Heroic Measures (continued)

There was a long moment of tense silence.

“We could end this quickly,” Harrison asserted, his teeth were clenched as he spoke. “Before there are any more civilian casualties.”

Uriana’s dark eyes shone with anger.

“There’s no irrefutable proof that there were,” Westin stated evenly, inserting himself back into the argument.

“There’s no proof there wasn’t!” Harrison countered, slamming his palm against the table. “The General says . . .”

“The General is an ass.”

Everyone fell silent. All eyes turned toward Red. His expression was almost unreadable behind his mask, but, standing next to him, Walter could see the muscles of Red’s jaw slowly tighten.

After the surprise faded from her expression, a faint smirk formed on Uriana’s lips. “He wants a victory—needs a victory—in order to keep from looking like an incompetent fool.” A sneer replaced her earlier smirk. “Elections are right around the corner,” she concluded. “And he wants to keep his job.” She looked almost smug.

Harrison’s eyes smoldered. But he could give voice to his thoughts, though, Red spoke up once more.

“Close,” he said calmly. “But not quite.”

It was Uriana’s turn to fix a fiery gaze on Red.

“Powell’s not that kind of fool,” Red explained. Although there was emphasis in his words, it sounded more like he was delivering an energetic college lecture than a potentially inflammatory polemic. What was it he did again? Walter asked himself. “And, to be fair,” Red went on, “he knows what kind of men are in line to replace him.”

“What does this have to do with anything?” Westin hissed.

“Perhaps nothing,” Red responded enigmatically. “Maybe everything.”

Walter felt his forehead wrinkle in confusion. Why was Red speaking in riddles? He was certain that the red-haired was not drunk. There was no detectable slurring of his words or other obvious signs of inebriation. While Walter knew that Red might bait any of them just for the thrill (and potential entertainment value) of the ensuing argument, this seemed a strange occasion for such behavior.

“We can’t let this turn into another ‘Nam,” Harrison persisted.

“No,” Red agreed. “We cannot.”

This admission seemed to calm Harrison down somewhat.

“None of their heroes have been involved,” Westin asserted.

“That we know of,” Harrison countered, sneering.

“And when the President asks . . . ?” Walter ventured, speaking out for the first time.

“He won’t.” Westin stated firmly.

“He already has,” Harrison said. There was no disguising the smug satisfaction in his voice. “Covertly.”

“Then I’m wrong,” Red admitted calmly, without any hint of defeat. “The General isn’t an ass—the President is.” He paused only a moment for effect. “But then we knew that.”

This earned him a renewed glare from Harrison; Red ignored it. There were faint smiles from some of those gathered around the table.

“It is essential that we should act in some way,” Sen announced softly. There was something in the quiet pitch of his voice that focused attention on him when he spoke.

Harrison straightened, almost arrogantly proud, buoyed by the hint of renewed support.

“But perhaps not in the way that Mr. Harrison suggests,” Sen went on, giving no sign that he had observed Harrison’s reaction. He now had everyone in the room’s attention.

“We’re listening, Sen,” Uriana said, clearly annoyed by the man’s unnecessary dramatic pauses.

“When we first gathered as a group, we did so for reasons of safety, security, to prevent the abuses of power, to be together so we would not have to stand alone,” his eyes flickered across those at table, “as so many of us have done.”

Several people nodded slowly in agreement; a few shifted uncomfortably at revisited memories.

“In the end, though, Sen went on, his voice never rising much above a whisper, “we must each answer to our own conscience.”

There was more shuffling as those present considered his words. Walter understood. It was easy enough to follow a group—any group—and then take solace in believing that it, as a whole, made a wrong decision. It was quite another thing to stand up on one’s own and claim the same responsibility. Was that what Harrison was trying do? It seemed more to Walter that he wanted the others on his side—by his side—to face the consequences of this decision.

“There will be times when we will not agree on a course of action as a group,” Sen continued. “Some of us will be forced by our own beliefs to act alone.” He paused, but met no one’s eyes. “I believe this is one of those times.”

“Are you saying that we should let Harrison here run off by himself and play soldier-boy?” Uriana demanded peevishly.

“That’s unacceptable,” Westin snapped tightly.

“I am saying,” Sen responded with habitual calmness, “that we must allow Mr. Harrison follow the dictates of his conscience. As I must follow mine.”

A long silence followed Sen’s statement, broken only by the faint sounds of people shifting positions as they exchanged momentary glances with others around the room.

“Well I’m not going,” Uriana finally announced. Much of the earlier vehemence was now gone from her words.

“Me either,” Westin affirmed. He stared at Harrison with narrowed eyes.

“Fine,” Harrison relented through clenched teeth. “Who is with me?”

Glances passed among those gathered at the table; few were willing to meet Harrison’s gaze. No one spoke, letting their silence answer for them. Even Sen gave no indication of that he would follow.

Harrison responded with a heavy snort of disgust and stormed from the room. Although Sen watched calmly as Harrison left, he did not follow him.

Another wave of fleeting looks went around the table.

“He’s going to get himself killed,” Uriana said with a faint snarl. Yet her voice betrayed a barely concealed undertone of concern.

“Better him than all of us,” Westin agreed.

Walter turned toward Red. What he saw in the red-clad man’s expression reflected his own uncertainty. The issue had not ended here. In fact, it might just be the beginning.

#

April 8, 1982 . . .

Walter could not remember the last time he had been this nervous. He had little trouble recalling other events that provoked similar anxiety—even ones when his life or the lives of others had been threatened. All those seemed to pale in comparison to what he planned to do today.

He checked his appearance in the mirror for probably the fiftieth time that afternoon. His reflection revealed no flaws—at least none that were not normally there—but that knowledge refused to relax him. Clara would arrive at any moment and then . . . and then . . .

He found that his palms were once again damp with nervous perspiration. He reflexively started to wipe them on his pants, but stopped himself. That wouldn’t do. Retrieving a small towel from hall closet, he more properly dried them with that. He placed it nearby, though, knowing full well that he would continue to need it.

Everything else was ready. Was it? he wondered. He had just begun running once more through his mental checklist when there was a quiet knock on the door. Walter froze, and then fought to swallow past his sudden paralysis. It lasted only a moment, though, and he was able to convince his legs to carry him to the door and his hands to open it.

Clara stood there, her face haloed by the muted illumination of the porch light. She looked beautiful. Her hair looked like soft golden waves; her eyes sparkled like emeralds. Walter realized that he was staring. Clara smiled, appearing to suppress a quiet laugh, although clearly relishing his focused attention.

“Can I come in?” she asked softly.

Walter managed to smile and then nodded his assent when he realized that he was once against staring mutely. He moved aside, allowing her to enter the small house.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said as Walter closed the door behind her. “Dr. Cavender needed some test results faxed before the office closed.”

“That’s okay,” Walter said, nodding.

Although he had been watching the clock almost steadily for the past two hours, he had not expected her to arrive precisely on time. Her supervisor, the medical center’s office manager, was known for not closing the office until at least five-thirty each evening. Still, he had not dared to count on her being late.

She followed him out of the foyer and down the short hallway to the kitchen. Pausing in open doorway, she closed her eyes, sniffed lightly, and smiled. Walter echoed her smile, relieved that she seemed pleased by his menu choice for the evening. He offered her glass of wine. She motioned her acceptance, waiting while he poured it into a goblet for her. He had briefly considered champagne, but had settled on a decent vintage of chardonnay instead. As he passed it to her, he noted in the refracted light through the glass that the wine was almost the same color as her hair.

Clara sipped at the wine, nodding slowly to indicate her approval of it.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Walter said.

[insert more here]

The meal was filled with bits of idle conversation, most of which Walter could not remember from one minute to the next minute.

“Walter?”

It took a moment for his mind to recognize the word. He then realized that Clara was addressing him directly.

“Walter?”

He looked across at her, his eyes focusing on her face. It looked lovely in the subdued lighting of the dining area. “Yeah?”

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said in the past ten minutes, have you?”

Walter searched his memory. He could make a light-hearted attempt to claim that it was a lingering effect of the lightning strike, but he sincerely doubted that she would appreciate such an evasion at that moment.

“Some about cats?”

“CAT scans,” Clara said. Walter saw her lips tighten, betraying her annoyance. “They’re talking about getting a CAT scan machine.”

Walter nodded, the conversation filling back into his memory. He made a mental note to stay out of the back office in the future.

“Okay,” Clara said, setting her fork down on the edge of her plate. “You’ve clearly got something on your mind.” She leaned forward, steepling her arms on the table and resting her chin on their top. “What’s wrong?”

Walter took a slow breath. She now seemed more concerned than angry. He wanted to meet her eyes, but could not yet bring himself to do so. He had rehearsed this speech many times over the past few weeks—several versions of it, in fact—but none of them seemed to quite fit the moment.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said, watching her expression became stone. He could imagine the thoughts that now raced through her mind: He wants to break up. He’s found someone else. He’s married. He doesn’t really love me. He’s an escaped felon. In some ways, he wondered if any, at not all of them, might be easier to accept than the truth.

He finally looked at her, seeing her watch him, still waiting for whatever pronouncement he intended to make. He thought he glimpsed a flash of fear in her eyes. He wished he knew that what he was going to tell her would make it go away.

“I’m not who you think I am,” he said.

Clara gave a short, sharp intake of breath. Her lips closed together, the lower one protruding slightly.

“I mean I am,” he went on. “But I’m not.”

Her eyes shifted, beginning to brighten. She was now moving toward anger. Walter can understand. The explanation so far sounded lame even in his own ears.

“It might be easier if I show you,” he said, rising from the chair. He headed for closet in the bedroom and pulled out the medium-sized box he kept hidden there.

He gave Clara an opportunity to take another sip of wine and gather herself before returning to the table. Placing the box at her feet, Walter felt her eyes fixed on him, and then the unmarked box the entire time. He lifted the lid and looked up at her.

Clara stared uncomprehendingly at the container. Her eyes moved to Walter’s face and then back down to the contents of the box. Reaching inside, Walter lifted an item from it and held it up for her. Clara studied it for a long moment in confusion and then recognition dawned for her.

“Where did you get that?” she asked. Her voice carried an air of amazed awe.

“It’s mine.”

Clara’s eyes widened and then narrowed in disbelief.

Continuing to hold the mask aloft, Walter shifted the contents of the box to expose the gloves. He looked back up at Clara. Her eyes were large as she fought to accept what she had been shown.

“Yours?” The word came out as an forced whisper of breath.

Walter nodded, his eyes never leaving her face.

Heroic Measures (continued)

#

September 2, 1977 . . .

“They said you . . . died.” Abigail seemed to choke out the last word. “And then the machine exploded.”

Walter’s brow wrinkled. Although he had been recovering for four days, he still had trouble speaking. His puzzlement, though, was clear to Abigail.

“The machine,” she repeated, holding her closed fists up vertically in parallel and then pushing them forward slightly.

Walter nodded his understanding. She was talking about the defibrillator paddles. They exploded?

Abigail sighed and then reached down to take his hand. The nerves along his skin still felt raw and exposed, but a touch against his bare flesh had finally stopped being intensely painful after only a few moments of contact.

They told him that he had been stuck with lightning. Based on what Abigail has reported, it had been a direct hit, striking him squarely as he stood there in the middle of the field. More than one person had informed him that he was more than lucky to still be alive. Although, based on what Abigail was telling him, that also had been a near thing. The word “blessed” had been used more than once.

The first day remained a blur of chaotic sensory impressions. When he had awakened the second day, he had been able to make out faces, and recognize sounds, although both remained a bit indistinct. The most embarrassing thing he recalled from that day was the lack of control he had possessed over his bowels; he was grateful that period had been short-lived.

Over the next few days, he had regained more command over his larger muscles, what he had heard one of the specialists refer to as “gross motor control”. He suspected that man’s true specialty was brain injuries or some other kind of neuroscience. Walter doubted that enough people got struck by lightning in an average year to warrant its own medical field.

Throughout it all, Walter grew mildly disenchanted, and even somewhat irritated, by the quality of care he received. Sure, nearly all of the nurses and most of the doctors were pleasant enough, even if some of them seemed determined to treat him more as an interesting laboratory specimen than as a human being. What annoyed him most was that their equipment seemed to be constantly breaking down. The only items that seemed to operate consistently were the glass thermometers—which he had hated the first two days—and blood pressure cuffs. The needles on the syringes had seemed to work just fine too. Just about everything else, such as the seemingly endless stream of EEG and EKG machines that they had tried to use to test and monitor him, appeared to fail within a few hours. Walter wanted to believe that it was because they were sensitive and delicate instruments, but he was beginning to think otherwise.

Now, though, he could sit up now without assistance and even walk a few steps, although it humiliated him to stumble along on his long legs like an infant. Having to use a walker for support did not serve to improve his disposition either, making him feel like he belonged in a senior citizen nursing home. He made a strong point of not working his way through his physical therapy exercises when Abigail might be present.

She had come to visit him everyday since he had arrived. It was a Friday and classes would be starting after the long Labor Day weekend. Although none of the doctors would give him a definitive answer, Walter was fairly certain that he would be spending the entire time here at the hospital and, more than likely, miss several of the first days of school.

The two sat in companionable, if somewhat slightly awkward, silence. His parents had been insightful enough to decide that they needed some coffee from the hospital cafeteria, leaving Abigail and him alone. Walter could see that there was clearly something on Abigail’s mind, but without a voice it was difficult for him to prompt her to speak. It worried him a little. Was she planning to break up with him, but felt guilty about it because he was in the hospital? It seemed both absurd and sudden, given what he recalled of their last several minutes together before he had gone in pursuit of her sweater. Still . . .

She cleared her throat delicately, gathering her courage. “Walter,” she began. Her voice was soft and quiet. Her throat moved as she swallowed shallowly. “About what happened . . .” she hesitated. “What we were doing . . .” Her cheeks started to grow pink.

Walter stared at her, waiting for her to finish. What was she going to say? That she regretted it? Wanted to forget it ever happened?

Walter replayed the memory in his mind, as he had many times before, particularly when alone at night. He found it troublesome that his body—well, certain parts of it—had not yet seemed to fully recover. So far, he had not yet summoned up the courage to ask one of the doctors about it, and certainly would not while a nurse or physical therapist was around. That he failed to respond to the presence of the latter was further evidence of his concern, for she was a young, very fit, example of female beauty. Not that he could ever admit that to Abigail, of course.

Abigail finally sighed and gave up on her explanation. She patted Walter’s hand and then squeezed it gently. “When you’re better . . .” Tears welled up at the corners of her eyes. She dabbed at them and rose from the chair. “Excuse me,” she said quietly, and disappeared into the private bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Although he could not be certain, Walter thought he heard her sobbing.

His parents returned a few minutes later. They both seemed surprised to find Abigail gone. His mother, though, must have heard Abigail through the closed door. She tapped on it lightly, softly calling out Abigail’s name. She nodded at Abigail’s muffled reply and then came back to Walter’s side. Walter expected his mother to make some remark like, “She’s such a sweet girl”, but she remained silent.

A small knot formed in his stomach as he considered that his parents might have overheard his and Abigail’s brief, if somewhat incomplete and incoherent, conversation. Parents, he knew, were very good to jumping to conclusions—occasionally even the right ones.

Abigail exited the bathroom a few moments later, still sniffling and her eyes reddened and puffy. She paused, studying Walter’s parents for a moment, and then walked over to him. She took his hand, squeezed it gently, and then bent down kissed him softly on the forehead.

“I’ll come see you tomorrow,” she whispered. She then turned and left without another word.

Walter was surprised at just how elated he felt that she would be returning. His earlier worries fled and he silently scolded himself for even having those thoughts.

“It is getting late,” his mother said, patting his hand. “The doctors say you need your rest.”

“We’ll be by to see you tomorrow, son,” his father added, giving Walter’s hand a quick squeeze. His expression betrayed nothing, as it had not since Walter had first been able to see it again. “’night, son.”

“Good night, Walter,” his mother echoed, and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

They both left, his mother taking one last look behind her before allowing his father to guide her out the door.

Walter stared at the closed door for several moments. He found that was not all that tired. In his opinion, he had stored up enough rest and sleep in the past few days to last him for several months. He considered asking for the television to be turned on, but that would require calling for the nurse, who might then decide that it was time for one or more additional physical checks. As far as Walter was concerned, he had already been poked and prodded enough to last him for a lifetime. He would have even settled for a book, but no one had thought to bring him any and he was dubious about what selection the hospital in any collection that they might have.

Lacking any other options, he relaxed and allowed his mind to drift. He was tempted to once again replay the events of his and Abigail’s interrupted outing. But, not knowing how much longer he might have to remain there recovering in the hospital, he did not want his memories of it to become too familiar just yet. That left him with the other parts of his life, which, in his opinion, was generally pretty boring.

Experimentally, he wiggled and then flexed his fingers, raising them up toward his face. The sensations that came from them still alternated between a distant tingling and dull numbness. It was almost as though they were attached to someone else’s body. They appeared to work properly; he just couldn’t feel them. If he were not watching them, he would not have believed that they could move. He felt suddenly foolish, staring at his own fingers as if they were strange alien appendages. For a moment, he considered repeating the same routine with his toes, but then remembered that they were covered with socks, and under the blanket.

That left Walter with nothing other than his own thoughts with which to entertain himself. Back where I started, he mused glumly. No books, no TV, not even a deck of cards . . . although he was uncertain whether he could actually handle the last item.

At some point while he continued to pursue random thoughts, Walter drifted off to sleep.

#

February 13, 1991 . . .

“We cannot—must not—interfere.”

Walter watched as the man dressed in black and emerald green clenched his fist and struck the worn surface of the polished conference table.

“I disagree,” Sen replied softly. The Asian man’s features remained serene, revealing nothing of whatever emotions roiled underneath.

“We are either guardians of the entire world, or we are not,” Westin insisted. “You cannot have it both ways.”

“We have a duty to our country!” Harrison shouted.

“Unless we all joined the military when I wasn’t looking,” Uriana retorted. “Or signed some kind of loyalty oath I missed, then we don’t.”

Walter waited for the next outburst. Harrison and Uriana rarely—very­ rarely—agreed on anything. Oil and water did not even begin to describe their relationship: an open flame and gasoline might come closer. Like many others in the group, Walter found Uriana to be profoundly passionate about the causes she championed, but also needlessly dramatic. This tended to turn people off, causing them to sometimes ignore what were otherwise reasonable proposals. Walter recalled a recent conversation with Red on the matter.

“She’s clearly butch,” Red said. He stated it as a simple fact, without any hint of judgment or rancor. “The real problem is that he wants to screw her himself. He sees her preference for women to be a complete and utter waste of female potential.”

The latter declaration was a revelation for Walter; the first part was hardly a secret. He had always considered Harrison to be something of a patriotic bigot, as much a product of his Southern upbringing as his own unwillingness to give credence to any notions that did not fit within his rather limited worldview.

Walter had a momentary flash of the athletic heroine engaged in bed with another woman. He shoved it away quickly, mentally reprimanding himself. What was it, though, about that?

“But more than that,” Red went on, somewhat to Walter’s surprise. “I think what he really wants is to be dominated by her,” he concluded. “Although he would never admit it—especially not even to himself.”

Looking at Harrison now, Walter had trouble believing Red’s hypothesis. Still, he supposed, it was possible . . .

Heroic Measures (continued)

Blood roared in Walter’s ears. He could hear the sound of his own breathing and tried to slow it. To him, it sounded like he was panting from fear. Yes, he was more than a little nervous, but he made no move to resist what Abigail was doing. In fact, he had already aided her efforts.

What breath he had caught as her fingers probed and tentatively stroked beneath the fabric of his jeans. For an instant, he feared that he might end the moment right then and there. He was saved from such a fate of unspeakable embarrassment when she removed her hand. What she had planned to do with it next he never knew, for they were interrupted by an echoing crash of thunder, followed by a sharp gust of wind.

Those events, of themselves, would have been only a mild distraction had Abigail’s sweater not been carried away. Walter saw it take leave her side on the blanket. Abigail had apparently not seen it take flight, but something in Walter’s expression or eyes told her that something had happened worth noting. She turned and looked, and then stared at the place where it had been snagged on the tall, dry grass, stopping to flap limply in the heavy breeze.

Walter’s eyes turned toward the fluttering garment and then to Abigail. He thought for a moment that she might wish to just let it go, but he knew that the spell of the moment had been broken. Stumbling to his feet, he refastened his jeans and belt, while accelerating into a full run after the wayward sweater.

He was less than a yard from it when it freed itself and glided away on the next burst of wind. Growling quietly with frustration, he forced his legs into an even faster sprint. His fingers barely brushed the fabric before it was carried off again. The grass was shorter here, but more dense, making it more difficult for him to move as quickly. He nearly stumbled several times as his sneakers encountered tangled knots of exposed roots. A part of him wondered if Abigail was finding his continually thwarted efforts to retrieve her errant piece of clothing to be entertaining. He was not amused.

While he believed that there was a God, Walter did not believe that he was deserving of so capricious and petty a reprisal. After all, they had not actually done anything. And, it had been Abigail’s idea. Well, Walter deduced wryly, it was her sweater. So maybe there was something to that.

The garment quivered on the thin branches of a barren shrub, seeming to taunt him for another dash at it. All evidence so far to the contrary, he knew that he should be able to catch up with and capture the sweater. However, the dubious gratification in chasing it down had now worn quite thin. Before charging off after it again, he quickly considered the situation and his efforts to resolve it so far. He fully expected his next attempt to be as successful as had all of his previous ones: the sweater would be snatched out of his reach just as he neared it. It was time for a different strategy.

Taking a deep breath, Walter dashed forward again. This time, he deliberately shot past the recalcitrant article of clothing. He slowed, forming a wide arc, and headed back toward where the sweater still waited. There was another gust of wind, but this time his fist closed on the knitted material before it could be carried away. Gripping it tightly, he held it aloft in triumph. He saw Abigail still standing on the blanket, but he was now too far away to see her expression. If she called to him, her voice was lost in the increasing roar of the wind. Surprised at how far he had come, having been so focused on his pursuit, he started to walk back to her. Thunder boomed overhead, and then seemed to roll across the sky and open field. An instant later, the dark and heavy clouds above him released their contents.

He was soaked within seconds. For a moment, he considered using the sweater to shelter his head from the rain. Instead, he tucked it tightly under his arm, hoping to keep it as dry as possible. He moved through the now-sodden grass, the path now even more difficult than before. This time, he saw the bright flash of lightning a few seconds before hearing the bass roar of the accompanying thunder. Out of habit, he silently counted the delay. Four seconds: it was nearby.

A few moments later came a fainter, more distant echo. He had not seen the flash, so he assumed that it had come from behind him. Ahead, he saw Abigail standing beneath the high canopy of the tree. For the moment, she appeared to remain dry, except for whatever moisture the wind blew in her direction. She seemed to be smiling and, he was pleased to note, not laughing.

Intense radiance seemed to suddenly form all around him. A part of his mind imagined it as the light that filled the gateway to Heaven. He wanted to flinch, to clench his eyes closed against the glare, but they refused to respond. A moment later, he felt a searing heat, followed by a convulsive searing surge of pain. The moment after that, that light was replaced by darkness.

#

August 30, 1977 . . .

Walter awoke to a jumble of light. It was as if he peered through twin kaleidoscopes, for the patterns that refracted his vision in each appeared to be similar and yet different. He swallowed, but his throat felt dry and raw. His mind felt jumbled, unable to hold onto a single thought for more than the briefest fraction of a moment. His body tingled, ached, and itched, although not necessarily in that order nor even in the same way all over. He tried again to speak, felt the small muscles of his jaw move, but they refused to form words. His tongue felt rough and swollen, or was it numb, as he retrieved the flash of a memory from childhood visits to the dentist.

The colors before his eyes slowed their fragmented motion. They did not yet solidify into recognizable shapes, but they formed more distinct geometries. Noises now came to him. They seemed to be either rustling whispers or something like the hushed hiss of escaping air. Am I leaking? came the reasonable, if somewhat absurd, thought. All of the impressions felt strangely distant, as if he was experiencing them from afar, through some kind of filter between himself and his senses.

He tried to move his head, but all that managed to accomplish was to renew the kaleidoscopic vertigo. Swallowing again came a bit easier, but he felt terribly thirsty. Thirsty? But there was water, water, everywhere . . . He paused in that thought. It was raining, wasn’t it? He paused again. He did not feel wet. In fact, he did not feel much of anything. No, that was not true either. He gave an annoyed mental sigh. He was not sure what he felt.

The prisms of color in his vision softened into vague patches of increasingly subtle color. On the surface of his left arm, he felt something that was definitely a touch. New sounds coalesced from near his right ear, trying to form comprehensible patterns. What had happened? The thing he could remember was that he had been chasing . . . a flag?

The vague shapes before him seemed to begin to move more swiftly, although he still could not identify them. He felt additional points of contact on his skin; each like being stroked with different grades of sand paper. New sounds also came into being, but they all still defied recognition. Voices? That would make sense, as they seemed to vary in pitch. He wished that he could understand them. Maybe one of them could explain what was happening to him.

A bright pinpoint of light suddenly appeared in his field of vision. He wanted to turn away, shield himself from it, driven by the reflexive memory of the last bright light he had experienced. That had been . . . what? When?

The diffuse dot of light moved in what seemed a random path. After spending some amount of time following this phantom trail through his vision, it left it entirely. The vague shapes returned and then were replaced by a large, darker object. It remained there was several moments before it too disappeared.

Something buzzed dully near his ear. There was a brief silence and then it returned again. The third time it came, he thought he could understand it.

“Walter?”

It was his name, if that was what the sound truly was, but it sounded like it being pronounced by a swarm of bumblebees at the bottom of a shallow dry well.

If it was his name, the polite thing to do would be to answer it. He tried to swallow again. He felt the jaw muscles move, even his lips as well, but if he made a sound, he could not hear it.

There was a renewed collection of noises now, all of which teased at his comprehension. He wanted to tell them to be quiet, to come one at a time, but could not perform beyond the thought. His mind felt somewhat clearer, but still disorganized. It felt akin to great fatigue or intoxication, yet unlike them both. He had never tried drugs, aside from being in the occasional proximity of a lit joint at a local concert, so he was uncertain whether it might be that. Whatever it was, he wanted it to either go away or let him rest. He had a feeling, though, that he had already had enough sleep.

“Walter?”

Yes, it was definitely his name. It sounded more recognizable than before, but still heavy with what seemed like static. He tried to speak again, but only managed an infinitesimal grunt that died before it left his throat.

“Walter,” the voice returned. “Move your hand if you can hear me.”

My hand. Yeah, Walter thought with increasing optimism. I can do that.

He focused on finding his hand, remembering which muscles moved it. A distant part of him reasoned that he should be a great deal more disturbed that he had to invest so much thought into such a simple action, but he felt generally detached from his emotions for the moment. He was driven by the need just to understand. He mentally traced down to the muscles of his right hand and focused on flexing them; the smallest movement—any movement—would be enough.

After what seemed like several minutes of effort, Walter gave up. If he had been successful in getting his hand to make any motion at all, he had been unable to feel it. The voice that he had heard provided him with no indication of the result either.

Well? he inquired silently. What’s next?

Heroic Measures (continued)

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Walter replied. “She was right here . . .” He looked around again, hoping to catch a glimpse of the striking raven-haired beauty.

“I must have missed her,” his new companion said. “What was she wearing?”

Still peering through the crowd, Walter moved both of his hands vaguely down the front of his chest to form a “V” at about the halfway point.

The red-haired young man chuckled. “There’s lot of those here,” his hands shaped a poor imitation of Walter’s gesture. “That’s not much help. How was she dressed?”

“Pirate wench,” Walter answered, his attention far more focused on scanning the crowd. “I think.”

“Ah,” the young man nodded, giving a somewhat exaggerated lascivious smile. “Hoping to have her walk yer plank, were ya?” The young man’s accent was terrible.

Walter stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment and let out a burst of laughter. “I actually hadn’t gotten that far in my thinking.”

“Sure you were,” the red-haired young man said. “You just didn’t know it yet.” He winked at Walter and then to look over the crowd of partygoers himself. “I don’t see any likely suspects.” He turned back to face Walter, eyeing him up and down. “I take it you weren’t a matched set.”

“I didn’t even know her name.”

The red-haired young man shook his head. “That’s sad.” His sympathy, while perhaps genuine, was masked by a mischievous smile. “Still,” he went on, “the night is still quite young. And so are we.” He took a deep breath as he stared out over the crowd once more, but his attention seemed to be focused elsewhere. He turned toward Walter again and offered his hand. “The name’s Red.”

Walter paused a moment, waiting to see if the young man would provide more. The young man just stared back at him, but Walter was certain that he saw a faint sparkle in his eyes. Thankful that his costume included gloves, he held out his own hand. “Walter,” he said.

“Walter,” Red echoed. “Walt.”

Walter’s lips twitched slightly. He did not really prefer the abbreviated of his name—not that he was all that wild about the long form of it either. Like others he knew who disliked their given name, he had weighed the option of using his middle name instead. Unfortunately, Ashby was even worse. Red did not seem to notice his reaction or, if he did, called no attention to it.

“Well,” Red said, straightening, “we can try to find her.” He looked casually over the crowd. “Or we can refresh ourselves and go after other prey.”

Something in Walter flinched at hearing the young woman referred to as “prey”. Yet, he had no better suggestion to counter with.

Some time later, Red had found them a relatively quiet spot just outside the main patio. It was sheltered from the occasional gusts of autumn wind and, equally important, dry. He had also procured two liter-sized bottles, each sporting a slightly different shape. He handed one to Walter and then proceeded to work the top off of the one that he had kept. He took a deep swallow of its contents, held it, and then lowered the bottle with a husky sigh.

Walter emulated the other young man’s actions, unscrewing the cap from his bottle and then taking a mouthful, nearly choking as he allowed it to wash down his throat. It burned slightly, yet also had a strangely sweet aftertaste.

“That bad?” Red asked, checking to make sure that his new companion was still breathing.

Walter nodded, his eyes tearing. “Rum,” he replied hoarsely. “I think.”

Even in shadowed light, Walter could see Red smile. The red-headed young man held out his bottle. “Here,” he said. “Try this one instead.”

The two swapped bottles. Walter waited several moments for his throat to recover from its previous abuse before sampling from the new bottle. He took just a cautious sip this time, and felt the liquid burn its way down to his stomach. Unlike before, though, this one left him with a warm inner glow.

“Better?” Red asked, watching him intently.

Walter nodded slowly and leaned back against the brick façade, closing his eyes. He felt strangely content and wanted to linger in the sensation for a moment.

“Scotch’ll do that,” he heard Red say, as if from a greater distance than the foot or so that separated them.

Walter said nothing, waiting silently for the warmth within him to fade.

#

August 28, 1977 . . .

The air was heavy and humid. Thick gray clouds the color of dull aluminum were piled thick in the sky. On the horizons, they were darker still, almost a smoky, oily black. There was a strange smell in the air as well, carried by the gusts of wind warm with late summer and seeming out of place in the growing gloom.

None of this mattered to Walter as he walked the hillside. There was little else here but grass and the occasional tree scattered along the gently sloping plain. And there was Abigail, who trudged through the dry, knee-high grass beside him. She carried her sweater while he toted the small ice chest in one hand and a rolled-up blanket tucked around the other. They both knew that rain was imminent, but they hoped to take refuge under one of the large old oak trees, sheltered from the expected downpour for at least a little while. Classes would begin again in another week, so there was no time to waste simply because the weather elected not to cooperate with their plans.

Abigail smiled at him as they reached the anticipated safety of the tree they had chosen. Walter could not help but smile back. There was something in the way she looked at him—adoringly?—that filled him with a confidence that he had rarely experienced with anyone else. Placing the chest down, he unfurled the blanket and, after several attempts each thwarted by the growing wind, finally laid it flat on the nearly barren dirt near the base of the tree. Walter moved the small ice chest, using its weight to hold down one corner of the blanket. Across from him, Abigail lowered herself to sit with her legs tucked at an angle beneath her. She looked at Walter and, in that moment, she looked as purely beautiful as anything he could ever recall.

He sat down facing her, feeling inexplicably awkward. Without a chair at hand, he never knew exactly how to sit. Sitting cross-legged had once been the most comfortable, but had become less so as he reached adolescence and his body became lanky and his legs felt too long in proportion. He settled for resting on his knees, his legs straight out behind him. There was a long silence as neither of them seemed to know what to say.

“You thirsty?” Walter asked, sounding lame even in his own ears.

“Sure,” Abigail smiled. There was something subtle and almost coy in the way she watched him.

Walter opened the chest, trying to remember whether he had decided to smuggle a couple of bottles of beer along with the cans of soda. He had not after all, which was fine with him. Abigail, as far as he knew, had never sneaked a drink, nor even hinted that she might want to do so. There was something about wholesome demeanor that appealed greatly to him, even with all of his own small vices. What she saw in him, he did not truly know, but he was grateful for it.

He raised two cans from the interior of the chest. Abigail looked momentarily thoughtful and then pointed toward the one in his left hand. Walter placed the other one on the blanket, opened the can she had selected, and passed it to her. She accepted it with a smile and took a small, obligatory sip.

Walter opened his own can, silently relieved that she had chosen the lemon-lime-flavored one, leaving him with the root beer. He considered pulling out the sandwiches and bag of potato chips, but they had eaten only slightly more than an hour before and they would be doing it just for something to do.

The silence between them returned. Around them, the field grasses whispered in the wind. Overhead, the leaves rustled and there was the occasional faint creak from a branch high overhead. Walter felt the wind tug at his hair, blowing it away from his ears. Abigail has pulled her own back into a single ponytail, which he now saw that she had released. Her hair, the color of roasted chestnuts, fell forward, following the curves of her body. The freed tresses danced in the wind like pleats of dark gossamer. She stared at him and all thoughts of food were replaced by a new desire.

The blanket was not large, so he did not have to shift his body much to move closer to her. Her eyes watched him as he moved, but her expression betrayed nothing of her thoughts. Walter leaned forward and kissed her, feeling her warm lips willingly accept his own.

They parted for only a moment and then met again. Walter felt her hands rest lightly on his shoulders as he took her closer into his arms. She moaned ever so lightly and he kissed her again, feeling her arms encircle his waist now. He could felt the strands of her hair between them as the soft mounds of her breasts pressed against him. He felt flushed and warm and completely content in that moment. Then followed an instant of surprise as her fingers brushed the front of his jeans. His body froze for an instant at the sudden contact. He looked at her, worried that she had detected his lapse, but her eyes were turned downward, clearly aware of what her hands were doing.

Walter swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. Abigail’s fingers worked the buttons of his jeans and, as much as he would have willed to prevent it, he could felt his body reacting to her movements. While he could deny that he had dreamed—okay, more than just dreamed—about a situation like this, he had not expected that it might happen today or there.

She had two buttons unfastened now. Walter’s cheeks felt like flame. Abigail must certainly be aware by now of how his body was responding to her touch. She was at the last, topmost button now. It was inaccessible behind the closed buckle of his belt. He swallowed again, discovering that it required much less effort this time. For what seemed like a very long moment he waited, wondering what she would do next.

Abigail now looked at him, her eyes studying his. Seeming to possess volition of their own, Walter’s hands moved to his belt and he felt his fingers working to open the buckle. He felt it open and fall free. Abigail’s eyes shifted downward for a moment and she unfastened the last metal button.

Heroic Measures (continued)

That he could pause and replay live television broadcasts were still a miracle to him. That he could record programs with the touch of a button, without having to set clocks or keep a supply of videotape cassettes, was a bounty beyond reason—and a skill he had managed to somewhat master.

He pressed such a button now. The image on the television obeyed and ceased its movement. Gingerly, he tapped the rewind button, slowly applying just the right amount of pressure—as the thing had a maddening tendency to dash far past the scene he wanted to see—he coaxed it into replaying the past several seconds of the news broadcast. He stopped the playback again, squinting at the now-frozen image on the screen.

Standing among the small crowd gathered behind the two young men dressed in green, partially hidden from view by a knot of people, was another figure. Clad almost entirely in red, he remained slightly aloof as others passed him. He did not seem to be seeking attention, but appeared intent on being near the action that was taking place. There was something about the way the figure stood that called at Walter’s memory. He leaned forward, peering more closely at the image on the screen. There still lacked enough detail for him to clearly discern the man’s face.

It couldn’t be, he told himself, following the denial with shallow chuckle. It’s been years. Years. Almost as many as it’s been for me.

Still, the memory nagged at him, demanding recognition. Walter studied the buttons on the remote control again. I thought for sure I’d seen a “Zoom” button on here somewhere. After a moment, he found it. Aiming the remote control directly at the screen, he pressed the button. The image on the television screen enlarged, but still not enough. It also lost some of it sharpness, making it that much more difficult for Walter to be certain of what he was seeing.

Experimentally, he pressed the button again. The picture doubled again in size. The man’s head now filled the center of the screen. The image had grown even more indistinct. Walter was no more certain than he had been before whether the red-clad man was the person he thought it might have been.

Red’s not that rare, he tried to convince himself. Primary colors have always been popular. And red tends to stand out in a crowd.

Walter settled back, still staring at the enlarged image. What would he be doing back out there? And why now? He frowned, still trying to reason his increasing certainty away. He’s got to be off in some nice warm place like Florida. Or even California. He always did seem to like those hippie types.

But Walter knew it was not true. Even his eyes refused to acknowledge it, something deeper in his mind did: Red was back in town.

#

October 28, 1979 . . .

Even over the roar, and occasional cheer, from the gathered crowd, Walter heard something creak behind him. Without relaxing his grip on the frilled shirt front of the man he had just pulled aside, he ducked and shifted his balance just slightly. Something whizzed past his head and then shattered on the concrete in front of him. Keeping his face turned aside, he clenched his eyes closed tight, wincing at the sharp stings as the shards of wood or glass—he could not be certain—pelted his face. None seemed large enough, or hit with enough force, to be more than a temporary annoyance, but any annoyance—even a temporary one—was something he could do without.

Halloween was still two days away, but that did not keep those determined to celebrate the occasion (or get as much mileage as possible out of even the most garish homemade costume) from doing so. The parties usually began as early as Friday night, but it has rained the night before, keeping most of gatherings indoors and, generally, any resulting mayhem somewhat contained. The day had dawned with a nearly cloudless sky, and unseasonably warm. Many of evening’s celebrants took advantage of the opportunity to carry their often inebriated festivities into the outdoors.

It had not been Walter’s first choice to get involved in the sudden fracas. He had no real idea about who had started it, what might have said to who to instigate it, or why. He did, however, take exception to someone taking a swing at him simply because they believed that he was in some way either related to, or in support of, whoever had made one of the original offending statements. It was particularly irritating because all he had been trying to do was to follow up on the rumor of a fresh beer keg somewhere in the immediate vicinity.

The youth he still held gripped in his fist squirmed, trying at the same time to gain some traction and also release Walter’s hold on his shirt. Walter obliged him, releasing his hold abruptly, causing the young man to land solidly on the damp cement. Dark stains appeared on the young man’s white linen shirt (or what appeared to be linen; it might have been polyester for all Walter knew). The youth raised his hands to wipe at it and then stopped, swearing inaudibly as he noticed that they were no cleaner than his shirt. Walter might have felt some measure of sympathy for the youth, if he could understand why he had opted to dress like an effeminate pirate. There was probably more to costume than he realized, but in truth, Walter did not really care.

Pausing only a moment to make certain that he had, in fact, not bruised anything more than the youth’s ego, Walter rose to deal with the person who was, with some determination tugging at his shoulder. Whoever it was, they had been doing so for some time, with either the intent of hoping to pull him away from rather hapless pirate, or to simply get his attention, he did not know. He turned, ready to face yet another drunken assault, and then stopped, unable for several moments to breathe or speak.

The face that stared back at him was definitely female. She seemed flushed, but it might have been a result of lighting. Her dark hair hung in loose waves far below her shoulders. Her eyes seemed equally dark and bright. There was far too much makeup around them for Walter’s taste; he hoped it was merely part of her costume. What there was of her costume, he noted. The neckline—or was it called a bodice?—was cut low enough that there was little doubt concerning the authenticity of her generous cleavage. Walter’s hormones shouted at him to be heard over the surrounding din; he accepted their call.

After a moment, or several separate ones, he forced himself to look away and back up into her eyes. She seemed not to notice that his attention had originally been focused elsewhere. Or, if she did, she gave indication of it. Not particularly surprising, Walter decided, as both her posture (or lack of one) and the rapid blinking of her eyes told him that not only had she probably already discovered the location of the fabled keg, but also perhaps the source of a one or two other recreational condiments.

The colors and cut of her outfit made him suddenly realize that she had probably arrived with the make-believe buccaneer he had just hopefully subdued. That thought made him turn, sudden wary that he might be forced to impress the captivating wench by pummeling some sense and decorum into her date. Probably a no-win situation in any case, he realized.

He was relieved to find that his earlier assailant was gone. At least, he no longer sat on the ground in a puddle of unidentified liquid. Nor did he seem to be nearby. Maybe he finally gathered some fashion sense, Walter considered, nearly breaking into a giggle. For what would not be the first time that evening, he wished that he had not drained that second beer.

Turning back around, he found the luscious pirate wench still staring at him. She was clearly conscious, although perhaps not terribly sober, but seemed to find him the most fascinating thing in her universe. Walter held no desire to divert her attention, except possibly to some place more private where he might be able to convince her to take a journey of exploration together.

Her lips moved. At first, Walter thought she was going to speak, but instead she just smiled. It was enough, though. His stomach seemed to drop from its place; his head buzzed pleasantly in a way that he knew had nothing to do with the cheap brew. This could work, he thought. I’ll bet we could . . .

He never got a chance to make the wager. Before he could finish the thought, he was knocked suddenly sideways. Shifting his weight, he caught himself before he landed on one knee. He turned to look back up. She was still there, but the link was now broken.

“Sorry about that, mate,” someone said from his right. The accent sounded faintly British. No, Australian, Walter corrected himself. He turned his head, ready to rise and potentially defend himself.

A young man, who looked to be about his own age, stood there brushing his hands down along his pants. In the dim light, it was difficult for Walter to tell whether the young man’s efforts were making matters better or worse. What he could tell was that the young man had red hair, although whether that was its natural color or dyed for the occasion, he could not determine.

The young man greeted Walter with a wide smile that revealed somewhat large, but nearly perfect teeth.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you,” he said, offering Walter a hand back up to his feet.

Walter shook his head as if to clear it and straightened, disregarding the proffered hand. “Nah,” he said. “It’d take more than that.” He glanced around, but the dark-haired maiden of the seas was gone. His expression must have betrayed his disappointment.

“Something the matter?” the young man asked. His concern seemed genuine.

Walter allowed himself a sigh. “Not really,” he replied. “There was just a girl here . . .”

The young man’s eyes brightened with interest.

Heroic Measures

- 1 -

Walter Eastman settled into the worn, but still very serviceable, recliner with a quiet sigh. Part of it creaked in a series of quiet, but sharp and discordant sounds as he adjusted his position until finding just the right comfortable fit. Breathing out another contented sigh, he reached for the glass waiting for him on the small table at his side. He lifted it, inspecting its contents for a moment in the faint glow of the overhead light. It held two fingers worth of passable Scotch poured over two cubes of ice. It glistened like reflected amber and Walter gave it his silent, nodding approval.

It was not the good, single-malt variety that he saved for special occasions; it was an ordinary Scotch for an ordinary day. It was probably Dewar’s or Johnny Walker, but he could not remember for certain. It was almost definitely not Scoresby. Still, he bothered him some that he could not remember, for he had opened the bottle and poured just minutes ago in the kitchen. Perhaps, he mused with a mixed sense of melancholy, it was enough that he remembered that it Scotch.

Continuing to stare at the glass and what it contained for a moment longer, he was taken once more by its jewel-like contents. The ice cubes, their faintly cloudy centers somewhat obscured, looked like gigantic diamonds bathed in liquid amber. He gave a small smile of aesthetic appreciation and then sipped from the glass. The liquor burned slightly as it went down, revealing none of the lingering smoothness that a really good blend would have. Still, for tonight, as with most nights, it would do.

Walter reached for the remote control and, with fingers he felt were none too agile for its tiny buttons, turned on the television set. Its dark rectangular face lit up almost immediately with flashing images that presented too many primary colors. Less than year has passed since he had finally been forced to replace its predecessor. That superb Japanese-made set had served him more than admirably for nearly a decade before Terence, the local electronics repairman, told him that the parts just were not available any more outside of someplace called eBay.

“Why can’t you just get them there?” Walter had asked.

Terence had chuckled, shaking his head as he started repacking his tools. “I suppose I could,” he replied. “But I don’t know how much they would cost, when I would really get them, or whether they’d even really be any good.”

Walter had stared stubbornly at the set, but it refused to grant him even a snowy wash of static.

“Tell you what, Walt,” Terence went on. “You find yourself a new set and I’ll have Gary or myself set it all up for you.” He wiped his hands on a crimson rag before tossing it into the toolbox as well. “I’ll even have my boys come by and take this beast away for you.”

Walter’s jaw set, but he knew that Terence was right. There was no way that he could manage to carry the thing around—not any more. Well, maybe. But even if he could, what would he do with it? Terence and his sons might be able to do something with it, for spare parts for that eBay place perhaps.

“Okay, Terry,” Walter conceded, trying to keep the sigh out of his voice. “I’ll let you know.”

“Great,” Terence smiled, snapping closed the toolbox. He patted the top of the now-deceased set. “No charge for this visit,” he told Walt, “since I couldn’t help you.”

Walter smiled, nodding his appreciation. “I’ll owe you a Scotch,” he said. He watched as Terence tried not to grimace. He knew the man preferred a good beer, although had rarely met one that he felt met that description.

He still was not quite used to a television screen that was quite so . . . unsquare. Yes, he knew that the older screens were not truly square in shape, but the new wide ones just did not seem right. Still, he had come to appreciate that it was much quieter, having not realized what a chorus of hums and buzzes the old one had acquired until those sounds were no longer there. And, yes, he had to admit that the clarity of the picture was far sharper than the original set could probably have produced even when it was brand-new.

The image it showed now he recognized immediately as one of the continuous news channels. A male reporter spoke into a microphone while to the right stood two young men clad in green-toned uniforms. Walter could remember seeing them both before, although he could not recall exactly where. It might have been on television, although it could just as likely have been on the covers of one of the countless tabloid magazines covers that proliferated along the checkout aisles at the supermarket.

After looking down to locate it, his thumb worked the volume control. A sectioned bright green bar appeared along the bottom of the screen and moved toward the right. The reporter’s voice transformed from a murmur to an enthusiastic chatter.

“. . . showed everyone that once again that they are, indeed, a force to be reckoned with in our city.”

One of the two young men, moved closer to the camera. Although the camera angle only provided a view at about chest height, it was clear that the young man was wearing an outfit constructed from a form-fitting material that was intentionally designed to emphasis the physique beneath it. Although there was undoubtedly some protective padding present, it seemed to Walter that there was little need for the artifice. The way that the young man moved and held himself told Walter that the muscles beneath were quite authentic.

His dark chestnut hair was in mild disarray, but appeared to have been expertly coiffed in some modern fashion that Walter had referred to as “metrosexual”. Why a clearly handsome and fit young man would want to portray himself in that fashion was beyond Walter’s understanding. He also wore an elfin expression that Walter was all too familiar with.

Throughout the years, he had watched as many a “pretty boy” tried to make a name for himself in the business, thinking that having a Hollywood star presence and cutting a striking figure in Spandex or lightweight Kevlar was enough. It was often was, until the first time they were handed their ass, outnumbered or outgunned—or both—by a gang of thugs. Things tended to go even less well for the women. He had heard stories . . .

“I don’t get why they even try, Jay,” the masked young man said, addressing the reporter almost cavalierly by his first name. “They should know better than to even try to go up against people like us.” He grinned, clearly mugging for the camera. His eyes sparkled, but Walter was relieved to see that the young man appeared to be hopped up on nothing more than adrenaline. His head turned slightly, but his eyes continued to track with the camera. “Isn’t that right, bro?”

The camera angle shifted, moving in for a closer shot of the young man’s companion. He seemed to be about the same age as the first young man, although perhaps a few years older at most. Remaining positioned slightly behind the first young man, he radiated a calm authority and confidence that seemed a marked but understated contrast to his more energetic companion. His hair, visible above the mask that covered nearly his entire face, appeared to be approximately the same color as the first boy’s. He seemed to wear his, though in a more conventional and conservative cut. There was something about his eyes, though, Walter noted. He had seen something like those before as well.

Maybe they really are brothers, Walter decided. He had heard the first young man use the term “bro” and neither of them looked dark-skinned enough for it to be the commonplace, if dated he supposed, racial slang. And their easy, casual camaraderie was that which Walter had often seen between siblings, even between his own two boys. Before.

The second young man nodded. If he spoke, his words were drowned out from shouts that suddenly erupted from somewhere near the camera. Even the reporter appeared startled.

The camera turned toward the source of the commotion. Two uniformed police officers were, clearly aware that their actions were now being broadcast, trying to forcibly but carefully subdue another young man. This one appeared dressed in normal street clothes: jeans and a light-colored t-shirt bearing a slogan that was unreadable due to either the abrupt motions of the camera or the contortions of the young man’s body as he tried to evade being taken in custody. He was shouting something, but it did not seem to be directed at the officers who attempted to restrain him. His words were lost in his distance from the camera’s audio pickup and the background noise of the crowd.

As the two officers managed to successfully secure their now-captive offender into the rear seat of a nearby patrol vehicle, the camera returned its focus to the reporter and the two green-garbed young men. The momentary distraction seemed to have fazed none of them for more than a brief moment, but Walter noted the second young man’s eyes still appeared to follow the action taking place beyond.

The reporter stepped away, forcing the camera to move to a wider shot, revealing some of the people moving around in the background behind the two young men. Walter paid little attention, beginning to lose interest in whatever might have made the whole incident newsworthy, when he suddenly fumbled the remote control. He searched blindly, almost frantically, around his nap for it, feeling some relief when he discovered that it had not rebounded onto floor. Having located it again, he stared at it intently, trying to remember.

After purchasing the new television set (and having to spend much more than he thought he rightfully should have), Terence had convinced him to also upgrade his cable receiver box. As far as Walter was concerned, there was nothing wrong with the one that had served him well with the old television for almost five years. He allowed himself to be convinced, though, when Terence offered him a new box for free, so Walter would just need to pay in difference in cable service fees. That change, at least, had cost him little, although the young man on the customer service line had gotten a little snippy with him.

While Terence was setting it all up, Walter could not quite figure out whether he felt like he was old and senile or back in second grade again as Terence seemed to speak in tongues, spouting arcane initials that were supposedly meaningful, such as D-V-R and H-D. These were new and wonderful inventions, Terence had assured him. At first, he thought maybe Terence had fallen back into some kind of childhood accent, for Walter knew what a VCR was, so maybe Terence was just saying it wrong.

It had taken considerable effort, quite a bit of misunderstanding, but Walter finally got the concepts—for the most part.

Emerald Flight: “Past Imperfect” – Chapter 2 (continued)

Referring again to his checklist, although he had it well-memorized, he verified the next sections to be inspected. He acknowledged the report and sent instructions to the team to continue to their next location. A moment later, he received their confirmation. Although he might never show it overtly, he was pleased that proper procedures were being followed and, aside from the crisis in Engineering, everything else on board the ship seemed to be in order.

#

Rusty was checking the integrity of a coupling along one of the ruptured conduits when he heard Wayne’s shout. Actually, he had paused a moment before, as if expecting it. He handed the insulated wrench to Aruna, the dark-skinned engineering technician who was assisting him. Motioning toward the conduit, he indicated for her to continue checking the system while he checked on whatever it was that had Wayne all fired up.

Walking past the main slipstream drive core, he frowned, shaking his head slightly as he once again saw the charred damage. It bothered him more than just a little. Beyond the fact that the drive had unexpectedly, and so far inexplicably failed, he had not seen it before it had happened. He knew the drive systems of this ship better than almost anyone else in the fleet; he could not reconcile that he could have been so distracted by all of the fuss and activity around him that he would have missed even the most subtle warning signs of potential trouble.

He let none of his personal uncertainty show, however, as he approached. Giving the fidgeting ensign amused grin, he glanced down toward the open panel.

“What'd you find, Wayne?”

Wayne’s hands opened, the palms streaked by dark smears, revealing a blackened component.

“Looks pretty friend, Chief,” Niguchi offered.

Rusty nodded, taking the badly scorched component from Wayne’s outstretched hands and studying it.

Emerald Flight: “Past Imperfect” – Chapter 2 (continued)

#

Hawkes surreptitiously watched as Devereux assisted the young technician. Her name, Hawkes had determined, was Ensign Renee Ashton. He had verified her identity the moment she had entered the bridge. Although the guard stationed outside had transmitted her credentials before allowing her to enter, Hawkes considered it well within his duties—particularly considering the increased security arrangements—to ensure that they did indeed match.

He kept his disapproval masked. It seemed apparent that the ensign did not possess the necessary skills required for the task that she had been assigned. That she had been dispatched there, though, came as no particular surprise to Hawkes. As far as he had been able to determine, the Chief Engineer often seemed to select his crew assignments using little other criteria than which of them happened within shouting range when they were needed. If such was truly the Chief Engineer’s approach (and Hawkes had little evidence to convince him that it was not) then it was hardly the ensign’s fault that she seemed unable to complete—or even begin—the requested repairs without assistance.

From what he could see, though, the captain did not appear to share his dissatisfaction over the incident. She smiled, even seeming to enjoy her interaction with Ashton. The captain appeared to be performing a majority of the work. At least, Hawkes noted, she seemed to be using the occasion to also educate the ensign on the task at the same time.

An alert indicator on his console chimed for his attention. He glanced down, seeing that the inspection of the main and auxiliary airlocks had been completed, as well as the hatches that led to the twin cargo bays in the aft of the ship. There had been evidence of either damage or tampering. Hawkes had suspected that such would be the report, but regulations required such an examination and now it had been completed.

Emerald Flight: “Past Imperfect” – Chapter 2 (continued)

Although eager to get back to the action on the main Engineering deck, Elizabeth paused, showing a sudden interest in the status displays on a nearby bulkhead. In truth, they showed nothing of any particular interest, unless one cared about the internal temperature and humidity in this section of the Engineering deck, but Elizabeth wanted to make certain that the two young engineers could get the access panel back into place without her assistance.

They managed to get it properly aligned on their second try. Hearing the first of the fasteners snap accurately into place, Elizabeth headed for the ramp that would take her back down to the main level. Before she had gone more than halfway, she could already hear the Chief’s distinctive baritone as he issued orders to the available engineers and technicians. He was not shouting really, and Elizabeth could not recall ever hearing him actually yell at anyone, but his voice seemed pitched to carry exactly as it needed in order to be heard above the surrounding din of equipment and agitated voices.

As she stepped off the ramp onto the main Engineering deck, she realized that she had left the equipment case with Beacon and Yoshi. While hardly catastrophic, it was annoying as she would need to gather a new one before starting on whatever the Chief had in mind for her next. She tried to guess what it might be, for there was certainly no shortage of systems to be repaired or tested at the moment.

Her attention was suddenly drawn by a high-pitched shout coming from somewhere near the main slipstream drive system. She tried to look past the collection of weaving heads and spied a technician waving energetically toward the Chief. Elizabeth found herself surprised to see that the technician was male, given the octave at which she thought she had heard him call out. When she spied the dark, close-cut and curly hair, she allowed herself a small smile as she recognized the crew member: Ensign Alex Wayne.

Rumor had it that Alex stood for “Alexandria”, but no one knew with absolute certainty if that was true. At the moment, Wayne was one the very fortunate few lower-ranking crew members to not have to share quarters, so there was not even a roommate that someone could ask. Purportedly, anyone who asked directly had been given the bemused, but firm, answer: “Alex”. Whatever the truth, Elizabeth found it of interest only because of the light mystery surrounding the matter. With a society of genetic constructs, and the occasional alien, the boundaries of what was considered “normal” were beginning to blur considerably.

Wayne straightened and started waving again.

“Chief!” he shouted. “I think we found something!”

Emerald Flight: “Past Imperfect” – Chapter 2 (continued)

#

Elizabeth worked quickly, but methodically, repairing or replacing the damaged conduits. As she worked, she as often talked to herself as she did to the two junior engineers assisting her, pausing occasionally to ask their advice (although she usually already knew the answer) or to request assistance (that she did not really need). She knew that she could have finished in about half time, working alone, but felt that it was important that they feel necessary to the task at hand, particularly considered their earlier embarrassing inability to even open the hatch.

After having Hoshi run one final check, Elizabeth snapped the final piece back into place and examined their work. She nodded at Beacon with a faint smile, seeming pleased. Reaching down, she pulled out her communications unit.

“Okay, it looks like we’re done here. Go ahead and restore power to this section.”

The voice of one of the engineering technicians sounded from the speaker; Elizabeth could not quite place who it was. “Twenty-four Baker?”

“Yeah. All lines.”

The trio waited for a moment and then the lights in the previously damaged section were restored to normal brightness. Elizabeth checked the readings on the monitoring device she still held, nodding and almost grinning as they all now showed the proper status. She spoke into the communications unit again.

“Chief,” she said. “We're all set here. The fluctuation should be fixed now.”

There was a brief pause before Rusty answered. “Looks good from here.” A faint crackling noise came from the small speaker. “Good work, Lizzie,” Rusty’s voice continued. “Now get back down here so I can find something more challenging for you.”

Elizabeth chuckled, feeling mildly embarrassed at the remark being overheard by the junior engineers. They seemed not to notice, though.

“Go ahead,” Beacon said, giving her a bright, almost relieved smile. “We’ll finish cleaning up here.” She glanced at Hoshi who, after glancing quickly at Elizabeth, nodded his agreement with the officer.

“On my way, Chief,” Elizabeth said into the communications unit before shutting it off and clipping it back at her waist.

Emerald Flight: “Past Imperfect” – Chapter 2 (continued)

Hope approached the pair and stopped.

The kneeling crewman looked at Hope and rose, backing away. Hope then crouched down in turn, placed her medical case flat on the deck, and began to examine the injured crew member. Taking the female’s hand in her own, she studied it for a moment. She then closed her eyes and began slowly to run her fingertips along the back of the crew member’s hand.

In her mind, Hope could sense the female watching her. She dismissed the mental image and focused on assessing the female’s injuries. Her fingertips barely brushed the surface of the female’s skin, making just enough contact that she could detect the subtle variations in its density, temperature, and other properties. She heard the female draw a sharp breath as Hope’s fingers passed over one of the key sites of injury. Hope paused only a moment, immersing herself in a deeper study of the site, before continuing onward, up the female’s arm.

Hope’s fingers traveled to the crew member’s shoulder, and nearly to her neck, before she stopped. Pulling her hand away, Hope remained silent a moment before opening her eyes and staring into the female’s face.

“First- and second-degree burns,” she reported flatly. “Dislocated shoulder. Minor contusions.” She paused, studying the female more intently. “There is pain?”

The female crew member exchanged a quick glance with her male companion before nodding wordlessly.

Hope placed her hand back on the female’s shoulder. She pressed lightly, noting that the female grimaced, but made no sound. Hope found that satisfying. Closing her eyes once more, Hope increased the pressure of her hand slightly and then paused, waiting.

Beneath her fingers, she could feel the female’s muscles tense. The pulse underneath quickened and then began to slow to its normal rhythm. Hope could hear the female’s breathing resume its regular pace as well. Slowly, Hope lifted her hand and opened her eyes.

The female crew member stared back at her, much of the strain now gone from her expression. She swallowed unsteadily.

Hope released her hold completely and reached for the medical case. She withdrew an injector and then pulled out an ampoule, snapping it into place. Looking back at the crew member, she stared fully into the female’s eyes.

“Remain still.”

The crew member nodded in response, her head barely moving.

Hope activated the injector at several locations along the crew member’s arm. When she was done, she paused, watching the female's expression before replacing the injector in the case.

Next, she removed a small piece of shiny fabric. She quickly unfolded it, and then parted the ends so that it formed a long, narrow tube. Hope slid it over the crew member's arm, stopping to place it so that it covered the location of the other injury. Taking a small device from the case, she pressed it lightly against the surface of the fabric. Within moments, it shrank to form a snug wrap around the crew member's arm.

Hope closed the medical case and stood. “Report to Infirmary. Further treatment is needed.”

The sitting crew member looked toward the other one who remained standing throughout the entire experience. She then stared at Hope while getting to her feet.

Her voice came out barely audible. “Yeah . . . sure.”

Guided by the male crew member, she headed down the passageway. Hope watched the two humans depart and then, gathering her case, followed them.

Emerald Flight: “Past Imperfect” – Chapter 2 (continued)

#

Hope made her way efficiently to Deck Two and now moved through the passageways of the ship to Section Eight. The medical case she carried moved in a precise arc in opposition to her stride. Several sections of the passageways were darkened and filled with shadows, lit only by emergency lighting. Others caught reflected light from other portions of the corridor that had maintained power.

She adjusted her pace only once when two repair technicians moved a large cart of equipment down the passageway toward her. The other crew members she encountered either were not in locations that interfered with her intended path or else moved aside as she passed. She regarded none of them, ignoring the occasional stare as she strode past.

Following the curve of the corridor, Hope slowed as she saw the seared section of bulkhead. She quickly determined that the damage appeared to be mostly superficial; there appeared to be little danger of an imminent breach. Two crew members were present: one (human male) was kneeling, the other one (human female) was seated on the deck with her back against the bulkhead, cradling her left arm.

Emerald Flight: “Past Imperfect” – Chapter 2 (continued)

She had always hated the waiting, even more so when she was not even certain what she was waiting for.

Hearing the main hatch open, she glanced over, secretly hopeful that it was Rusty arriving with a personal report on the status of their main drive. While the crew member wore the uniform of someone from the Engineering section, it was definitely not the Chief Engineer. The young female engineer looked nervously around the bridge and then moved toward one of the engineering control stations located port and aft from the command deck.

Devereux tried not to let her disappointment show, but still felt the motion of her lips betraying her. She released a small, nearly silent sigh. Shifting her chair into position, she had nearly sat down when she noticed the female engineer puzzling over the inactive console. Devereux watched for a moment and then smiled to herself. It would be something to do while she waited—and it was definitely preferable to hovering near the tactical or helm stations and annoying Hawkes or Pyrafox.

The engineer looked up from the console as she heard Devereux approach. The young woman’s eyes widened and she swallowed hard. Devereux tried to put her at ease with a quick smile.

“Having trouble, Ensign?”

Swallowing again against what Devereux was certain was a nervous lump in her throat, the young woman nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

The ensign’s cheeks were beginning to reveal a rosy tinge. Devereux fought the urge to smile again. Rather than removing the tool from the young engineer’s hands, she reached into the equipment case and took a different one.

“How about if I give you a hand?”

The ensign studied her for a long moment before responding. Devereux was certain that the young engineer feared that a reprimand was coming, or at least some kind of detrimental mark would now be listed in her service record. She patted the surface of the console lightly.

“These old CP3000 stations can be tricky to get into,” she said in a light, almost conspiratorial, tone. “Let me show you a trick a repair tech showed me once when I was an ensign on the Lancer.”

Emerald Flight: “Past Imperfect” – Chapter 2

- 2 -

Devereux stood before the main command console, staring down, but seeing nothing of what the displays showed her. Part of her wanted to march down to the main Engineering deck to see for herself what was happening, but she knew that doing so would accomplish little. More than likely, it would just serve to feed her already gnawing disquiet. The Chief would give his report when he had something worthwhile to report; there was nothing that she could do to hurry that along.

She remained standing, silently considering how quickly this mission has fallen apart. It has been an honor for her vessel to have been selected for the test flight. Even if she knew that one of the major factors had been that the Emerald Flight was not constructed from one of the standard sets of the blueprints that the most of the other starships of the fleet were built from. This made her ship, like it or not, a bit more . . . expendable if something went terribly wrong. And something had.

It could have been far, far worse, she knew. Aside from the sudden failure of the slipstream drive, the damage to the ship itself seemed to be minor. A few hours worth of work and those repairs would be completed. That then just let them . . . stranded.

With their communications systems scrambled by the sudden slipstream departure, they could not even signal for assistance. If the interference did not clear soon, there was always the option of sending someone out in the ship’s lone shuttle to establish contact. We’re not at that stage yet, she decided. Rusty will find a way to jump start those engines, she told herself. Or get out and push.

The mental image made her smile and she felt a little better. They had supplies (although not nearly enough if they had to limp their way back to inhabited space) and her ship was intact. It was a far cry from some of the combat situations that she had endured.

Emerald Flight: “Past Imperfect” – Chapter 1 (continued)

Before their flight began, the Chief Engineer (she thought she had heard someone refer to him in passing as “Rusty”, but had not been certain whether in fact they had actually been referring to him) had treated her with an almost mischievous respect. She could see that there was a certain charm beneath his rough and brawny exterior, and there was little doubt that he knew his stuff.

After the initial nervous excitement and minor fanfare passed the voyage became quickly routine. The starship flew, the drive was powered up and engaged, and then the ship flew faster and further. There a subtle, but noticeable sense of excitement among the crew. While some of them were willing to talk to her, it was hardly the content of award-winning interviews.

Her irritated boredom was short-lived, however. The steady pulse on several of the status displays suddenly became chaotic. The deck then rocked beneath her boots, alarms sounded, and it became evident that something had gone terribly wrong. Now, amidst the klaxons that continued to sound through the main Engineering deck, she wished she had selected a quieter location to report from.

She has specifically chosen . . .

. . . told her to get to work.

She removed a small device from her belt and pressed one of the controls. The remote camera positioned near her obediently powered down its lights and lens. A moment later, it retracted its three legs, reducing itself to a smaller, more easily transported form. Roberta smiled, pleased and slightly amused at the ease at which such things took care of themselves for her.

Replacing the remote control back at her waist, she went over to the now-insert camera system. She hefted it experimentally, frowned, and then lifted it. It was no heavier than she remembered, but, after looking around her at the bustling crew members, she realized that she would have to carry it herself out of the compartment. Grunting softly, she lifted it a few centimeters from the deck and headed for the hatchway.

She was saved from having to figure out how to open the hatch without putting the camera system back down by the entry of two new crewmembers. The first, a young male ensign (if she read his rank badge correctly), gallantly held the hatch open for her. The other one watched as she made her way through the hatchway and Roberta could feel her eyes on her. It was not the steely, almost disdainful stare of an officer regarding a civilian, but a different kind of assessment entirely.

Roberta was not certain how she felt about that, and she was not about to turn around to confirm her suspicions. Reading people and their desires was an advantage in her business, one that she had honed well, and she was almost fully certain that the crew member had been evaluating her suitability for activities other than media reporting. The notion did not alarm or disturb Roberta, for she had dallied briefly in college with such relationship, but it had been short-lived. The experience had not been particularly unsatisfactory (she had long since conceded to herself, occasionally reliving the stimulating memories, and even the random fantasy, about such a liaison), but she generally found herself drawn much more strongly to those of the gender opposite to that of her own.

The hatch was closed behind her and she avoided looking back to see who had done it. She gave the security officer positioned there a cheery smile, receiving in turn a stony response that was in direct contrast to the reaction she had received only a few moments before. Her ego brushed aside the slight as she considered her next destination.

Emerald Flight: “Past Imperfect” – Chapter 1 (continued)

Something still troubled him and it took a moment before he realized what it was. The readouts that should provide him with the transponder signals from navigational buoys and other vessels alternated between blank and cascades of static. Abrupt departures from slipstream were known to interfere with many of a ship’s operations, sometimes for several hours after event. It was not uncommon to even require complete resets of the supporting hardware systems in order to restore them functioning condition. Still, he took nothing for granted.

“Captain,” he called out again. “Our communications system appear to behaving erratically. While expected, I thought you should be aware.”

Devereux paused and then looked down toward Pyrafox. The navigator checked several displays before nodding affirmation.

“Confirmed, Captain,” Pyrafox reported. “We’re not receiving the usual navigational data stream. Most of the frequencies are either empty or filled with some kind of interference.”

Devereux frowned slightly, but did not appear overly concerned. “Have an Engineering team take a look.”

“Aye, Captain,” Hawkes acknowledged and entered the request. After a moment’s consideration, he raised its priority over that of the tactical systems inspection.

“Hold position here, Ensign,” Devereux said, her gaze once again fixed on the screen. “I want us to stay put until we know what happened and we can make repairs.”

“Yes, Captain,” Pyrafox replied. “Setting all thrusters to standby.”

Devereux nodded slowly. After a moment, her eyes finally left the main displays as she turned and headed toward the command deck.

#

It was hardly the assignment that Roberta Janusae had hoped for. Certainly, a possibly faster and more efficient starship was news, perhaps even of significant importance in a way that Roberta could not quite grasp. To her mind such interest extended chiefly to an audience of technicians and space travel enthusiasts—not quite the broad media exposure she sought. Careers were made by one’s popularity with the general media audience, not by reporting to a select group who undoubtedly knew more than she did about the subject.

Now, amidst the klaxons that continued to sound through the main Engineering deck, she wished she had selected a quieter location to report from. She has specifically chosen it based on her experience on other assignments onboard starships. While the bridge might be where all of the command-level personnel were, it tended to make for extremely dull live reporting. Audiences tended to switch away after more than a few minutes of uniformed officers relaying routine orders. She knew that the key places to be, depending on the mission, were either whatever served as the medical center or the main engineering level. Because this was a mission focused on the test of an experimental upgrade to the starship drive, she had opted for the latter. If anything even remotely worthy was reporting was going to happen, it was going to happen there. She had been right—spectacularly so.

Before their flight began, the Chief Engineer (she thought she had heard someone refer to him in passing as “Rusty”, but had not been certain whether in fact they had actually been referring to him) had treated her with an almost mischievous respect. She could see that there was a certain charm beneath his rough and brawny exterior, and there was little doubt that he knew his stuff.

At that moment, though, she felt very much in the way. So far, no one had snarled at her to get the hell out. Despite her earlier impressions of him, she could imagine the Chief Engineer doing so. In any case, he seemed far too busy calling out to nearly everyone else in the vicinity. Members of the crew darted around her hurriedly, engaged in a multitude of tasks that she was certain that she would barely understand. She desperately wanted to get off the deck before someone put a tool in her hand and told her to get to work.

Emerald Flight: “Past Imperfect” – Chapter 1 (continued)

Context: I wasn’t happy with how this was originally written. Hawkes is very much an internally-focused character, so I’m having trouble not so much wrapping my head around him as I am trying to make him interesting to the reader.

---

Hawkes watched as Devereux silently stared at the main bridge displays. As Tactical Officer, his responsibilities on this mission had originally encompassed ensuring that the additional security arrangements requested by Colonel Antonio were in place. There had been little expectation that the ship’s weapons or defensive system would be needed during their brief test flight. Once that was done, there had been little for him to do but continue to monitor what had quickly become routine reports between the security posts. Not that he particularly minded. Routine was good, he had along ago concluded. It tended to prevent the unexpected. In space, unforeseen events usually resulted in disaster, often for both the vessel and its crew.

Fortunately, what had happened was not entirely unexpected. A failure of the prototype drive system had been discussed as one of the most likely outcomes of the test. However, based on success of the simulations in both the lab and smaller test vessels, it had been considered to have a low probability. Given that, Hawkes suspected was that no one had anticipated that it might fail in quite so dramatic a fashion.

Based on the status reports he had received so far, it appeared that they were fortunate. Other for the two casualties already reported by the ship’s physician, there appeared to be no other significant injuries among the crew. So far, reports from all other sections except for the main Engineering deck seemed to indicate no significant damage to the ship—although it was still unclear what had caused the injuries to the two affected crew members. Hawkes held little doubt that Hope’s report would be prompt and thorough.

“Captain,” Hawkes called out, his voice rising just slightly above its usual even timbre. “All reports so far indicate no significant damage to the ship, or its systems, outside of Engineering.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Devereux acknowledged, almost absently it seemed to Hawkes. Her gaze remained intent on the view displayed on the main screens. After waiting for a moment to see whether she would respond further, he turned his attention back to the updated status data that flashed onto the displays at his station. He officially logged his report and began studying the new reports.

Emerald Flight: “Past Imperfect” – Chapter 1 (continued)

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” he offered with a tentative smile.

Elizabeth’s smile was genuine. “It’s okay, Ensign,” she told him, trying to keep her tone light and encouraging. “I’m sure you’ll remember next time.”

She knew from experience that it would be a while before he forgot again.

“Here,” she said, pulling a tool from her own case. “I’ll give you a hand.”

#

Hawkes watched as Devereux stared at the main bridge displays. Until a few moments ago, he had felt that his participation was generally unnecessary to the successful completion of their mission. Once the additional security arrangements requested by Colonel Antonio were in place, there was little for him to do but continue to monitor what had quickly become routine reports between the security posts. There was only so much one Tactical Officer could do on a mission where the need for weapons and combat experience was not expected.

Routine was good, he had along ago decided. It provided stability and tended to prevent surprises. In space, an unexpected event could result in disaster for a ship and its crew. His experiences of such crises provided him with ample motivation to do everything in his realm of influence to avoid them. Such drove him now as he collected the status reports coming in from all sections of the ship. Other than for the information coming from the main Engineering deck—and their frustrating, if usual, lack of detail—the remainder of the ship and crew seemed to experience little more than a rough transition from slipstream. Such occurrences, although fairly uncommon, only rarely resulted in catastrophic damage to the vessel. The most common consequence was that the ship would need to be towed to the nearest space station or inhabited planet, often to the crew’s chagrin. The resulting embarrassment was typically good-natured and short-lived, for the alternatives were far less welcome.

Emerald Flight: “Past Imperfect” – Chapter 1 (continued)

“Okay, Chief,” Elizabeth heard Captain Devereux say over the intercom. “Let me know as soon as you find out something.”

“Of course, Cap’n,” Rusty replied, both rolling his eyes and yet looking amused at the same time. He paused for what seemed like the briefest acceptable period of time before closing the connection. Turning his head, he caught Elizabeth watching him and gave her a quick wink.

“Don’t be just standing around, Lizzie,” he told her with tense, but genuine grin. She could tell that his thoughts had already returned to the apparent ruin of the slipstream drive. He jerked his thumb toward one of the upper platforms. “Give Yoshi and Beacon a hand checking the logs and junction regulators.”

Elizabeth glanced upward, locating the two junior engineers amid the swarm of crew members hurrying about on that level. She nodded back toward Rusty.

“I’m on it, Chief.”

She did not wait for a response, knowing that he had already turned his attention back to puzzle of the failed slipstream drive. Grabbing an equipment case from a nearby rack, she pushed her way toward the narrow ramp that would take her to the upper sections of the deck.

The two young engineers seemed visibly relieved by her arrival. Yoshi, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail similar to Elizabeth’s, stared frantically at the information being presented on a nearby status display. Her eyes darted almost wildly as she tried to find meaning in the scrolling data as it flashed past. Beacon knelt about a half meter away, trying to pry an access panel away from the bulkhead—with little success.

Elizabeth felt her own tension rise. Part of her wanted to scold them both; another part wanted to just push them each aside so she could fix the situations herself. She forced herself to take a deep breath. Neither solution was the correct one—at least not right now. The ship was in no immediate danger of blowing itself apart and, while Rusty needed the results of their analysis quickly, it was not so urgent that she needed to be quite so dramatic.

She reached over and paused the engineering systems log playback.

“Start at the moment of the breakdown,” she instructed Yoshi calmly. “Then work backward in fifteen second intervals.” She pointed at the display. “Focus on these readings for now unless you don’t see any significant changes.” Her finger moved downward to a different set of data. “Then start checking these.”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” the engineer replied. She managed a weak, grateful smile and then began working her way back through the data.

Nearly at her feet, Beacon’s sandy and tousled-looking hair bobbed as he struggled with the panel. Elizabeth caught a momentary flash of his gritted teeth as he strained to get the bulkhead to release its hold on the small access hatch. She fought back a small smile. A plebe mistake, she knew, for she had made it herself more than once—and had been known to once or twice since then if she was particularly tired or distracted.

She bent down and removed an instrument from Beacon’s open case on the deck. He must have caught her movement from the corner of his eye, for he stopped suddenly and stared at her with nearly simultaneous expressions of startlement and irritation. When he recognized her, he stopped and swallowed noticeably. Fighting to keep her expression neutral, Elizabeth offered him the tool.

He stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment and then she watched as a dull flush began to fill his cheeks. His jaw muscles worked like he wanted to say something—or trying to keep from revisiting his breakfast—but he said nothing and accepted the tool. Swallowing again, he turned and began working on the panel’s fasteners. Within a few moments, the panel came away easily, and he leaned it against the bulkhead.

He turned to reach for another piece of equipment in his case as the panel began to slide down the bulkhead. Dropping the tool he held, he grabbed at the falling panel. His fingers grazed the edge, but not enough for him to get a grip or prevent its descent. He winced as it clattered to the deck.

There a sudden hush in their immediate area. Elizabeth could tell without looking that several crew members were staring in their direction. Beacon’s gaze was fixed on the betraying sheet of plasmetal. For a moment, Elizabeth was concerned that he might really throw up this time, but to her relief (and probably his as well, she realized), he managed to maintain the appearance of control until the noise level around them returned to normal.

His eyes turned toward Elizabeth. There was something almost pleading in them that collapsed her remaining resolve and she could not help but smile at him. She hoped it was the right kind. Captain Devereux or the Chief would know the right thing to say at this moment, and she wished she knew what it was. Nothing that came to her mind sounded other than it could also be taken as condescending or ridicule.

She must have managed to do the right thing, though, she noted, because Beacon started chuckling softly.

Emerald Flight: “Past Imperfect” – Chapter 1 (continued)

The security officer stationed outside the Infirmary straightened as Hope appeared along curve of the passageway. His looked Hope over quickly and then nodded slightly.

“Doctor.”

Hope saw no reason to address him in kind, so she waited, mildly surprised when he reached over and opened the hatch for her. She strode steadily past him, not hurrying, but sensed his eyes following her inside. The interior lights brightened toward full illumination as she entered. Turning out of habit to close the hatch behind her, she found it already in the process of being closed. For no clear reason she could immediately identify, she found the action somewhat unsettling.

She spent only a moment considering it before turning her attention to her more critical task. From a cabinet next to the hatchway, she removed a case already filled with essential emergency medical supplies. Moving to another cabinet, which opened at her touch, she withdrew two additional ampoules and then removed a small container from a drawer to her left. She added all of these items to the contents of the case before heading back toward the hatchway.

She had to enter her security access code before the hatch would unlock and allow her to exit. This time, she found it not at all unexpected when the hatch seemed to open of its own accord, aided by the guard outside. She stared at him for an instant, and then, without a word, continued down the passageway that would take her to Deck Two, Section Eight.

Emerald Flight: “Past Imperfect” – Chapter 1 (continued)

Hope paused in the corridor as the security officer closed the hatch behind her. She had briefly considered requesting that the Captain accompany her to the Infirmary so that she could treat the minor abrasion on her forehead. However, she never spoke the request, for Hope knew that, short of being unconscious, the Captain would not leave the bridge until she was certain that her crew and ship were safe.

The female guard returned to her position next the hatchway. Hope noted that the woman’s eyes regarded her with hard expression. Hope had seen such expressions before. For all their beneficial qualities, many humans still held an arrogant, often almost hostile, attitude toward aliens. It in no way disturbed her. If, in fact, she had feelings about the matter it was disappointment that the officer’s outlook was so limiting in it prejudice.

The security presence aboard the Ship was unusual. Under most circumstances, the crew took care of security matters on their own. According the Captain, a Colonel had insisted that an official guard detail be aboard the Ship for this mission and be placed at all key access points, including the Bridge, Main Engineering, and Shuttle.

As she moved down the passageway away from the Bridge, all observations of the behavior of the security officer now compartmentalized away for later consideration if she so chose, she determined the most efficient path between the Infirmary and Deck Two, Section Eight. Although she had been informed that neither injury appeared to be immediately life-threatening, she preferred to evaluate their condition of the crew members herself before having them transported to the Infirmary for more thorough treatment.

Emerald Flight: “Past Imperfect” – Chapter 1 (continued)

Devereux watched peripherally as Hope exited the bridge. Once she was certain that the medical officer was on her way, and the hatch had closed behind her, Devereux murmured to herself, “Okay, then. Let's at least find out where we really are.”

She worked several controls at her station, but nearly all of them presented her with data that was either conflicting or meaningless. It was a clear sign that systems were still compromised from whatever had happened to them.

She looked up, peering at the flickering and indistinct images displayed on the main bridge displays. She could make out what appeared to be a field of stars—to be expected—but little else. Interference from the ship’s degraded systems prevented the view from resolving into anything more recognizable.

“Ensign,” she called out. “What's our position?”

The young officer’s hands moved expertly, yet almost frantically, over his console. “Working on it now, Captain.” There was a pause while he checked the readouts again. “Many systems are still malfunctioning or offline, Captain. Coordination is difficult.”

Devereux sent a quick smile of encouragement in his direction. “Keep at it, Ensign.”

She stared at the flickering star field and frowned.

Emerald Flight: “Past Imperfect” – Chapter 1 (continued)

Hope stood before the auxiliary environmental control station. Her hands worked methodically and precisely at the controls. She appeared to pause for the briefest moment, as if sensing Devereux’s gaze on her, but completed her task before turning to face her Captain.

Her dark, unblinking eyes met Devereux’s. “Life Support, environmental systems, function normally.” Her voice was calm and almost completely without inflection.

Devereux nodded and continued to study Hope's alien eyes for a moment before she turned and returned to the command deck. She silently surveyed the condition of the bridge once more before once again activating the intercom.

“Chief,” she said, swallowing back her growing impatience. “I'd like that report now.”

“All the main systems are working as expected,” Rusty’s voice echoed faintly. Devereux guessed that he was shouting into the open intercom from a short distance away. “But the slipstream drive is shot.”

Devereux fought back her frustration with a barely audible sigh. “Okay, Chief,” she managed evenly. “Let me know as soon as you find out something.”

“Of course, Cap’n,” came Rusty’s response after a slight, but noticeable, delay.

Was there a trace of sarcasm there? Devereux switched off the channel before she could know for certain. Her eyes moved back toward Hope. The Aerian xenobiologist interpreted the act of eye contact as permission to speak.

“Casualties reported. Deck Two. Section Eight.”

Devereux felt her lips tighten. Before she could speak, the lights brightened to normal illumination. She looked around quickly with a growing sense of relief. Nodding to Hope, she said, “Go. It looks like we have things under control here.”

Hope responded with a slight nod. “Yes, Captain.” With a steady, deliberate stride, she left the bridge.