre, author photo, bottom, David Monniaux, Wiki Commons 3.0 (Detail.)



Tuesday, December 4, 2012

The Healer.

(Dakota L, Wiki Commons 3.0.)

Kyle Mootrey was a cute guy. He had those big, puppy-dog hazel eyes, and lanky, straight auburn hair. He was impossibly tall, skinny and fifteen years old, or just about right. He was quiet, and polite, and studious, although his sense of fun was displayed at school from time to time. But Rebecca didn’t know very much about him or his family. When he asked for some help after class, she had agreed without quite knowing why. She really didn’t know what to expect, but she felt a pleasurable sense of anticipation upon their arrival at his family’s suite.
It’s not that she didn’t like him, but it was a little out of his known character. Once or twice Rebecca had thought he liked her. It’s just that he was too shy to ask. You never knew what he was thinking, until he spoke, and then it was often with surprising results. Kyle was a little deeper than the other boys.
Kyle’s house was just a short walk home after school.
Just as in every other home on this bleak and dismal little planet, it was located in a four-unit prefab hut, unceremoniously dumped out in a row of identical huts, along the planet’s one and only street.
Towering over her by a full head-height; Kyle smacked the entry-pad and the door slid open, revealing a snug, homey living room with warm, feminine touches that revealed foresight when the family was planning and packing for this mission. Kyle’s father had died a year out from home, she recalled. Pretty much everyone aboard Ark Two had attended the funeral. Then Kyle’s dad, or at least his body, had been ejected out into space, the girl thought. Was that what made Kyle more considerate, more mature than some of the other boys?
“Give me your book-bag.” He hung it up beside his own, on a stout wooden dowel sticking out of the wall behind the door.
It occurred to her that Kyle must have made that peg-rack.
“I’ll just be a minute. I need to get a few things, and then we’ll be off.” 
Mystified by all the secrecy, she wondered what it was all about. Normally one would do homework at the kitchen table, or perhaps in a bedroom, although she hadn’t really been thinking in those terms when he asked her over. She always did homework with a girlfriend, or at least she had up until now. The walk home hadn’t been too awkward, but the usually extroverted Kyle had been noticeably reticent about what she was expected to be helping him with. At first she had simply assumed, ‘math,’ and she had been satisfied with that answer. But apparently it wasn’t math.
Were they going somewhere?
She could hear him in the kitchen, and then Kyle was moving through the hallway to the back of the unit. Based on the identical nature of all the housing here, she presumed he was in the bathroom.
The room she was in certainly gave a good impression, without being outstanding or peculiar.
It was completely conventional, and supremely comfortable to one such a long ways from Earth, and the place showed no unusual idiosyncrasies.
The home-made couch and chairs were built out of rough-hewn lumber like everything else in this town, but someone had taken the time to properly design them with some esthetic appeal in the lines and proportions.
The colours of the fabrics and textiles, the curtains, pillows and throw-rugs; all oranges, greens, yellows and blues; were chosen for cheerfulness and practical utility. There was no discernable theme in the room except the best one-word theme of all, and that word was, ‘home.’
“Oh!” she gasped.
“Sorry,” he muttered, slinging along a bigger pack which almost dragged on the floor.
He handed her a smaller camera bag with a long shoulder strap.
Rebecca was startled at the way he appeared right there at her elbow, but then in her own house her mother had put up a little room divider, a hand-whittled screen. Her attention was elsewhere; and she had sort of taken the layout for granted. All of these places were just so small.
“Where are we going?” she asked, with a note of rising, curious glee. “What’s all this for? Why all the secrecy?”
“You have to promise that you’ll never tell,” he demanded. “Swear it. ‘I swear to God and hope to die.’”
“Okay, okay. I swear to God and hope to die.” She giggled. “But this had better be good, or you’ll be doing my math homework for a month!”
“Worse fates could happen to a man.” It was unusually pompous-sounding for him and yet also quite obscure.
She resisted the urge to giggle again, as she stood there regarding him thoughtfully.
Kyle seemed unable to meet her eyes, but then his face swung up.
“Thank you,” he said in a firm and businesslike tone.
Even more mystified, she had nothing to say to that, as he defiantly held her gaze for a long moment.
Then he opened up the door and she followed him out. They walked side-by-side up to the end of the street, and along the footpath, and up into the hills above their little community on  the planet known only as R-144-a. The planet at least had a number. The village was simply known as, ‘town.’ One was either ‘in town, or ‘out of town.’
As if sensing her thoughts, Kyle turned to her.
“If we ever get another settlement around here, we’ll have to find a name for this place.” He gave a wry grin. “Otherwise it would be confusing.”
“Hah!” was her first reaction, then; “Yes, we can be ‘A-village,’ and they can be ‘B-village.’”
“That’s not very imaginative,” he said. “But you’re right. It’s better than ‘New Earth.’”
“New New York?” she joked. “New New Delhi?”
“That’s about the size of it,” he admitted. “We’re not the most creative types, are we?”
As they crested the final rise, neither of them even looked back, and they were both too out of breath for further comment. The brilliant blue-white ball that was the sun stood high in the heavens. The air was still and clear. All in all, it was a fine day for an adventure. She didn’t even really need her jacket, and thought that bringing a half-empty packsack had been a pretty good idea. Kyle had certainly thought things out in advance. He would let her in on the secret when it was the proper time. With that, she had to be content for the moment.
***
Kyle and Rebecca watched in morbid fascination as the brilliant dot that was Ark Two transited overhead in the latest of a thousand orbits. It glowed red for a moment, and then slowly faded into the gloomy eastern haze.
The pair of new friends sat on a big, flat red rock overlooking a wide, barren desert valley as Kyle opened up his pack. He indicated the camera bag.
“I’ve got a little video camera in there,” he informed Rebecca. “I want you to film everything, so maybe you should get it out and familiarize yourself with it.”
“What? What am I recording?” she questioned him, opening up the bag.
She was pretty certain that Kyle had no nefarious intentions, notwithstanding a belated realization that it could happen. This was a thought which caused a strange warm quivering in her belly; but he seemed intent; in a businesslike and professional way; on some bottle. If he tried to kiss her, what should she do? She decided to wait and see; and tore herself away from that thought. It might never happen, she realized, and they could cross that bridge if and when they came to it. It was perhaps best not to obsess about it!
Rebecca looked at the camera, noting that the batteries seemed fresh, and that it turned on in the usual way.
“Okay, it looks good,” she told him firmly. “Kyle, if you don’t mind my asking?”
She sat there looking into his eyes, with her own quizzical grin taking away any suggestion of real criticism.
“Just watch—and promise to God you’ll never tell,” he vowed. “Please?”
There was a strange, serious, begging tone in his voice.
“Okay…?” she said, feeling the need for one big long breath, yet also some desire to hide any trepidation she might feel at this exact second in time. “But why?”
“Objectivity,” he muttered, looking embarrassed for some unknown reason.
She trusted Kyle, and liked the feeling very much.
“All right,” she said. “We’ll do it your way.”
“Watch this.” He stood up on the rock and began whistling out into the desert.
Kyle had laid a few leftover strips of reel-meet out on the rock in front of his feet.
She stood up rather abruptly and turned on the camera. Pulling it back to make sure, she saw the lens was set at, ‘normal,’ and the little light was on. One more push of the button. She heard a, ‘beep,’ and Kyle glanced over in quick approval. Then he gave a trio of short, sharp blasts of a high pitch, and waited for a moment.
 “We’re rolling.” She was determined to play along with whatever game he was up to.
 ***
Rebecca carefully shot Kyle in profile, standing tall and intent on the rock, whistling at intervals. Putting the camera on, ‘pause,’ she considered the situation more fully, and considered it just a little ludicrous. She clambered down onto the desert sand.
“Kyle! What are we supposed to be filming?” but just then he hissed and pointed dramatically off into the darkening easterly skyline.
“There!” he gasped, causing her a moment of near-hysteria.
He was so dramatic! So caught up in the moment.
“There! Do you see it?”
“What?” she grumped, bringing up the camera, peering through the tiny view-finder, and activating it again.
She put it on full zoom, and began to search the rock outcroppings, weeds and dunes that were the only things visible.
“What, Kyle? What am I supposed to be looking at?” She stared in futility into the small view-screen of the camera’s eye, partially obscured by the sun’s glare as it was.
There...something moved in the picture.
“Oh,” she said. “What was that?”
“He’s never seen two people together before…it’ll take him some time to decide,” breathed Kyle in suspense.
It had been a kind of gamble bringing another person with him, but he simply had to have help, for what came next.
 ***
Bemused by her odd circumstances and the unique task set before her, Rebecca shut the camera down for a moment and pulled out the collapsible lightweight tripod. Think ahead.
“Where’s the best place?” She regarded the strips of meet laid out as bait, and momentarily considered the sun’s angle.
“Yeah, that’s fine,” whispered Kyle and so she opened up the legs and set it down.
He must think she knew what she was doing, as he peered under a hand to shield his eyes from the sun’s fire. Whatever that creature was, it seemed to be lost to sight for the moment.
“Kyle?” she asked.
“Yes, yes, that’s good,” he nodded, so she screwed the camera down on top of the little rubber pad, remembering to make sure it could swivel and depress enough to take in the bait; or perhaps snack was the better word, on their former perch.
She felt decidedly foolish, but perhaps it was for the science fair or something, and in any case, her curiousity was well and truly piqued about Kyle. What sort of a mad project was she getting herself involved in?
Rebecca peered off in the general direction where the scuttling creature had been. There was nothing to be seen. How long could she allow this to drag on? Surely she had some rights, surely Kyle had some sense.
 **  *
“Patience,” whispered Kyle, but at this point she needed no prodding.
This was fascinating enough in its own way, as she stared, transfixed by the sight of a dark, lizard-like creature, easily two metres in length. Her heart in her mouth, she kept tracking it with the lens set at full telephoto-zoom. It was still pretty far away. If she lost sight of it, then she would begin to worry, she assured herself.
But Kyle knew what to expect, he’d obviously been here before and everything.
“He’s tasting the wind,” he told her.
She watched in fascination as the creature did just that, with its long, flicking tongue darting in and out, in and out…its chin was up and its eyes were rolled back. It was always looking over its shoulder.
Her skin suddenly crawled with goose bumps and a distinctly chilly feeling swept over her.
Involuntarily, her eyes swept the sky and the surrounding area.
“Oh, my,” she murmured almost inaudibly, conscious that everything she said, likely even her very breathing, would be there on the video file’s soundtrack.
Slowly, ever so smoothly, she panned the camera, as the creature moved forward in fits and starts, always with caution, and a kind of stealthy boldness discernable in its sudden and no-doubt well-thought-out movements. The thing had a way of studying everything around it, before moving on to another pose, another vantage point.
“There must be some other kind of predators.” Kyle just nodded abruptly, with a quick little jerk of the chin.
His short, cheeping little whistles were a lot more subdued now, but then of course the creature was much closer to them. She wondered if there were more of them about. Surely there must be, right? But one was more than enough for the time being, Rebecca thought to herself!
“Is it dangerous?” she hissed at Kyle while there was still time.
“He’s my buddy,” Kyle informed her in a clearly-enunciated, yet quiet tone. “Just hold still. It’s the bacon he’s after.”
Rebecca cringed inwardly and calmly kept filming outwardly, resolving to kill Kyle later when she got the chance or as opportunity arose…
***
The big lizard disappeared behind some scrubby little bushes and tall straggling floral growths. She was sure it would appear again at the other end of a long, low ridge. Tearing her eyes away for a moment, she looked at the stuff Kyle had laid out neatly upon their former perch. The big stone slab was like a table, waist-high.
“Want a picture of all this stuff?” she asked, but he just shook his head, peering around to locate his reptilian, ‘friend.’
“Come on, boy,” he crooned, leaning over at the waist, as Rebecca stared in amusement and a kind of wonderful half-terror.
Resisting the urge to put her hand over her mouth, or scream, or jump and stomp her feet, she doggedly kept the video record flowing smoothly. In sickening dread, she saw the lizard come around a corner of the rocks. It came slithering up to Kyle, and then stuck out its tongue, and gave his outstretched hand a lick…she uttered an involuntary, mostly subconscious, high-pitched little moan at that point.
It sat there for a moment, panting and looking at them, one at a time, with a crazy, insane grin on its otherwise emotionless features.
Then the thing made an incredible leap up onto the rock, and eyeing her out of one side of its reptilian, pebbly-beaded face, all multi-coloured stripes and hues of the rainbow, the thing began stalking Kyle’s offering as if it were a living dinner on the hoof, as if fearful that maybe the meet-strips might try to run away.
***
‘Siegfried,’ Kyle’s name for the creature, sat there belly-down on the warmth of the rock, regarding Rebecca out of one baleful, golden-yellow eye. The thing had gobbled up five strips of reel-meet in a heartbeat, and now it rested content, glad to be among friends, and exhibiting a degree of sociability Rebecca considered a tad unusual in a cold-blooded organism.
“That’s amazing,” she assured Kyle, as he scratched the thing on the back of the skull, and along where the ears would normally be on any other animal, and up under the milky-white jaws.
Siegfried closed his eyes and lifted his chin, reveling in the attention and enjoying the sheer, sensual bliss of a good scratch where he himself could not properly reach without uncomfortable contortions. Rebecca noted in some kind of numb objectivity that it had very small forearms, and a huge, bony head with toothless jaws. The edges were serrated like a saw-blade…she shuddered at the sight, up just a little too close and personal.
“There we go,” noted Kyle. “Okay, now this is where we come to the fun part.”
And she wondered what he meant by that.
She was about to find out.
“Can you centre us up, and then lock the shot?” he requested, still petting his pet lizard-creature.
That’s when Kyle dropped the bombshell.
“I’m going to need you to help me hold him,” he advised.
Too many thoughts went through her head all at once to comprehend them, exactly, but the basic premise she eventually arrived at was, ‘no!’ and in no uncertain terms.
And yet she bit her lip and nodded brightly at Kyle, for he seemed like such a nice guy…and the poor little lizard had a wound in its side, a bright red gash that had clearly been there for some time. Rebecca suddenly realized that she was supposed to act as a nurse while Kyle did primitive first-aid on an oversized chameleon. With a small giggle, and a gasp at her own presumption, she nodded at him to proceed.
* **
At first, it wasn’t so bad. The thing didn’t stink, it wasn’t slimy, and to her surprise it wasn’t cold. It had a surprisingly heavy, warm, fleshy feel, like a baby or a child. It hung there limp, as she supported its tail and hind legs. She could feel Siegfried’s pulse beating and small twitches of muscle as it became comfortable with the unusual circumstances. The creature’s surprise soon wore off, and it began to kick a little, but gently.
“Okay,” said Kyle, awkwardly trying to reach for the pad of gauze he’d soaked with liquid.
He was trying to support the front of the animal, and it wasn’t being too cooperative, squirming and writhing as if frightened by the temporary confinement of their attentions.
“Let me do it,” she offered. “You just keep him from biting me!”
“Okay,” he said, as she managed to hold the thing with her left arm, and grabbed the pad with her right hand.
She watched and waited until Kyle took a better grip on the animal.
“It shouldn’t sting, it’s just hydrogen peroxide, three percent USP,” he assured her. “He probably wouldn’t stand for iodine, or anything like that.”
 “Yes, he’d turn on us for sure,” she agreed, and without further ado, applied the pad to the wound.
She saw traces of white foam around the wetter parts of the wound when she took the pad away. There were small black specks around the edges, but it seemed like a clean gash, perhaps a bite-mark from some territorial dispute with a bigger rival. From her own past experience, after many a youthful scrape and adventure, she figured it was probably dried and blackened blood, as opposed to actual dirt.
“Dab some water on there, and wipe it off,” instructed Kyle. “Then we’ll put the Neo-sporin in there to promote healing.”
“All right, all right,” she said, in a tone meant to reassure herself just as much as the lizard, and Kyle for that matter, who couldn’t really see what she was doing.
“There,” she reported. “There’s no way he’s going to keep a bandage on.”
“I know,” agreed Kyle. “Um; let’s just stand back a bit and let go carefully…watch your fingers and toes!”
But the lizard just sat there calmly on the rock, regarding Kyle first, and then Rebecca with one curious and mischievous eye, goggling at them rather humourously, and then he turned his head and did it with the other.
 “Good boy,” Kyle told it, and reached into his pack and pulled up a plastic snap-lid container.
At this, the animal sat up on its hind legs just like a prairie dog, or a squirrel accepting peanuts in the park back home on Earth. She recorded everything with the camera, keeping the tripod between it and her as much as possible.
“He’s really smart. He knows I always have a special treat tucked away.”
Kyle pulled out more meet-strips and fed the lizard, one by one, as she watched through the camera’s view-screen in morbid fascination.
“He loves the cheese-strings.” 
“He’s careful to avoid your fingers,” she marveled. “You really have made a friend!”
Kyle grinned at that.
“If that injury would just dry up and maybe form a scab, I’d be a lot less worried about him,” he said with an air of conclusion. “At first I thought he might get diarrhea from the strange and unusual food-items, but he’s just fine. In fact, he’s been putting on a little weight.”
As if insulted by that, the lizard suddenly moved off the rock, and she saw it drop to the sand, and then the thin, dusty, rattling bushes parted, and then it was gone. Just gone, leaving nothing but an odd sort of stitch-marks in the sand, and with a long, trailing, clear impression of its pointed tail dragging in the dust.
  ***
“So what are you saying, Doctor Mootrey?”
It was the deep, mellow, cultured voice of Doctor Dimarlo Krantz, project director and her immediate superior.
“Well, as you are no doubt aware, lutetium occurs in various rare earth minerals, usually associated with yttrium. In the crust of the Earth, it ranks fifty-fifth in order of abundance, here on R-144-a, it ranks fifty-seventh as far as we can determine,” she explained. “The metal has never been prepared in a pure state. Several trivalent salts are known. The only known uses are in the laboratory. A natural isotope of lutetium with a half-life of twenty-two million years is used in determining the ages of meteorites in relation to the age of the Earth, and R-144-a as well.”
She took a deep breath and went on, choosing her words cautiously.
“It’s just that the numbers don’t jive. Either the meteors came from another system, or our planetary age estimates are way off for some reason we can’t determine,” she added. “This planet simply cannot be any older than about a billion years. The meteorites are a minimum of five to six billion years old.”
“Yes, and?” he queried further.
“Well, doctor…it’s just that we have plenty of meteorites to play with. They’re quite easy to find; and so far nothing we have found indicates a reason for the last mass-extinction of life on this planet. There were no atmospheric or climactic changes, no really, really huge meteors, no sudden mutations of a virulent microbial life-form. So why the extremely small number of species?” she inquired in a note of wonder.
He gazed at her in inquiry.
“Why did such a limited number of species radiate into all available niches, with little or no competition? Why, the very, I don’t know; the narrowness of the codes in the DNA-like strands of genetic material? The questions go on and on and on. Look, on Earth, in the jungle, parrots, monkeys, rats, bats, and a host of other animals compete for the fruit. I’m not seeing anything like that here.”
“You have to admit it is a barren place,” admonished Doctor Krantz. “With the scarcity of water, and vegetation, all the life here is extremely specialized, and perfectly adapted.”
“Where there should be fifty species of lizard, there is one,” put in Doctor Mootrey. “Where there should be five hundred species of plant, we find ten or twenty. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m afraid all of this has become rather academic.” 
“So it’s true, then?” gasped Anne Mootrey.
“We’ve located another prospect, just fifteen light years away—BX-74521. As you may recall, we discussed it at a meeting last month,” he told her. “Lots more water, slightly higher average mean temperature, less solar radiation, several other favourable indicators. There’ll have to be a vote, of course. We have evidence of extensive forestation and very fertile topsoil development. There is an extensive temperate zone.”
They both knew how a vote would go.
“So we’re leaving then?” asked Anne Mootrey.
“I’m afraid so,” nodded Krantz. “Still, it will be better for the young people. It means uprooting everything, of course, but the next generation is still young. They’ll adapt to the new planet, I’m sure of that—”
 Anne sighed deeply.
“You may be right,” she allowed. “But my research?”
“Your research has been very valuable,” Doctor Krantz told her. “The data that we have beamed home will be a great contribution towards saving our species.”
Something about the tone of his voice told Anne Mootrey that the informal little meeting was over. She reached over and snapped off the screen without even saying, goodbye, which would probably go unnoticed or might even be appreciated by the other; who wasn’t so much rude, as busy.
And maybe he was right. Maybe it would be better for the young people. The planet which had shown so much promise had turned out to be much younger than originally believed, mostly rock and sand, and without much promise. Things might be better somewhere else.
***
They were three months out on their journey to BX-74521. One day Kyle and his girlfriend Rebecca were waiting for Doctor Mootrey when she got home from work.
“Mother, there’s something we have to tell you,” said Kyle in a solemn tone, while Rebecca sat there silently on the couch, nodding affirmatively.
“What? Oh, honey, are you in trouble?” she gasped, with her heart in her mouth and her mother’s imagination flipping into hyper-drive.
A funny little half-grin crossing his face, Kyle just shook his head, and picking up the remote control unit, activated their largest wall-sized tri-dee screen.
Forgetting about dinner for a moment, she sat down heavily in the armchair and looked at the picture.
She was looking into a desert. There was a ring of stones; with a central pillar, and lines of pebbles like spokes radiating out like a wheel. All of her fears were forgotten…mostly.
“What…what is it?” Her eyes goggled in near-comprehension.
“Is that on RX-144-a?” she bellowed, half-rising from her chair.
“It’s their calendar,” Rebecca said. “So they know when to plant their crops and stuff.”
Doctor Mootrey leapt to her feet.
“One! You are grounded, young man, and two! What the heck is going on around here?” she demanded in no uncertain terms.
Looking very sheepish indeed, Kyle stood there to await his fate. She stared commandingly at him, and he flushed a deep crimson. There was nothing for it, he had to speak. Anyway, it was what they had planned; difficult as they both knew it might be.
“We had to wait!” he told his mother. “It’s the best thing we could do! We had to make sure we were really leaving! It’s their planet…it was the best thing for them…we all knew we were leaving anyway!”
“What? What? When did you have the right to keep secrets from me?” she asked in pure, cold, focused, but tightly-controlled fury.
She stood there glaring at the two of them, and Rebecca for one felt like melting into the floor panels. They both knew what they had done was right. They would have to live with the results. Their eyes met briefly, and then they pulled away reluctantly.
Kyle took a deep breath as Rebecca gazed at the floor between her feet.
She and Kyle had a whole lot of explaining to do.

END

This was written three or four years ago now, and while I probably submitted it ten or twelve places, at some point I think I just wrote it off. If you liked this story, please feel free to have a look at my books and short stories listed here on Smashwords.  
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Thanks you.






Sunday, December 2, 2012

The Man in the Bubble.








































Eldritch was a man in a bubble. Naked, he stood in the bottom, the elongated, distorted reflections of himself going up the curving sides in every direction he looked.

All around was blackness, punctuated only by the brilliant, glistening pinpricks of the stars.

How long he stood there, he could not say. It was an eternity. He cried, he screamed, he raged. He threatened, begged and cajoled. He fell to his knees and bemoaned his fate.

Still he floated in the bubble. He wept, moaning and sobbing, and finally he slept.

***

Again, he cried, begged, and was silent. He roared and gnashed his teeth, and tore at his hair.

He struck himself about the head, and ripped his flesh with his own hands. He swore and cursed the name of God and the day he was born and his own mother and father.

He threw himself at the ever-tumbling floor and shouted imprecations and threats so loud that he tore his vocal chords and ran out of breath.

Exhausted, a spent thing, he sank down in despair.

The stars, unknowable in their inky blackness, were indifferent to his suffering or to his fate.

***

Eldritch was silent, huddled in the bottom of the bubble. He stared at the stars, and forlornly scrabbled at the covering, in one last vain attempt to get free, to end the agony, the loneliness, the terror.

He sat for a very long time, staring out at the stars.

Finally, again he slept.

***

Something watched him. There were many of them. Invisible eyes, unknown thoughts, something touched him and he shouted for them to go away. Something was right inside there with him, but he could not see it. It was very cold and he cried and huddled, and begged it to go away.

***

Days passed, and they came again.

***

The silence was appalling. He sang insane little songs, any words would do and he sang them. He tried to confuse them, and to disgust them. He soiled himself, and relieved himself right where he huddled, and he laughed at them.

He defied them.

He mouthed the most foul abuse to them. He told them what he thought of them. He abused himself in front of them. He hurled feces at the sides of his container. He slept in his own filth, and vomit, and urine, and sweat.

He slept.

***

When Eldritch awoke, the bubble hovered far above the Earth, and his heart leapt. He shouted for joy, if only to see it once again, and he laughed and he cried, if only to see it once again, for it was real…it was real.

***

He awoke with a start, and jumped out of bed in sheer fright…sheer fright…his own bed. His guts fluttered inside of him and he hyperventilated.

He sagged at the knees.

“Oh, Jesus.” His heart palpitated beyond control, the rush of adrenalin causing his knees to shake, and his hands, and his guts to quiver.

He stood trembling for a moment, staring around wildly. His head hurt and the place was a mess, even in the darkened room. He smelled stale beer and stale tobacco smoke and stale sweat, and it was pure bliss.

“Oh, Jesus.” Sheer, unmitigated, unbelievable relief flooded over him like a wash of cool, foamy surf, splashing over him and then receding, warmed yet again by the touch of his body.

Eldritch gasped, and muttered in recollection. Rubbing his eyes and running a hand through his tousled hair, he stumbled, buck-naked to the bathroom, feeling grubby, nauseous, his guts rumbling, and with his spirits at a low ebb.

Flipping on the light, Eldritch stepped to the sink.

He reeled in shock at the sight of a week’s growth of whiskers, and the black and blue marks around his eyes and forehead, and all of the angry welts slanting up across his chest, and the dark stains all over him…and the smell…and the taste in his mouth…and full comprehension struck.

“Holy, Jesus!” He trembled like a leaf and stared in wide-eyed shock at the horrifying apparition in the mirror.

***