So, a few years ago, a metal side gate leading into the usually deserted alley had become the new Earth Core hangar door. As our ship approached it, it rolled open with a grinding crunch that sent the Chidurian rat guards scurrying away in all directions. We floated horizontally into the passageway and then, powered by our whisper-quiet cold fusion generator, smoothly rose into the sky.
As we zoomed past Mars, I waved at Zygan Intelligence’s Deimos Outpost for good luck. That’s kind of a superstition of mine. I do it every time I fly by Mars’ moons. I didn’t expect a comm back from the guard team on staff. Yoshi and Ajani were probably catching up on their sleep, now that the temporal vector shield was in place to protect Yeshua from additional “Sutherlands”.
Once we’d cleared the asteroid belt, I engaged autopilot, leaned back in my jumpseat, and stretched my long arms and legs. For the next couple of hours, the greatest danger I’d be facing was to my eardrums—from the unbearable operas that Spud would play endlessly via our main speakers, just to get my goat. In the adjacent seat, my partner had pulled out a few of those ‘monographs that he’d hoped to peruse’ during the long voyage from his ‘rucksack’, and offered me a pick.
The most interesting article of the group was a report on “Determining Time of Death via the Measurement of Body Decomposition Parameters”. I passed. I don’t know why Spud even bothered reading those boring things anyway. He could directly upload tons more information in a tenth of the time. But, Spud was a bit of a Luddite at heart, and would sometimes opt to do things the old-fashioned way. I, on the other hand, have never much cared for tradition. In my experience, it’s just an excuse to keep the risk-averse from trying something new.
I don’t often get a chance just to veg, what with the fourteen-hour days we put in on the set, and so, gazing out at the planets as we maneuvered through our solar system, I realized how much I’d missed being out in space. Next Monday, we were due back at the studio for our last week of filming for our first season. Maybe after that, I’d take a couple of days to tour the heavens before making my duty-bound pit stop with the family in Maryland. My social life? Yeah, Mr. Opera Fan riding shotgun and reading his ‘monographs’ was about it.
And if Bulwark was renewed for Season 2, I’d have to be back at work 15 hours a day on the set in July. I’d only have a couple of months to pick up the trail of my detective work tracking John’s disappearance. The records of John’s assignments for Zygint were unfortunately classified and top secret. Even as a catascope, I didn’t have access to that level of security. Not digitally, nor in person at Earth Core or Zygint Central. During our internship, I’d spent most of my off-duty hours researching John’s activities, especially his projects for Zygint in the year before his disappearance. All I’d been able to discover was the name of his last mission: Project Helios. Once on hiatus, I was determined to resume the search full-time and find out what--
A flash caught my eye for an instant. I nudged Spud and pointed at our fore viewscreen towards Io, Jupiter’s somewhat habitable moon where Zygint had our guard outpost for the outer planets, but neither of us could spy anything more. I sat back in my seat with a shrug. Maybe I’d just seen one of those sparkly things—floaters—that drift in the back of your eye, but, no, there it was again. Spud saw it this time, too. We looked at each other, and I engaged comm—with maximum encryption, of course.
“Io, Io Outpost, everything okay?”
Static. Were Hsin and Rawiri asleep, too? Or had something happened to keep them from responding? Like an Andart attack?
“Io Outpost, please respond.” I tried not to let my voice betray my growing anxiety.
Static.
“Scan Broadband,” I instructed the comm system to no avail. Still no answer from Io. This was very disturbing.
I looked at Spud. Now what? Obviously, we should go investigate and help our colleagues if they were in trouble. But, we were in the middle of a pretty important task ourselves. I nodded at our prisoner in the back.
“Do not even consider it,” Spud admonished, then commed. “Deimos, Core, Condition Yellow at Io. Repeat, yellow. Wha—?”
I had swung our ship around in the shadow of Ganymede, another of Jupiter’s moons, to get a closer look. Spud shut off comm and scowled at me.
“What the devil are you doing?” He was clearly angry.
“It’ll take the Core team too long to get a patrol ship out here. I’m not leaving Io Outpost alone until back-up arrives.”
“You do realize this could be a trap?” Spud argued.
I checked the scan holo to my right again. “Locator shows we’re clear for miles. I’ll move off right away if we get an incursion.”
Spud didn’t seem reassured. “By then it may be too late.”
CRASH! We pitched forward, our ship somersaulting wildly like a football, an American football, rolling down a hill. Grav adjusters barely kept me from being knocked out of my jumpseat and slamming into the ship roof, but Spud, a few inches taller, wasn’t quite so lucky, grunting loudly as his head cracked against the side windscreen.
I struggled back up into position, my eyes glued to the scan holo which still showed no enemy incursions. “Was that dark matter turbulence?!” I shouted as we continued to pitch.
“No, I theorize it was Benedict turbulence!” growled Spud, pointing over my shoulder.
I turned to look, and to my shock, saw that the cell behind us where we had so carefully secreted Sutherland was now empty!
“Where is he …?” I gasped, hoping against hope that, as I stared, Sutherland would somehow magically reappear in his seat—to no avail.
Our navs had finally stabilized our Cruiser enough to slow it down; we were rocking gently forward like a sailboat adrift. We had been kicked way above the speed limit for this section of our solar system; and were now far beyond Io. Neptune loomed ahead.
“Snap. The trap has sprung. And the rat cannot escape,” snorted Spud.
“But,” I nodded at the empty cell, “he did escape.”
“We’re the rat, Rush.” Spud sighed, “And-”
“Rush, Escott, can you hear us?” Comm barked on with a Teutonic accent.
Reluctantly, I answered, “Yes, Dieter. Where are you?”
“Just made Io Outpost. Everything’s okay here. Hsin and Rawiri are fine. What is going on? Where are you?”
The dark side of Neptune had bathed us in shadows. I could barely make out the pursing of Spud’s lips or the daggers in his eyes. My eyes were drawn once again to the chamber behind us from which our prisoner had slipped through our—my—hands. And it was my fault…
* * *
Maryland—five years ago
It had been my fault on Sugarloaf, too. John had taken me and the boys for a hike up to the top of the Maryland hill the autumn before he left. The Appalachian Trail winding through our nearby forests was shaded by a rainbow of colors each fall, maple and oak leaves displaying infinite hues of yellow, orange, and red. The boys were young, and just barely able to handle the hikers’ path up to the first lookout, but I was being tempted by the steeper slope off the trail which I knew I could climb, rock by rock, to the mountain’s top.
When John took Billy behind a tree to pee for a moment, I yielded to the temptation and left Bobby standing alone on the path as I clambered up the rock wall, so appealingly inviting me to climb its face. Bobby, then only around ten years old, must have been more afraid of being abandoned in the woods than risking the climb, because I soon heard his voice a few feet below me on the slope. “Wait up!”
I looked down behind me and saw that Bobby was precariously hanging by two loose rocks at least forty feet off the ground. I blanched. If he fell, he could be seriously hurt—or worse. Attempting to reverse course and go down and help him, I slipped off the ledge and slid several rough feet down the slope, barely missing knocking him off of his unsteady perch myself. I managed to stop my fall close to his trembling body, and tried un
successfully to guide his feet to a safe support. As he shifted, his grip on the rocks gave way and he tumbled screaming down the hill towards a large boulder below. I didn’t dare look, fearing his head would be shattered against the sharp, massive granite. When I finally opened my eyes, there was Bobby, his bulky down jacket shredded and tattered, but his body intact and his grin genuine as he looked up at me from the safety of John’s arms.
I kept apologizing as I sheepishly made my way down the slope, grateful that it was John and not Connie or George waiting for me below. John seemed to know how bad I felt and didn’t bother with a lecture. He did, however, give me some valuable advice. One, if you’re in trouble, ask for help. And two, first survive, then face the music. Lesson learned.
* * *
Outer Sol System—Present Day
“Location, Rush, where are you?” Derek repeated.
I didn’t turn on comm for my answer. “In deep doo-doo. Not enough light-years away.”
I knew where I had to go and what I had to do first.
* * *
Nav must’ve read my mind, because a split second later, we shifted into hyperdrive even before I’d finished saying the words. Now, normally, we’re not supposed to go faster-than-light speeds until we’ve passed Eris orbit beyond Pluto, but, having failed so miserably at my task, there was no way I was heading back to our team on Io or on Earth right away--or letting them find me. There was still no sign of our attacker, invisible-ized or not, and I also didn’t want to risk us getting hit again.
“Nav, power, and comm are operating normally,” said Spud, his face buried in the holos before him. “For now. No physical damage to our vessel, but it is obvious we experienced a total system disrupt. Including,” he added, shaking his head, “disruption of the E-shield.”
“I don’t understand how that could’ve happened,” I said. E-shields were impenetrable. Or so I thought.
“Clearly.” Spud sat back in his seat and rubbed his tender scalp. “Well, perhaps we can school ourselves on the finer points of shield operations as we’re recovering from our upcoming sentence in Hell. Even Gary will not be able to placate Zygint Central or the Omega Archon when they find out we have lost Sutherland.”
“Gary isn’t going to have to. No way I’m heading back to Earth Core to face an inquiry.”
“I know I’ll be sorry I asked,” Spud said with a ladle-full of irony, “but where exactly are we going?”
“Zyga. We need some help.”
Spud was incredulous. “You’re reluctant to go back to Earth Core after this disaster, and you’re going to Zygint Central? They will send you directly to the Omega Archon.”
I shook my head. “That’s not what I said. I’m going to Zyga to get help. Trust me.”
I won’t repeat Spud’s response. I didn’t understand all of the words, especially the Cockney slang, but there were a few I recognized that even I don’t feel comfortable telling you. With the angry silence so thick I could slice it, I had no choice but to settle in with the easiest Spud monograph I could find, and I spent the next couple of hours reluctantly learning about “Analysis of Fast-Acting Poisons in Human Excreta.” Somehow, considering our situation, it seemed an appropriate subject.
* * *
Warp-down usually happens automatically as we approach Mayall II, Zyga’s blue dwarf star. But this time, instead of comming under the guidance of Zyga Traffic Control, I’d instructed nav to approach our destination invisibly in stealth mode, using an entry paradigm I’d picked up on the “black market” at Mingferplatoi Academy.
“You’re making me nauseated,” Spud complained as our Cruiser pitched back and forth on a jagged path to avoid guard buoys.
“They’re not squibs,” I returned, referring to the FX explosives that blow the fake bullet holes in our Phaeton Alliance ship on the Bulwark set. “If we hit a buoy, we could actually get blown up.”
Spud glowered at me without saying another word.
In minutes, thanks to the paradigm, we were at Zyga apogee, and began our size adjustments. Most of Zyga’s inhabitants are substantially larger than typical creatures on Earth. So we could blend in with the residents, we enlarged (or, in Zygan argot, ‘mega’d) our ship and ourselves by a power of six. Still invisible, we eased down to the coordinates I’d designated, to the Kharybdian Enclave near the planet’s West Pole.
As the nucleus of the Zygan Federation, Zyga welcomes millions of temporary and permanent settlers from subject civilizations in the known universe. Many Zygfed citizens opt to assimilate and live in Zyga’s two largest Eastern cities, Mikkin and Aheya, but others prefer domiciles in isolated neighborhoods called Enclaves that duplicate the conditions of the residents’ home planets.
Some of these planets are Universe-renowned for their picturesque landscapes, awe-inspiring museums and monuments, and refreshing resorts. The planet Kharybdis unfortunately isn’t one of them. Kharybdis is famous for its ever-present dense layer of grimy nimbus clouds that drown the planet’s few islands on a daily basis in torrents of rain. I really thought that Spud, having grown up in wet and chilly England, would have an affinity for the Kharybdian climate, so well duplicated in its Zygan Enclave. No such luck. Spud’s grumbling began the minute he exited our parked Cruiser and stepped into the adjacent footpath’s ankle-deep mud. Cursing, Spud micro’d our ship and stuffed it into his rucksack. Singularly unenthusiastic, he set off slogging behind me through the mire towards our destination.
“I would much prefer to be suffering through Ivanhoe at Covent Garden …,” was the only audible comment from Spud during our trek.
A spiky drizzle bored sharply into our bare faces, already reddened from the cold. Despite having donned Ergal-ed raincoats, we were both drenched and dirty by the time we reached the coral door of our former classmate Eikhus’s thal, a ochre structure that resembled a giant conch shell.
Nerea, a sparkling clear, animated whirlpool, answered the door, exclaiming in high-pitched Zygan, “Shiloh, William!”
Her spray was refreshing, and helped rinse off some of the mud from our clothes. I squeaked back quickly, “Shhh … can we come in?”
“Sure,” she misted, opening the door wide for us to enter. “You need to see Eikhus, I suppose.”
“The sooner the better,” I nodded as we stepped into the guest level of their home. I lowered my voice. “Benedict.”
Nerea paled. Which was difficult, as her fluid cone-shaped body was already transparent. It had been less than two years since one of Benedict’s fusion torpedo terrorist attacks had destroyed the Kharybdian city where her parental tributaries had flowed. The heat released from the bomb’s massive explosion had instantly evaporated all the aquatic life forms in her now decimated village, including most of her family. Somber, she led us into the cavern-like sitting room, and offered us some drinks which we gratefully accepted. We sat on moist seashells which resembled truncated stalagmites and waited for her brother.
Eikhus, a mighty cylindrical vortex, arrived within the hour. Not wishing to have to dry off again, I slipped through his welcoming arms, but Spud wasn’t totally able to avoid his soggy hug, to my fervent amusement and Spud’s obvious annoyance. Nerea brought us up a tray of thikia, and, munching the tasty seaweed, I gave Eikhus a rundown of recent events.
“We don’t know where he went,” I concluded about Saul, “or how he went.”
“I suspect it was some type of time-traveling X-fan,” added Spud, frowning. “But the cell was supposed to have been E-shielded by Earth Core.”
A frightening thought occurred to me. I turned to Spud. “You don’t think Sutherland went back to Sidon…to finish his assignment?”
Spud shook his head. “Not with that temporal vector shield in place. It would be impossible for him to penetrate it.” A pause. “One hopes.”
“Then we’re back to square one.”
Eikhus, ever more and more somber, threw out a wet hand. “Earth has temporal vector shields?”
“Not until now,” I responded, brushing the mist off my windbreaker.
“That is curious,” Eikhus said. “Temporal vector shields are very complex, tricky to install.”
“We figure someone from Zygint Central must have put it in place,” Spud continued. “When they discovered Benedict’s plans for temporal attacks.”
“But after Saul had already gotten to Yeshua,” I added. “Convenient.”
Eikhus looked at us, concerned. “How many Andarts do you think Benedict’s planted for this campaign?”
Spud shook his head. “We do not know. Nor where they might be.”
“Right now, we need to find one. Saul.” I corrected, “Sutherland.”
“Sutherland?!” Eikhus misted us both once again. “You are serious?”
“Gary informed us he was one of Benedict’s lieutenants,” said Spud.
“One? He’s third in command of Benedict’s operation! If Sutherland was the Andart, this wasn’t just a small-scale guerilla attack. We’re talking prime mission.”
Spud and I looked at each other in alarm. I frowned, “What in the world—in the universe—was Benedict hoping to achieve on Earth?” A small planet at the edge of a small galaxy that was still in cosmic diapers as far as Zygfed was concerned.
Spud looked equally troubled, and, barred from indulging in his stinky smoking habit in the company of the Kharybdians, grabbed a stylus from his pocket and chewed on it as he pondered.
“I think we should comm the gang—emergency meeting,” Eikhus stated with an urgent squeak. “These are deep waters.”
“Good idea,” I nodded.
Eikhus sidled over to his holo, drew in his limbs and became fully cylindrical. He started rotating fiercely, forming a torrential waterspout with a growing caudal appendage that reached out to wash over the holo screen.
Spud pulled his hoodie over his head and headed for the opposite corner of the room. His back to us, he huddled to avoid the collateral spray. I sighed as I wiped the moisture from my eyes. Sometimes Spud can be so rude!