Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

Rusty stared at where the comm hologram had been, but his focus was elsewhere. In his mind's eye, he could see the interior of the cargo bay. Containers, packed for their journey down to the colony, would be arranged into neat stacks. For all of his other faults, Chop was nothing if not organized when it came to his cargo handling.

They won't miss one crate . . . he mused with a silent smile. It's not like they're going to post Security on it. It's just a bunch of rocks.

Chop, he knew, was another matter. He would be supervising the entire operation like a mother hen protecting her brood.

“Still . . .” Rusty murmured. “He can't be everywhere and watch everything.”

Already, a plan was forming among his thoughts of how to extract just one crate of the asteroid's samples before the Logistics officer noticed.

Letting his mind work that problem on its own for a while, Rusty turned his attention to the equally immediate, but more critical, matter of the ship's repairs. He quickly studied the duty roster displayed on the bulkhead, and then compared it to the list visible on the tablet in his hand. They matched, which was of no surprise, but he had wanted to make sure.

“Aruna,” he called out.

“Yes, sir?” her voice sounded from just outside the hatchway. She sounded slightly surprised that he had known that she was there.

“Take over here,” Rusty told her as she appeared in the hatchway. “I'm going to check on the work at the Infirmary.”

The dark petite, dark-featured woman started to respond. Rusty held his gaze on her for just an instant, but it was long enough for her to change her mind.

“Yes, Chief,” she agreed mildly.

Rusty flashed her a jaunty smile, heading through the hatchway past her, across the Main Engineering deck, and out into the corridor.

When he rounded the corridor that led to the main entrance to the Infirmary, although he was prepared for it, he still found himself surprised by the amount of damage the ship had suffered at the talons of their unexpected guest. As much he ached to see the ragged wounds that marred his ship, he could not find it in himself to blame the ancient Aerian for the destruction.

She didn't understand.

“I've seen direct torpedo hits cause less damage,” he mused aloud as strode into the midst of the four damage control engineers who were in the process of making repairs to the ship's hull and bulkheads.

Two of them looked up immediately upon hearing his voice. The third one paused long enough to deactivate the laser torch he was wielding. A protective helmet covered the head of the fourth technician and, Rusty suspected, had not heard him arrive.

“Chief,” Tsu-tao greeted him tentatively, glancing self-consciously at the debris strewn down along the corridor.

“You know you were supposed to repair the breach,” Rusty chided them. Unfortunately, it required little effort for him not to smile. “Not make it bigger.”

Tsu-tao and the two engineers looked everywhere but at Rusty's face.

“Chief . . .” Tsu-tao started to explain.

“Chief!” Benitez called over to him, shaking her dark hair free from the confines of the protective helmet. She seemed unconcerned by the scattered mess around them. “It's turning out to be a bigger job than we originally thought it'd be.”

“I'm listening,” he told her, almost grinning at her unabashed confidence.

Placing the helmet down on top of a nearby equipment case, she moved back toward one of the jagged tears in the bulkhead. She waved her hand over one of the exposed support braces.

“We're finding a bunch of microfractures in the hull and hull supports,” she explained. “They radiate for about half a meter out from the original breach.”

Rusty let out a low, involuntarily whistle. It was one thing to punch a hole through a bulkhead—it was quite another to generate enough stress while doing it to affect that much more of the ship's superstructure.

That little lady packs quite a wallop.

To Benitez, he nodded. “Good job.”

He strode over and examined the area that she had indicated. As he expected, he saw nothing unusual—except for the wrecked sections of the hull. That was what made such damage so dangerous: it was often impossible to see—until it was too late. Eyeing the amount of additional deconstruction that the repair team had already completed, he increased his estimate for the work to take nearly three times as long as he had originally expected.

I'll have to rework the entire duty roster for the rest of the shift, he determined sourly. If not the next three . . .

“You'd better get back to it then,” he announced.

Both Tsu-tao and his nearest companion relaxed noticeably when it became apparent that he was not going to chew them out.

“I'll see if there's anyone else I can assign,” he added, not hopeful. Unless some of the other repair and maintenance work took less time than he had planned, it was unlikely there would be anyone to spare. In addition, he was not certain that adding more repair engineers would not make the problem worse.

The last thing I need is them all tripping over each other.

That was how accidents happened, he knew. He gave the torn bulkhead one more look before turning away and heading once again down the corridor toward the cargo bay.

Rusty slowed, without knowing why, just before he turned the corner that led to the forward cargo bay hatch. Looking up, he came to almost a complete stop when he realized the reason. A security officer stood just outside the hatchway. Far from standing at a ready position, the guard's posture and bearing were both almost casual. Clearly, Rusty decided, he was not anticipating trouble.

I wonder who put him there? I can't imagine Chop or—

“Good morning, Chief!” the young officer flashed him a broad smile.

Rusty returned it with as much genuine enthusiasm as he could muster, all while trying to silently rework his plan in his mind.

“Chop afraid pirates might get at his cargo before we make orbit, Nang?”

The young officer chuckled aloud. “No, sir,” he replied. “Lieutenant Hawkes' orders.”

Of course . . .

Rusty fought back a scowl. “Oh,” he said aloud, keeping his tone light. “He's worried about the pirates?”

Nang grinned, laughing. “I don't know, sir,” he replied. “He said he wanted to make sure the alien didn't go into any restricted areas without an escort.”

“Ali—”

Rusty stopped himself as he realized who Nang referred to. The tension along his neck and shoulders eased.

“Am I allowed inside?”

Nang eyed him strangely for a moment, apparently expecting some kind of punch line. When it did not come, he waved in the direction of the hatch. “Sure,” he said. “Just not the alien.”

“Her name is Star Wing,” Rusty informed him, his tone carrying more of an edge than he intended.

Nang's expression sobered. “Sure thing, Chief.” An awkward moment of silence passed between the two men. “Did you need to go inside?”

Rusty considered the question for a moment, trying to resolve whether or not to try to bulldoze his way through.

Well, he decided. I'm gone this far . . .

“Please,” he answered with a grin, wondering how long it be before his entry to reported.

If he needed to ask permission first . . .

“No problem,” Nang replied with a smile and tapped out the access code on the hatch controls.

Rusty strode casually through the now-open hatchway, allowing himself a slow breath of relief when the security officer could no longer see his face.

“Do you need help finding something?”

Rusty paused for only a moment before answering. “That professor thinks he left some gadget in one of the sample crates. Morris only knows which one it might be in.”

“I could help you find it,” Nang offered enthusiastically.

“Yes,” Rusty agreed with obvious reluctance. “But I don't think the Old—um, the Lieutenant would appreciate you leaving your post—even if it were to help me out.”

Nang's expression fell, but he nodded in agreement.

“Good luck, sir!” he called out toward Rusty's back, his voice regaining most of its earlier exuberance.

“Thanks . . .” Rusty replied, although barely loud enough to be audible.

So . . . he mused. Getting in was easy. Now getting back out . . .

Battlefield: “Future Tense” (continued)

His hands continued their fierce grip on the edge of his console. Tension in his upper arms sent ripples of along their entire length. He could not be certain, though, how much of it came from his own body and what radiated from the jolting vibration of the ship.

With a sudden lurch, the motion ceased. For a moment, Raynes felt as though the ship has slid into a glide—which would have not been far from the truth as its momentum carried it powerless along its last trajectory.

His fingers lost their grip at the last moment, the perspiration from them defeating the friction. Raynes rocked back into his seat, relieved to discuss that he could once again breathe more easily. His ribs still ached, but he felt less threat of an imminent death from asphyxiation.

He opened his mouth, and then swallowed, finding it too dry to speak. Bringing his ragged breathing back under control, he tried again.

“Damage report,” he called out over the cacophony of klaxons. “Helm, what happened to us?”

Hudson shook her head as if trying to clear it, wincing as she did so. Raynes could understand; he wished the klaxons would stop as well.

The helm officer’s hands played across the surface of her console, and then again. This time her fingers impacted the controls with more force.

“I don’t know!” She yelled back. Raynes recognized the anger and frustration in her tone. “We’ve been tossed from slipstream . . . but I have no control—over anything.”

Adrift.

A deep chill traveled long Rayne’s spine. It was every Fleet crew member’s nightmare: to be stuck adrift in the middle of deep space.

He fought back the sensation with a visible shrug, once again quickly surveying the condition of the bridge.

At least we have power.

Emergency lighting was visible on two of the auxiliary stations, but all of the main systems appeared to be active and functioning.

Well, maybe not functioning, he conceded silently, noting Hudson’s report.

“What’s our position?”

“Trying to get some kind of fix,” Hudson reported.

Raynes turned toward Chautran. “What do the sensors say?”

Chautran stared back at him, her eyes widened with fright. She was clearly shaken.

“Ensign,” Raynes tried again in quieter, calmer tones. “I need a sensor reading of our surrounding space.”

Battlefield: “Future Tense” (continued)

“They’re still closing, Captain,” she reported crisply. “But not as quickly.”

Raynes’ eyes turned back toward the main display and studied the tactical grid. The “safe haven” that Chautran had located still waited for them straight ahead.

But too far, he considered. Still too far . . .

“Tactical,” he called to Beart. “Fire remaining aft torpedoes. Proximity charge.”

In his mind’s eye, he could see her deftly working the targeting and firing controls on her station.

Barely more than a heartbeat later, she responded with, “Torpedoes away. All guidance and targeting systems are online.”

Raynes watched the movement of the missiles on the tactical display.

“Laureen,” he said to the helm officer. “See if you can coax a little more power from the engines.”

The slight motion of her shoulders conveyed her reluctance, but she said responded only with, “Aye, sir.”

On the tactical overlay, the torpedoes moved closer to their targets. One detonated just barely within range of the starboard vessel. Raynes suspected that the pursuing had suffered little, if any, damage.

It’s still coming . . .

Momentum alone might account for that, he knew, but it did not matter: it was still moving closer.

One of the other torpedoes had better luck. It detonated nearly against the hull of the lead ship. Raynes was certain that it had suffered appreciable damage to its forward hull, but he had no way of knowing which of its critical systems, if any, were affected.

“A direct hit, Captain,” Beart reported.

Raynes nodded, his eyes tracking the remaining missiles. For an instant, they checked his ship’s position in relation to their escape route.

Still too far . . .

His mouth opened, ready to urge Hudson to find more power for the engines. He stopped the words before they came out, knowing they were probably already past their limits.

“Ensign,” he called calmly to Chautran. “Overlay the chart leading to that safe area.”

“Yes, sir.”

The image on the main display shifted and blurred for a moment before a new series of soft blue lines appeared on it. Raynes studied the symbol that represented his ship in relation to the space ahead.

“Give me real-time stats,” he told Chautran.

At the bottom of right of the display, a series of numbers appeared. They changed constantly as their distance from the area ahead changed.

“You said those coordinates were for nominal safe distance?”

Chautran hesitated a moment. Raynes heard the questioning uncertainty in her voice when she answered him. “Yes, sir.”

Raynes’ frown deepened.

Still too far . . .

He looked at the constantly updating sets of coordinates on the display and performed some quick mental calculation.

Nominal, he considered. Nothing about this is nominal . . .

“Engineering,” Raynes called into the intercom. “Prepare to divert all non-essential power to the cores.”

There was a brief, but noticeable, delay before the Chief Engineer responded. “All power, sir?”

“All power,” Raynes repeated clearly. “Stand by.”

“Standing by.”

“Helm,” Raynes said, looking toward Hudson. “On my mark, push the main engines to their limit and then prepare to engage for slipstream on my command.”

Tension tightened the muscles along the lieutenant’s neck and shoulders.

“Aye, sir.”

Her voice was flat, devoid of almost any inflection. Raynes read that as a sign of reluctant uncertainty, but she knew that she would carry out his orders on command. Her eyes remained fixed on her navigational readouts. Subtle movements in her posture told Raynes that she had realized what he was doing and was both concerned and emboldened by it.

“Captain,” Chautran spoke softly.

She had moved away from the Science station to stand closer to him. Her voice wavered slightly and her hands moved in small, random patterns, further betraying her anxiety. Raynes caught a sharp hint of her fear even through the aroma of her tantalizing perfume.

“Yes, Ensign?”

Raynes dropped his voice almost to match hers. He was almost certain what she wanted to tell him and wanted to give her the chance to do so with a minimal level of threat.

“That course . . .” she gestured toward the main bridge display.

Raynes watched Chautran swallow hard, working up the courage to question her commanding officer. He waited, almost patiently, as time was running short, but gave Chautran the moments that she needed to compose herself.

“That course,” she repeated, her voice much steadier this time, “is not in the nominal range.”

Raynes nodded, indicating his agreement with her assessment.

“Is it within viable limits?”

Chautran swallowed hard again. Her eyes flicked toward her console, but Raynes could see that junior Science Officer was also reviewing the data in her head.

“Yes, sir,” she admitted, her voice breaking slightly. Her lips moved, but then her mouth closed. It was clear that she wanted to say something more, but had decided not to.

Raynes gave her a quick, reassuring smile before turning back to face the main bridge display. He quickly reassessed the tactical plot one more time before reaching down to tap the intercom.

“Engine Room,” he said, forcing an air of confidence into his tone that he did not entirely feel. “Stand by to engage slipstream cores on my command.”A momentary pause answered him at first before the Chief Engineer’s voice sounded from the speaker. “Acknowledged,” it said. “We’re ready. Standing by for your order.”

Raynes deliberately moved his hand away from the intercom, overriding his automatic response to close the channel.

“Helm,” he called, looking up toward Hudson. “Main engines ahead full. Prepare for slipstream transition on my mark.”

Hudson’s hands moved across her console without hesitation. “Main engines at maximum power. Ready for slipstream transition on your mark.” Her right hand hovered above the helm console’s surface.

“Captain!” Beart called out from behind him. “Pursuing vessel changing course. Sensors indicate that their weapons—”

“Now, Lieutenant!” Raynes ordered Hudson. “Engage slipstream drive.”

Hudson’s fingers danced across the surface of her console. A moment later, the ship trembled as space around it was disrupted and then reformed. Raynes gave it little notice at first, accustomed as he was to the sensations experienced during transition.

The deck rocked suddenly beneath his feet. Before he could fully react, and tidal wave of vertigo spun him around. He did not know whether he actually moved or not, or whether the space around him had. His fingers tightened reflexively around the arm of his chair, and that was just barely enough. He felt the tendons and muscles of his hand and arms strain as they resisted the sudden force.

The overwhelming disorientation passed, but the ship kept shuddering as it continued to spin.

“Cut power to engines!”

He thought he shouted the command aloud. He heard it within his own head, but no echoes answered him from the space around him. If Hudson answered him, her voice was lost in the bedlam sounding in his head.

The ship continued to shudder, erratically at times. That told him that it was not a pulse caused by one of the ship’s drive systems: those would have been more regular—if they could have happened at all at this strength without blowing them all apart.

The last still remained a concern. Through the other sounds, Raynes heard creaks of strain sounding from the ship’s superstructure. It was holding together—for now—but it was clearly not happy about whatever was happening to it.

An abrupt jolt slammed him hard against his chair and then against the command console. He gasped raggedly for breath, the pain radiating from his abdomen made him suspect he had suffered some damage to at least a few of his ribs.

Battlefield: “Future Tense” (continued)

Raynes strolled the bridge, passing among the stations, but not close enough to give the appearance that he might be looking over his officer’s shoulders. He had found it a good balance in the past: his close, reassuring presence without infringing on their personal space in an intrusive way that might make them feel [monitored].

“Captain,” Beart called to him. Her voice was steady and not yet urgent. “It looks like they’re beginning to change course.”

Raynes nodded. He was about to speak when she interrupted him.

“All torpedoes loaded and payloads armed. Ready to fire on your command.”

Raynes nodded again. “Acknowledged,” he responded. “Stand by.”

“Pursuing vessels are increasing speed.”

“Helm,” he told Hudson. “Get ready to punch it.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied. “Diverting power to main engines now.”

“Sir,’ Beart reported, her tone sharp. “It looks like they’re arming their weapons.”

Raynes glanced toward Chautran, but she remained deep in concentration on her task.

He turned away, silently willing her on to quickly find the answer he needed. Saying it aloud, he knew, would only distract and unnerve her.

“Helm,” he called to Hudson. “Punch it. Ahead full . . . or more.”

“They’re closing,” Beart reported. “Coming within maximum weapons range.”

Raynes looked toward Hudson at the helm and stopped his request before he made it. She was clearly already doing everything that she could to coax more thrust from the engines.

“Tactical,” Raynes called out, his eyes fixed on the bridge display. “Fire aft torpedoes from bays one, three, and five.”

“Aye, sir,” came Beart’s response from his left. After a moment, she reported, “Torpedoes away . . . telemetry reports that all are on target and functioning.”

An almost breathless sense of anticipation filled the bridge. Raynes almost smiled, for it was such an expected and common reaction.

“Two of the ships are trying to move off . . . the center one is—“

A bright cloud flared on the screen, intersecting with the lead ship. Raynes’ eyes turned toward Beart, as did, he suspected, those of everyone else present on the bridge.

“Not a direct hit,” she reported. “But they’re slowing.”

“And the other two?”

Beart studied the readouts on her console. “Maintaining speed, but still altering course.”

Raynes studied the tactical display with a frown. His quick mental projections told him that they would be bracketed from the rear within a few minutes unless Hudson could coax some more speed from the engines. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Chautran’s shout from behind him.

“Captain!” she called out, excitement speaking in her voice. “I think I’ve found it.”

Raynes moved quickly over to her station, his eyes quickly surveying the graphs and images shown on enlarged sensor display.

“Here,” Chautran said, pointing at the image to a point ahead of them on their current course and slightly to port.

Raynes studied the image, and then checked the numerical values being updated in real-time below them. The coordinates were further ahead than he would have liked, but it was what it was.

“That’s the closest one within nominal slipstream range,” she added, fidgeting slightly as she awaited his response.

Nominal range, Raynes considered. So there’s some margin of safety there.

His stomach tightened a little more at the risk he considered taking.

His head turned back up toward Chautran.

“Good job, Ensign,” he said, giving her a quick smile. “Send those coordinates to the helm.”

“Yes, sir,” she responded quickly, her hands quickly performing the necessary motions.

“Keep those sensors locked on that position,” he told her. “Let me know if there’s any change to those readings.”

“Yes, sir.”

Raynes did not bother to hide his smile at her determination. He was rewarded by a correspondingly bright sparkle in her eyes.

“Coordinates received,” Hudson reported. Her mouth tightened as she read and analyzed them. Raynes guessed that she had reached that same judgment as he had regarding the distance.

“Could be close . . .” she muttered.

Raynes could not determine whether or not she meant to be overheard. He let it pass without comment.

“Captain,” called out. “The starboard vessel is increasing speed.”

Raynes turned to find her intently studying her console.

“The port vessel appears to be changing course . . .” She sounded uncertain. Her eyes narrowed as she attempted to make sense of the tactical sensor readings. She shook her head with frustration, her sandy blonde hair whipping across her shoulders. “They seem to be slowing too.”

Raynes nodded, his eyes only half-focused on the tactical overlay on the main bridge display.

Trying to cut off our escape route, he confirmed silently, having expected such a maneuver.

“Helm,” he said, looking now toward Hudson. “Stand by.”

Hudson nodded her acknowledgement, most of her attention focused on maneuvering the vessel.

“Engineering,” Raynes called into the intercom, not waiting for a reply before continuing. “Prepare to divert power from all non-essential systems to the main engines—except for the slipstream cores. Keep those fully powered and online.”

“All non-essential systems, sir?” the Chief Engineer asked.

Raynes frowned at the question, wondering who needed power they did not want interrupted.

“Yes,” Raynes confirmed, not wanting to spend the time right then to find out. “Life support as well, if you need to.”

The pause before the Chief Engineer spoke again betrayed the man’s hesitation. “Life support?”

“Yes,” Raynes replied flatly. If this doesn’t work, we probably won’t need it anyway.

“Yes, sir,” the Chief Engineer replied, his voice quiet over the intercom speaker. “Ready on your orders.”

“Divert power now,” Raynes ordered, his eyes moving back to the main bridge display.

“Helm,” he called out to Hudson. “Maximum available power to the main engines. Punch it.”

“Increasing power to main engines,” Hudson reported, her voice steady as her hands deliberately adjusted the helm controls.

Raynes turned toward Chautran without facing her. “Ensign,” he said. “Distance from our pursuers?”

Battlefield: “Future Tense” (continued)

Tension hung like a taut blanket in the air. It lingered and then people began to move, tentatively at first, and then with increasing uncertainty when Raynes did not respond. Hudson studied him carefully, concern creasing her elfin features, and then relaxed slightly. She recognized his expression. He was not frozen in decision. Instead, his mind was working, furiously, trying to plot out their next moves.

Her eyes shifted from his face, darting from the scene on the wraparound viewscreen and then the system indicators on her panel. He needed to make a decision soon, but she dared not interrupt him.

His eyes moved toward her and focused, locking with her gaze for a moment. He did not smile, but his eyes shone with firm decision.

“Helm,” he called to her. “Prepare to bring us about to zero-zero-four mark six. Then prepare to execute evasive maneuver Omega Eight on my mark.”

Hudson nodded, turning back to the helm controls.

“Tactical,” Raynes called out. “Load all aft torpedo bays. Arm them for proximity detonation.”

“Yes, sir,” came Beart’s response.

“Ensign,” he spoke now to Chautran, who manned the primary Science station. “I need you to find me a hole . . . a space somewhere ahead where we can safely jump to slipstream.”

Chautran swallowed hard, betraying her nervousness. “Aye, Captain.”

Raynes give her a quick, reassuring smile. It seemed to calm her. She turned and began to reconfigure the forward scanners.

Raynes tapped the intercom.

“Engineering,” he said, pausing until he received an acknowledgement from the other end.

“Here, Captain,” Wade’s voice issued from the speaker.

“I’m going to need you to divert power to the aft shields,” he told the Engineering chief. “But reserve enough to fire up the slipstream cores. We’re going to be cutting it close, I suspect.”

There was a pause before Wade answered him. “Yes, sir.”

Raynes almost grinned at his mental image of the Chief Engineer’s scowling grimace.

“Ensign,” he spoke to Chautran while studying the readouts on his console. “Put the aft sensor readings up on the center screen,” he said. “I want to see where they are.”

“Aye, sir.”

The star field displayed on the section of the wraparound screen directly ahead of him faded to pale gray, and then was replaced by a computer-rendered view of the three enemy vessels closing on them in their wake.

“Helm,” he called to Hudson. “We’re going to have to make a run for it. Divert power from all non-essential systems, if you have to, to get maximum speed—except for from the cores.”

“Yes, sir,” she acknowledged his order, her hands flying lightly across the surface of her console.

“Captain,” Lau called out. “They’re changing course.”

Raynes’ eyes turned toward the screen.

The formation of the pursuing vessels widened into a broader triangle.

They’re going to try to bracket us in, Raynes concluded. Just as I thought.

“Do you have that hole for me yet, Ensign?”

Although he was not looking directly at her, his peripheral vision revealed tense expression.

“Not yet, sir,” she said.

“Keeping working it,” Raynes responded calmly. “You’ll find it.”

Her dark, shoulder-length hair bobbed along the lines of her shoulder as she worked at her console. For an instant, Raynes felt a hollow ache of nostalgia.

I was that young once.

It was something he found he was having to remind himself of more often of late. Experienced officers with battle experience were in short supply.

Good thing, too, he mused with just a hint of sour recognition, or I never would have been given this command.

That was not strictly true, he knew, for his historical standing held some cachet. Under other circumstances, though, he knew that he probably would have been granted a more honorary post, probably placed in in command of a survey or pure science vessel.

Not that that would have been all that bad, he admitted. Better than watching young officers die.

Battlefield: “Future Tense” (continued)

“Stand down, Lieutenant.”

Hudson froze at the controls for only a moment. Her fists clenched above the surface of her console.

“I can . . . we can’t just . . .” she stammered, trying to get the words out. “We have to—“

Her hands descended toward the console’s surface, her fingers relaxing into position over its controls.

“I know I can get us—“

“Stand down.”

Her hesitation lasted only an instant that time. Her fingers slid across the controls. Raynes watched, his chest tightening almost unbearably as the status indicators shifted hues.

“Lieutenant Hudson.” His tone was that of cold granite. “Stand down.”

Her hands stopped their motion. He saw them tremble slightly as she struggled between obeying his order and what she believed her conscience told her.

“We . . . can’t . . .”

“Lieutenant Hudson,” he repeated. His voice had inflection now, but it held an edge of authority. Raynes hoped his own conflicting emotions were not reflected in it. “You are relieved of duty.”

Hudson’s hand dropped, landing hard against the surface of the console. Raynes suspected that, were she not on the bridge, she might have pounded it in fury. She remained seated, giving no indication that she intended to move from her post.

With his jaw clenched and his stomach in a tight knot, he silently tapped a control on the command console. He could spend more time attempting to cajole and negotiate with her, but he had reached his limit and he was, after all, the Captain.

The hatch opened within moments. Two security officers entered, stopping just inside the hatchway. Each of them surveyed the interior of the bridge, but could find nothing immediately that warranted their presence or attention. The larger of the two officers, a broadly muscular man with a closely shaven hair the color of walnut turned toward Raynes.

Raynes answered the question in his eyes before he could ask it aloud.

“Lieutenant Hudson is relieved of duty,” he informed the security officers. “Please escort her to her quarters,” he continued, his eyes remaining on Hudson’s rigid back. “She is to remain there until further notice.”

“Yes, sir,” the officer acknowledged their orders for both of them.

He took a step toward Hudson. The hands of both officers moved toward their weapons, although neither of them drew one.

“Lieutenant,” the large security officer said. He waited for some indication that Hudson had either heard him or the Captain’s orders.

A long moment passed before Hudson turned in her chair. She moved slowly and deliberately before rising. As she rose and moved away from the helm station, her eyes remained fixed on Raynes. He could see the seething fury in them.

She can cool off for a while in her quarters before I try to talk to her.

Hudson turned and headed for the main hatch, letting the two guards trail behind her. Raynes looked away.

“Ensign Chautran,” he said, his voice surprisingly hoarse and raspy. “Take the helm.”

Chautran, a young woman of Asian descent, looked surprised. She did not move immediately to the helm console. Instead, her eyes uncertainly followed Hudson’s retreating back.

Raynes looked down at his own console. Even though he did not witness it directly, his peripheral vision told him that Hudson gave him a final hard glance before she exited into the corridor.

Chautran swallowed hard, glanced for an instant toward Raynes, and then took her position at the helm console. Under other conditions, Raynes knew, the young woman would probably have grinned infectiously with delight at the opportunity. Right then, though, no one seemed to feel like lightening the mood.

“Stand down from Battle Stations,” Raynes announced. “But maintain Yellow Alert.”

Emerald Flight: “Covert Operations” (continued)

He then closed it without comment when nothing sufficiently witty came to him. Preceded by the two security officers, he entered the airlock and boarded the shuttle.

The security officers busied themselves with stowing their gear and checking that the rest of the interior items in the shuttle were secured for launch. Hawkes slid into the pilot’s seat with a practiced ease that made Rusty wonder just how many times the man had done it. He secured his safety harness without even looking at it; his hands automatically make the necessary adjustments and closures.

Rusty waited until Hawkes finished securing his harness and had begun the preflight checks before climbing into the co-pilot’s seat. He dropped into clumsily, demonstrating none of the grace that the Tactical Officer had, perhaps even deliberately. Shifting his buttocks, he tried to find a comfortable position.

“Damned things are never wide enough,” he muttered. He uttered it loud enough to be heard, but the only reaction that he managed to elicit out of Hawkes was a slight movement of the lieutenant’s eyes in his direction for the briefest fraction of a second. There was no disruption at all in the man’s motions as he checked the controls and status displays.

The thick padding of the seats had actually been engineering to provide a high level of both protection and comfort. Protection, for shuttle could be battered by atmospheric effects or just simple g-forces. Comfort, because one could spend a very long time seated in one, particularly if you were piloting alone.

None of this was of particular comfort to Rusty as he fumbled with his own harness. At first, he was certain that he had managed to hopelessly tangle himself in its straps. The results of his efforts so far seemed like the attempts of an inept and drunken alien spider to spin a web around him.

He gave one the buckles an experimental, and mildly annoyed, tug. As he expected that it would, the snarled straps of the harness dropped free. More deliberately this time, he fastened the harness around him. Other than for a somewhat involuntary grunt when he secured the belt across his thick chest, he said nothing.

Settling back into the chair, he waited, and then grimaced when Hawkes’ eyes pointedly fixed for a moment on the other preflight checklist fastened within the copilot’s bulkhead alcove. Grumbling subvocally, he reached for the hardcopy sheet and began to review it.

Behind him, the two security officers finished their inspection and secured themselves into seats mounted into opposite bulkheads so that they faced one another. Glancing at them in the mirror that showed him the interior of the cabin behind him, Rusty wondered for a moment if the two of them might now pull out a deck of cards to pass the time until there was actually something useful for them to do.

With an only mildly guilty start, he became aware that Hawkes had completed his part of the preflight check, had returned his checklist to its storage alcove, and was watching him with cool expectation.

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmured, and completed the last of the items on his checklist.

Before returning it to its alcove, he turned to Hawkes and offered it to him.

“Want to check my work?”

Hawkes continued to regard him with an icy detachment that, in anyone else, Rusty would have interpreted as disdain. For Hawkes, he decided, it just meant that the Tactical Officer was not in any way amused by his actions.

So a typical day . . .

“I trust that won’t be necessary.”

Rusty chortled softly to himself and slid the checklist back into its compartment.

“Ready when you are,” he told Hawkes, settling back again into the seat.

Emerald Flight: “Covert Operations”

“You can give either give me access to the shuttle. Or you can put me in the brig. But you’d better do one of those things now.”

Rusty stared at the Tactical Officer. Not hard, with a firmness of conviction that he rarely. Everything in his gut screamed that his Captain was in danger and he would be damned if he would stand by while futile diplomatic gestures were offered in place of real action.

Hawkes met his gaze. The Tactical Officer’s expression was, as usual, almost unreadable. Rusty could tell, though, that the man fought some internal conflict as well.

I’ll be damned, he considered wryly. The ol’ Fossil might have some kind of feelings too.

Nothing, however, was betrayed by the man’s silver-blue eyes. They broke contact with Rusty, but never strayed entirely from him. Rusty knew that Hawkes was studying his body language, watching for some indication that he might flee.

Not a chance.

Hawkes reached for this console and tapped a single control.

“Security,” he said, his tone flat and uninflected, lacking all but the barest trace of his Bavarian accent. “Send a Level One Tactical team to the main shuttle airlock.”

His eyes met Rusty’s again. It took Rusty a moment to realize that those guards had not been sent there to prevent his unauthorized use of the shuttle. A Level One team would be overkill for that.

A grin blossomed across his face. He felt it spread throughout his body. Hawkes, however, did not react. Instead, he tapped several additional controls before taking a single step back from the Tactical console.

“Lieutenant Banks,” he said, fixing his gaze on the young officer. “You have the bridge.”

“And if anything happens to us,” Rusty amended quickly. “You come after us.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened, as did Rusty’s grin. Her mouth opened and, for a moment, she looked like an aquarium specimen gathering oxygen from the water. She must have realized it, Rusty thought, for she snapped it suddenly closed.

And then realizing that she had not responded to the Tactical Officer, she answered Hawkes with a sharp, “Yes, sir!”.

Rusty chuckled, earning himself a barely disguised annoyed look from Elizabeth.

“No joyriding while we’re gone, Lizzie,” he told her, moving to follow Hawkes toward the bridge’s main hatch. “You what’ll happen if you scratch the paint.”

Elizabeth was more successful, that time, in masking her expression, although her eyes did not roll upward slightly.

Rusty followed Hawkes through the hatchway and out into the corridor. He expected the Tactical Officer to turn and chastise him for his behavior on the bridge, but Hawkes just kept walking, his quick measure strides moving them quickly toward the airlock. Rusty opened his mouth several times, preparing to offer some kind of witty observation, but something in the Tactical Officer’s otherwise unreadable expression caused him to hold back.

It’s a trick, Rusty considered. He’s going to have them arrest me at the airlock, out of sight.

It took him only a moment to dismiss the idea. Given the opportunity, he knew, Hawkes would have been more than happy to embarrass him in front of the entire bridge staff.

. . . if not the entire crew, if given the chance—which he won’t get.

Rounding the curve of the corridor, he spied two Security officers clad in dark tactical gear. Each stood armed with very lethal-looking multi-function rifles. Three small cases were stacked on the deck at their feet.

Ammunitions and munitions, Rusty knew. We’d better not hit any turbulence.

He realized then that Hawkes had not requested a pilot. As if sensing his question, Hawkes approached the airlock and entered his access code.

“I will be pilot the shuttle,” he told Rusty, standing aside as the airlock locking mechanism disengaged. “You will co-pilot.”

That took Rusty by surprise. Certainly, he was qualified to pilot the shuttle, nearly every member of the crew was—and he could easily list at least a half a dozen of them who were far more competent at it than he was.

He opened his mouth to protest.

Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

Hope slipped back into sleep. She did not wish to, but her body demanded it of her. It was a state of stasis. Even as her body continued to heal, it needed time to recover from the demands that healing placed upon it. Reducing the amount of energy required to sustain her other organs left it with more to devote to the healing process.

As she slid into the semi-conscious state that passed for Aerian sleep, the Tactical Officer's words echoed back to her.

“She will defend this ship.”

Hope was certain that the Star Wing would, perhaps ever surrendering its life, if it believed that Hope's survival required such a sacrifice.

She thought of it hunched in its cell, trapped within the bulkheads of this vessel when it yearned to be free.

Free.

Suddenly, she was within the Star Wing's mind, feeling the exhilaration of soaring free in the space between the stars, feeling the warmth of the radiation of distant suns along its skin, experiencing a sense of purpose—the purpose for which it had been bred and designed for.

Hope sensed its longing, its commitment, its . . . unquestioning loyalty to her and others of her kind. She could see that it formed the very core of the Star Wing's being in a way that made the Star Bloods' obeisance pale in comparison. It disturbed her, even more than the Star Bloods' reverent in-bred devotion had. It felt wrong that this being—a mysterious from a barely-remembered past—should worship her.

Some part of her, though, Hope realized, accepted and, even, experienced satisfaction from it. Hope attributed that to her genetic programming, to her species' hard-coded hierarchical strata. Her rational mind sought to overrule it, to layer reason over bred-in instinct. Even as it did, its grasp on her thoughts faded. As Hope fell into deeper sleep, she felt herself gliding joyously among the stars.

When she awoke, more time had passed than she had expected. Normally, she could control her rest durations with great precision. Her body, she decided, still required more healing than she had thought. That troubled her, for she would not normally make such a misjudgment.

It is the Star Wing, she decided. Her presence distracts me.

She experienced no anger along with the thought. It was merely a statement of fact.

The lighting within the infirmary was dimmed. It was the period of night for the humans, when most of them were no longer performing their duties, but engaged in other activities.

Or in sleep, she realized, as she determined the correct shipboard time.

Her desk contained the single source of bright illumination. At it, a figure sat hunched over its surface. Hope recognized it as Lieutenant Ramsey and wondered whether she had remained there throughout the day without a break. She checked her memory and found a vague impression that the Lieutenant had left briefly, presumably to feed, but had returned shortly and resumed her duties.

Based on the Lieutenant's posture, Hope suspected that she might be dozing at the desk while Hope had slept. If she had been, she roused herself quickly when the monitors indicated that Hope had shifted into a more aware state. Her hands moved quickly over the console. The lights above the diagnostic bed brightened slightly. Hope assumed that Lieutenant Ramsey had done this for the benefit of her Human eyesight, for Hope had no trouble observing the interior of the infirmary in the earlier dimness.

Ramsey rose and moved toward Hope. A soft, gentle smile played across her features, almost masking her fatigue.

“Finally decided to wake up, eh?” Ramsey's inquired lightly, her smile growing slightly brighter as she checked the status displays around Hope.

She apparently found nothing unexpected or amiss as she looked down at Hope. “I was wondering—“.

The Lieutenant was interrupted by the sound of the main hatch opening. Hope turned her head to see the Captain stride briskly through the hatchway. Lines of concern contrasted with the smile that shaped her lips. The Captain traded looks in a silent exchange with Lieutenant Ramsey, who nodded slightly in agreement.

The Lieutenant must have signaled her.

The Captain was dressed in her duty uniform, giving Hope further proof of how long she had remained asleep and unaware. Instead, the Captain wore a pair of light-colored, loose-fitting pants and a gray-blue slightly oversized and well-worn tunic with a faded emblem of the Academy over her left breast.

“Finally feeling better?” The Captain asked lightly, giving Hope a genial smile. Hope heard the strain in the Captain's voice.

“Yes.”

It was true, Hope decided. She was feeling far better now than she had even that morning.

I must not deny myself rest, she cautioned herself for the future.

Despite her conscious will to the contrary, her body had clearly and badly needed the deep rest. She wondered whether Lieutenant Ramsey had somehow managed to sedate her. A quick survey of her internal biochemistry, however, revealed no residual traces to support that theory.

“I hear Lieutenant Hawkes came by,” the Captain said, drawing Hope's full attention back to her.

Something in the Captain's tone told Hope that the Captain was displeased for some reason for the Tactical Officer's visit.

“Yes.”

“I see.” Lines formed around the Captain's mouth as her lips formed a tight line.

“He agreed to free the Star Wing.”

The Captain's eyes both blinked and widened slightly with surprise. She looked toward Lieutenant Ramsey, who silently nodded her confirmation of Hope's statement.

The Captain turned back to Hope. The subtle movements of her eyes told Hope that the Captain was processing this new information, likely inferring that the Tactical Officer had finally determined that the Star Wing was less of a critical threat to the ship and crew than he had originally claimed. Hope saw, though, that some concern remained in the Captain's eyes.

“I'll have to speak with him about that.”

Instead of speaking, Hope only nodded, once. She knew that, even now, the Tactical Officer was most likely completing a full and detailed report of their conversation and the reasoning behind his decision to grant the Star Wing freer access to the ship. Hope was certain, however, that the Star Wing would never be without a Security escort for as long as she remained on the ship.

That realization brought Hope's thoughts to a stop. She had not considered what Star Wing's fate might be if she remained on board the ship. For now, she would be likely to be treated as an honored guest. Were the ship return to Earth, or one of the major human colonies

. . . then what? Worse yet, Hope realized. How will my people react?

While Star Wing was undeniably Aerian, how would their carefully structured society respond when a barely-remembered, nearly legendary, anachronism from their past appeared among them? She would be, as far as Hope knew, unique. The Star Wing would be an object of curiosity, study and, Hope also realized, utterly alone. In this era, there were no others of her kind.

Certainly, Hope knew, once Star Wing's genome had been studied and verified, others of her kind could be created.

But they will be her kind in form only. They will not have shared her experiences or her existence.

Hope settled back against the bed, beginning to wonder whether these thoughts were wholly hers.

Surely, the Star Wing must think these things as well.

“You seem tired.”

The Captain's statement intruded into her thoughts. The lines of concern on the Captain's face deeped.

“I recover.”

The statement, she hoped, would cover for her distracted thoughts.

The Captain's expression eased slightly. “It'll be good to have you back where you belong.”

Her mouth formed a slight smile. The Captain's eyes turned up toward the Lieutenant, giving her a different, brighter and more reassuring smile. The Lieutenant smiled back, although it was not as wide, nor as sincere as the Captain's. Hope suspected that she had missed some underlying subtext in that silent conversation, but she could not perceive what it was.

“Yes.”

It was true. Although her body still needed more rest, she felt an increasing need to do something more than that.

The Captain smiled at her, brightly now, and patted her arm.

“I'll drop by again later,” the Captain told her. “Get some rest. I'll warn the crew to behave themselves in the meantime.”

The Captain's smile held for a moment, and her hand remained in contact with Hope for several more moments before she turned and headed for the main hatch.

Hope watched her go, and then settled back again against the bed. She attempted to clear her mind, to allow rest to return once more, but sleep eluded her for quite some time.

Heroic Measures: Deliver Us From Evil (continued)

Raynes’ expression remained calm. His eyes, however, betrayed his troubled thoughts. Seeing this, Walter’s concern grew.

This goes beyond your own personal failings, you selfish twit, he scolded himself.

Silently, he surveyed the expressions of the others gathered in the room. From what he could see, only he, Harrison, and Raynes seemed to be as deeply affected by the news.

Not Raynes . . .

He was not sure whether he was influenced by his respect and admiration for the man, but Walter could not believe that Raynes was capable of the same kind of lapse in moral judgment that he had suffered. It did not feel right. Raynes’ source of worry came from some other source.

Harrison, though . . .

Walter had no trouble at all believing that Harrison might have engaged in such an act—if not several times. Even though Harrison was divorced—three times over, if Walter had understood the rumors correctly—Walter suspected that any of Harrison’s acts of infidelity were likely not the chief cause of those dissolved marriages. Walter found it curious, though, that Harrison had not seemed to react until the man’s image was shown.

Of course, I wasn’t really paying any attention to him before that, Walter concluded. Giving another moment’s consideration, he finally decided that it was really was not any of his business.

“Perhaps,” Raynes agreed with the unidentified speaker, his voice soft and thoughtful.

He paused a moment before continuing. Walter wished, for far from the first time, that he could have a peek into the incredible man’s mind.

“In any event,” he went on, his tone rising with it accustomed confidence. “We know now who—or what—we’re looking for.”

“How does that help us, exactly,” a sharp male voice interjected. Walter turned to see that it was Dawson. “If it’s a metamorph, then it might look like anyone.” Dawson’s eyes swept across those seated around the table. “Even someone here.”

“Not likely,” Raynes responded with firm assurance. “Everyone here right now has DNA on record,” he reminded the barely post-pubescent hero. “There are no matches.”

“But—“

“Everyone,” Raynes interrupted the young man’s outburst, “will, of course, be screened again in light of this new information.” He straightened, his eyes looking out among the small crowd. “All locations are now under mandatory lockdown until the screenings are completed.”

Although his tone and expression were apologetic, Walter felt the firm resolve behind it.

“I’m afraid we have no other information at this time,” he added, closing his tablet and shutting off the floating display. “So,” he concluded, “if there are no other questions, let’s get this started and over with.”

Walter looked down toward the table top as Raynes turned and stepped away from his spot at its head. Because of that, he was surprised when Raynes’ voice came quietly from behind him.

“Walter,” Raynes said. “If you could spare a few moments?”

He gestured toward the door that led toward his office.

Walter’s stomach tightened into a sharp-edged knot. His face prickled with sudden warmth.

He knows . . . Walter tried to suppress a deep, resigned sigh. He knows.

“Of course,” he answered.

His voice was barely above a whisper. He was not sure whether or not Raynes had heard him, but Raynes turned and headed toward the door, clearly expecting Walter to follow him.

Walter rose from his chair, having to slide past only one other hero in order to follow Raynes. The room was emptying quickly as people sought other venues in which to continue their discussions.

Heroic Measures: Deliver Us From Evil

“We’ve finally identified this person,” Raynes said, changing the image on the screen.

Walter’s heart stopped, pierced by a sudden icy strike. He recognized both the face and figure of the woman displayed in the slowly rotating image. She had dwelled in his deepest thoughts, the one where he buried his darkest secrets, for years. He fought down the memories the sight of her brought forth: the dimly-lit bar, the hotel room filled with sharp-edged silhouettes, the tangle of crisp sheets shifting against his naked back . . .

“And this one,” Raynes continued, adding a second image to float adjacent to that of the woman. His voice brought Walter back like a purposeful guide to the present.

It was a dark-haired man, one that Walter did not recognize. There were similarities between both of them, he noticed: the line of the jaws, planes of both faces, and the same dark brown eyes. They shared the same dark hair, of course, but that in itself was not enough.

Lots of people have dark hair.

Still, he studied the two images more closely. They could be brother and sister.

“According what little DNA evidence we’ve been able to gather,” Raynes went on. “They appear to be the same person.”

The room grew suddenly much quieter. In his peripheral vision, Walter thought he saw Harrison flush for an instant. The man’s throat spasmed sharply. When Walter turned his head to look, though, he only saw Harrison’s head pointed straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the hovering images. Walter’s eyes turned away.

Twins?

No, he chided himself silently. Mixed-gender twins can’t be identical. Their DNA couldn’t be the same.

That realization renewed the chill in Walter’s chest.

That meant . . .

“That’s impossible,” something breathed aloud.

“Clones?” someone asked. Walter did not recognize who it was from the single word alone.

“Possibly,” Raynes responded calmly. “But unlikely. The DNA we’ve managed to collect seems to indicate that they are the same person.”

Walter stared at the two images suspended in the air before him. He had, of course, heard of such things: human beings with both male and female organs and genitalia. He was quite certain, though, that the woman he had desecrated his marriage vows with had been wholly female.

I wasn’t that drunk . . .

Raynes tapped a control on the table. A helical strand floated above the table adjacent to the images of the two figures. A series of formulas that Walter did not understand scrolled down the display alongside it.

“We’re thinking metamorph,” he said.

“Shapeshifter?” the voice from earlier asked.

Walter turned to look around at those gathered, but saw no sign of how it might have been who had spoken. Its pitch might have been female, but he was not certain.

“That’s impossible,” something else objected. “It’s never been seen—“

“Maybe now it has,” another voice interrupted.

A long moment of silence followed that pronouncement. Nearly all eyes turned toward Raynes, seeking answers to the questions that no one had dared yet ask aloud.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

He could stake it out himself, but wondered how he would handle it when his father appeared.

I can’t . . . just . . .

John could not hold onto the mental image of himself firing his weapon at his father, even with the taser’s non-lethal force. He could see trying to reason with him, to try to convince his father to turn himself in . . . to try to understand.

Choking back a lump, surprised at how his hand trembled, John reached for his radio. As his fingers brushed its controls, he froze at a sudden sound. He listened, trying to hear past the ambient noise of the air conditioner.

The garage?

He frowned, scowling. If it was that damned cat again, he was going to . . .

He stiffened. The noise came again. Quick and sharp, it was too brief for him to easily identify its location.

Inside the house?

Silently, he lifted his hand away from the radio. With slow, cautious steps, he headed toward the door. His hand moved to rest on his taser, ready to draw it in an instant. His other hand reached out slowly for the door handle. He gripped it, turning it slowly, trying to not have it make a sound.

Its soft click as the lock disengaged seemed loud in the small room. The door opened smoothly; its hinges did not make even the faint squeak that he feared.

John peered through the opening, half-expecting for something to leap into view in the narrow space. Nothing did, but he still did not relax. Something had made that sound.

He moved back into the short hallway, turning his head to survey his surroundings in all directions, even toward the ceiling. He felt belated foolishness at that, but pushed it away.

What was going to jump down at him from there? Some kind of alien?

I watched way too many of those movies with Dad . . .

The area was empty. John stood there, listening carefully, waiting for the sound to return. After several moments, when it did not, he took a few cautious steps forward. The carpet yielded almost soundlessly beneath his boots, but the floorboards underneath creaked just slightly.

He moved back toward the stairs, peering downward to see whether he could catch sight of someone—or something. His mind had still not completely dismissed the image of a rampaging xenomorph from his thoughts. He saw nothing, and began moving slowly down the stairs.

Every time one of them creaked above the sound of a soft whisper, he paused, waiting to see whether it stirred up any other sounds from elsewhere in the house. It did not, nor did the sound he had originally heard return. He began to feel rather foolish.

This place must settle a lot . . .

John headed down the stairs. For some reason, he paused on the first step on turned back to look toward his father’s bedroom. He had been so intent on searching his father’s office that he had not bothered to check that room—either for the presence of his father or for additional evidence.

“Damn it,” John whispered, quietly scolding himself. Get your head in the game here.

His mouth tightened into a frown. That sound he had heard had definitely come from somewhere downstairs.

Or had it?

For some reason, he left it had. That did not mean, he realized, that it actually had.

He glanced back down toward the lower floor.

What the hell is going on here?

The house was not haunted; he was sure of that. Not only did he not believe in such things, but it had never seemed so before now. In fact, it did not feel like a haunted house—and that was good enough for him.

After hesitating for another moment, he turned back and headed for his father’s bedroom. Cautiously, he opened the door wider, his eyes darting from side to side and then looking deeper into the room.

He stood there in the doorway, puzzled, but feeling more relaxed. The bedroom was almost exactly how he had expected to find it. The bed was carefully made. No dirty clothes were dumped in small piles on the floor. Everything was as carefully kept and tidy as it had always been. John saw no sign in this room, at least anything that was obvious to him, that his father had become unhinged.

His eyes turned toward the closet door. Other than for the bathroom, and the one leading back into the hallway, it was the only other door within this room. It anything was hidden in this room, it would be in there. Despite it feeling like a total cliché, John knew that he would need to check it out anyway. If he did not, he knew that it would nag at him until he did.

Crossing the room, his gaze sweeping its interior for anything that seemed unusual, he reached the closet in only a few long strides. He studied the door’s handle for a moment, feeling unexpectedly reluctantly to touch it. He shook the feeling off, silently chiding himself for imagining that it might be laced with snake venom or something.

Where did I hear about that?

It was an unlikely scenario, but he recognized it as a sign of just how highly strung he saw. He turned the handle, releasing it immediately, despite his silent rationalizations that his fears were, probably, unfounded.

A light flickered on from the ceiling, casting a pale, gray-white glow across the interior of the closet. Its angle from above him created sharp-edged shadows in the small space, creating an eerie, almost surreal environment. John looked around quickly, checking for anything that appeared to be immediately unusual or out of place. Nothing did.

His father’s shirts were all hung neatly, arranged by color and then by style: t-shirts, polo shirts, dress shirts, and so on. A half dozen pairs of shoes were aligned in a single row along one wall. On the shelves above, boxes and small crates of various sizes were stacked in careful order. John guessed that there was probably some kind of logical arrangement to those as well.

As his gaze passed across them, John wondered whether he should check through them all, looking for additional clues to his father’s suddenly unexplainable behavior. Something in his gut told him that he would he find nothing.

Or is it that I don’t want to find anything else . . . ?

John stepped back toward the closet doorway, performing one last survey of its interior.

I’ll leave for the police, he decided. If it comes to that.

He backed the rest of the way out of the closet and closed the door. He turned, his eyes scanning the interior of the bedroom again. As far as he could tell, there was nothing to be found there either.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

The haze grows darker, like growing storm clouds. They gather in silence. He thinks he should hear thunder . . . something. Then he realizes that he hears nothing . . . No, he hears the pulse of his heart as it labors to beat. All of his agony is now focused there, on his heart as it struggles, drained of blood, constricting tightly around itself. His lungs no longer function—or at least they no longer obey his will to force breath into his body.

Darkness thickens around him, leaving him with only the strangled sounds of his body for company. Pain sears his brain now, his thoughts spiking and then slowly shifting with sharp edges. Bright light sears his vision now, surprising him in the darkness.

The light?

Memories of childhood and stories about death and the light return to him. He tries to remember, but his thoughts and memories skitter away as he tries to keep hold on them.

One final breath. The light envelopes him . . . fades. There is silence. Whether there will also be peace, he does not yet know.

John swallowed, trying to make sense of the words he read. He knew that his father wrote strange stuff, but he had never guessed that it was anything like this. Spaceships and aliens, sure . . . but violent and bloody death scenes?

He stared down at the sheet. A chill spiked down his spine. He knew then what he had found—what he would find, if he searched his father’s files or hard drive.

Shit. Those envelopes . . .

The envelopes that had been at the scene of every suspicious death: they had included stories like these, describing the details of the person’s death before it had even happened.

A blueprint for murder.

Where had he heard that before?

John pondered it for only moment, dismissing it a piece of unimportant trivia. He stared down at the pages in his hand, his fingers unconsciously clutched around the sheets.

Who’s death is this?

He skimmed it again, but saw that no name was specifically mentioned in it. It seemed deliberate, and he wondered whether all of the stories had been done the same way.

Why? He knew who the victims would be.

John tried to understand it.

Didn’t he?

He remembered things he had read, about certain kinds of murderers. It had applied, he recalled, to military training as well: objectifying the enemy so that they were only just that: the enemy. They ceased to be person, to be individuals with hopes and dreams and connections to others.

John felt numb was shock, unable to cast his father in that light. For all the strangeness his father might have exhibited over the years, John had always seen it as harmless. He had seen violence and depravity in his job—signs of which he could not recall his father ever exhibiting.

How did I miss it?

Carefully, he placed the sheets back on the desk. As tempted as he was to conduct the search himself, he knew that it needed to be handled professionally. It was not that he could not manage it, but there was always the chance that the defense could claim that the evidence was tainted if not handled from start to finish by the correct authorities.

Damn it!

He could not believe it. It seemed so unlike his father—so unlike the man who would romp with the neighborhood kids in the front yard, take them on long bicycle rides up toward the historic farm. There was never anything—

They always say it’s the quiet ones . . . but that’s just a myth. Something broke him. But what?

John knew that, during his adolescence, he had put his share of strain on his parents. But his father had still been there for him: calm, rational . . . occasionally stubborn in his own way.

But why this?

It made a certain amount of sense, John realized.

The stories . . . that sounds like him. But . . .

The knot tightened in John’s stomach, sending a wave of vague nausea through him. It made no sense. He did not want to believe. Yet . . . here it was.

People snapped all the time. He knew this.

But . . . not Dad.

As much he wanted to, he could not deny the evidence that lay across the desk, nor nestled within the boxes.

And he’s still out there. Somewhere.

Was he out there, murdering someone even now?

John did not think so. The snippet of the story he had just read seemed unfinished, still a work in a progress. Still, he realized, that did not mean that a box had not been delivered to someone else.

No, John convinced himself with an unexpected certainty. He’s just on the run. His eyes turned toward the curtained window. But where?

Eventually, he knew, his father would need to return to the house.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

He waited, listening, trying to decide whether or not he had actually heard something. His subconscious apparently had, judging from his sudden tight grip around the handle of the taser.

Holding as still as he could manage, he stood there, waiting, and tried to listen. Whatever had prompted that unconscious response was not repeated, but it took an effort of actual will to loosen his cramped fingers from their grip on the taser.

“A bit jumpy, eh?” John murmured.

He moved toward the door again, feeling like a character in a bad horror movie. Any moment, he expected some murderous figure to appear in the doorway, wielding a chainsaw or bloody machete.

Get a grip, he warned himself.

This was how accidents happened—sometimes fatal ones, he knew. Officers on edge reacted without thinking, their animal brains overriding their training, wounding family members and fellow officers.

There.

It was a soft, quiet sound. It was so brief, though, that he could not make out what it was or where it had come from. Again, he waited, but after several long seconds it did not happen again. John began to wonder whether he might have imagined it—or, in his hyper-alert state, his subconscious was magnifying the smallest sounds as possible threats.

Taking a long, slow and calming breath, John closed and locked the door. The click of the lock seemed unnaturally loud. He turned back toward his father’s desk and the boxes stacked next to it.

Slowly, he sorted through the short stack of sheets on the desk. Some were bills, a few were receipts, and one seemed to be a story covered with handwritten corrections in bright red ink. He glanced at for only a moment, assuming that it was simply pages from one of his father’s countless manuscripts in progress.

How many of these has he actually ever published?

John felt a mild twinge of guilt that he did not know. His father’s stories, for the most part, had never interested him much. The usual settings and subject matter of starships and ray guns held small appeal for him. This, he assumed, was more of them same.

Even as he dropped it back to the desk, his eyes lingered on the top page for a moment. His subconscious registered something in the words they say there. John forced himself to read it more carefully.

A frigid chill shot through him. He stared down at the page, his gaze no longer focused on the page, but his mind seeing what had been described within its words there. He tried to swallow against rigid lump in his throat.

He screams, impaled by the post. His life blood flows from the wound, but not quickly enough that he will lose consciousness any time soon. Pain radiates from his chest, but he dare not move—any motion increases the agony. He gasps, trying to draw breath. Each inhalation brings more pain. He coughs, liquid thickly filling his lungs. Choking, he reflexively gasps, and agony tears through his chest.

He wants to cry out, to release the agony, but cannot draw enough breath—fears to. The blood begins to cool against his skin, thickening. The sensation makes him want to be ill, but only distantly. He realizes that his life blood continues to leak away.

A haze of gray pulses at the edges of his vision, like the slow lap of waves upon a still lake. It ebbs and flows, slowly, but inexorably. It clouds more of his vision with each beat, but slowly . . . slowly. He realizes that its pace matches the rhythm of his heart, the strangled constriction of his lungs. Both organs struggle in their own agony now, deprived of the vital life fluid they require to function.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

Feeling only slightly foolish, John pulled out his taser, aiming it ahead of him as it were a real pistol. Anyone who understood how the weapon worked--and he knew that his father did--would not be fooled, but it might make him hesitate just long enough for John to, if needed, disarm his father and subdue him.

John wondered, for a moment, if his father even knew how to handle a weapon. Sure, while he was growing up, there had been fake machine guns and swords, and even the occasional light saber (some of which his father still apparently owned), but he could not recall his father ever brandishing a real weapon of any kind. If anything, his father deplored violence in almost any form.

Even with those thoughts in mind, John did not let down his guard. The gun held up before him, John reached out and tried the door handle. It resisted at first, tightening his throat with a knot when he thought it was locked, and then turned. John breathed a slow breath of relief, not realizing that he had been holding it.

Slowly, cautiously, he pushed the door open, half-expecting it to be slammed closed in front of him. Although that did not happen, he was deliberate in his movement, listening for any sounds, alert for any motions.

The door swung fully open. The room was empty.

John paused, frowning. It was possible that the door had closed of its own accord, even prompted by his earlier movements within the room. His gut told him otherwise, even though there was no obvious evidence to support that feeling.

John turned slowly, moving in a tight circle until he once again faced the open doorway. He listened.

Nothing.

All he heard was the almost inaudible sound of air moving through the vents. If anyone else remained in the house, they remained silent and unmoving.

"Damn it," he whispered.

He wanted to turn back and search through the boxes on the floor and items on his father's desk, but something in him did not want him to turn his back on the open door.

That's strange, he pondered. He could not imagine his father attacking him from the rear unless provoked or fighting for his life.

*Maybe he is . . .* John considered grimly.

With a small, guilty start, he realized that he could close the door and lock it. If his father tried to enter, he would have plenty of warning in which to defend himself.

He reached for the door handle, and then stopped.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

There was no sign of his father. His car remained parked on the driveway, and John could not imagine the older man being able to run out of sight already, even given the time John had spent fighting with the garage door override. Studying the corner to his right, he decided that it was possible that his father might have made it that far and run down the cross street and out of sight.

Sure, John considered sourly. Like a middle-aged man running down the street in broad daylight wouldn’t be noticed.

It was possible, he decided, that it might not be, although not entirely likely. A few months ago, it might have been ignored, or forgotten within a few hours, by any neighbors who had happened to witness it. His father had a good reputation in the neighborhood. Although known for being a little different from most of the other fathers on the block—not caring much for football, for example—he had the neighborhood’s respect. They might not think much of it unless specifically asked.

The recent introduction of what essentially amounted to a virtual neighborhood watch program had made finding out about some things much simpler—but only if they were reported. There was a constant stream of reports of suspicious behavior, but it had become just so much noise—and John wondered whether it was still effective at all. In any case, his father’s presence or activities might go unreported even in that venue if he was recognized, unless he was unknown to someone—or acting in an obviously unusual or threatening manner.

Without turning around, John headed back toward the garage. If his father had fled, he was gone from sight. He had trouble imagining his father crouched, hiding in some bushes somewhere. It just did not seem like his father, but then never did what John believed that he had just discovered about his father.

As John stepped back into the garage, he wondered about his next move.

I should call the police.

That was the right and best thing to do, he knew, but something in his gut rebelled against the idea. It took him only a moment to recognize what it was.

He’s my dad, god damn it!

It felt noble, and stupid, but he needed to do this himself. He would bring his father in—to justice—rather than have him treated like some common criminal and the imaginable happened in the process. The case was just high-profile enough that the officers might be extra cautious when they apprehended him.

But you never know . . .

John walked back into the garage and reset the chain, slapping the door control on his way back into the house.

Once he was back inside it, he paused, taking a deep breath as he considered what to do next. His father might still be inside, hiding somewhere. Certainly, any clues that he might have left behind remained there. John wondered whether he should head back upstairs to his father’s office and search it more fully.

Something nagged at him, tickling his mind. It was a not a warning so much as a mental whisper that he might have forgotten something, that there was some detail he had failed to notice, some action that he was neglecting to take.

Fuck.

He hated it when that happened. Over time, though, he had come to learn to listen that impression. Moving through the house, he made his way slowly, carefully observing everything about its interior, looking for anything that seemed to be out of place or he could not remind being present before. Anything might provide a clue, he knew, to his father’s motives and whereabouts.

At the foot of the stairs, he paused again. Looking around, he checked once more for any signs of his father’s passage, or any clues that he might have missed earlier. Nothing seemed unusual or out of place, so he headed back up the stairs.

Before he reached the top, his hand tightened around the grip of his taser. It took John a moment to realize why. When he did, he heart felt like stone.

The door to his father’s office was closed.

He had not closed before heading down to the garage; he was sure of it. Even if it had somehow swung shut of its own accord, he did not believe that it would have closed completely. He froze, listening for any sounds coming from its interior—or from anywhere on that level of the house.

He heard nothing. If his father was hiding or moving around in the office, the door was muffling the sounds of his movements.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

He tugged on the cord, but nothing gave. Pausing for a moment, he tried to remember which way he needed to pull it to disengage the chain.

It’s not like I do this every day, he comforted himself.

John then remembered, through a sudden flash of memory, that it required a forward pull, in the direction of the door. He swore several mumbled words, as he had the least amount of traction and balance moving in that direction. Worried that he might lose his grip otherwise, he went ahead and yanked on the cord. Once again, nothing moved; he began to doubt his memory.

Grunting with the effort, and the sharp pain that shot down his overextended fingers, he tried again. The lock remained in place, and then, with a sudden movement, snapped free.

John stumbled forward, crashing against a low stack of crates. He managed to catch himself before he sprawled completely, but still managed to make plenty of noise. Even as he swore none too softly, he hoped there had been nothing too breakable in any of them.

The handle swung wildly on its cord. John hoped that he had managed to pull it far enough to disengage the lock. If he had not, he was not certain that he repeat the feat.

Moving quickly toward the garage door, he knelt and gripped its bottom edge. Tugging on it, he breathed a deep and audible sigh of relief when it slid easily upward.

He blinked as daylight assaulted him. His eyes had adjusted to the relative dimness of the garage. Now, he blinked away tears as his vision tried to adapt once more. Squinting in the sunlight, he peered down the sidewalk, checking both to his left and right.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

He waited, listening, trying to sense whether there was someone else in the space. Dust motes danced like miniature fairies along the streams of daylight around him. None seemed more agitated than other, implying that no one had disturbed them. Still . . .

John stepped further into the garage, trying see beyond the stacks of cardboard boxes and translucent storage crates. Nothing moved among them, but that meant nothing. His weapon ready, he moved into the space between two of their rows.

He spun, causing them to sway, as the door leading to the house closed and clicked. It took a moment for it to register, for that door had often stuck, but the additional sound was unmistakable.

Fuck. He locked me in.

John turned to face the large garage door. The automatic opener would make it difficult to open, but he could manually disengage the system. Peering upward, he tried to determine how easily he could reach the mechanism with the boxes and crates in the way. The bright orange-red handle dangled tauntingly on its cord, just out of easy reach.

He turned. There was another door that led to the outside of the house. Going that way, though, meant that he would also have to unlock the gate that led out to the driveway and street. Staring back at the large door, he realized that neither route was an optimal one, and that he would lose time going either way.

Better than going back through the house, he considered unhappily. But not by much . . .

He opted for the large door, as he was nearer to it. Reaching the smaller one that led to the side yard would mean navigating his way back out through the stacks of storage crates.

Stretching upward, his fingers missed brushing the manual override handle by barely more than an inch. He stretched, balancing himself precariously on his toes, watching his fingertips barely brush the plastic thin handle, while at the same time, knocking it away.John swore silently, and then realized that he might be able to make that work to his advantage. When the handle swung back, he was able to grab it, although tenuously, but enough to get a firm enough grip to wrap his fingers around it. They ached from the tension, but he held on.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

He heard something, faint and seeming to come from a distance. He could not make out what the noise was; it sounded almost like a cat scratching at a door to be let out.

Cat?

John tried to remember whether his father had a cat. As far as he could remember, there had not been one in the house since they had been forced to put Calico to sleep.

Mice? Or something else?

The sound did not immediately repeat, although he was certain that he did not imagine having heard it. He once again began moving toward the stairs, continually turning his head back toward the other rooms to check for any signs—sights or sounds—that someone might be in them.

He reached the top of the stairs, preparing to make his way down them, when a new sound echoed through the quiet. It was the sudden, sharp sound of something falling and then stopping abruptly. John was certain that it had come from the garage—or at least the area outside near it.

Before he realized it, he was leaping down the stairs, clearing two of them at a time. He reached the door that led to the garage in moments, throwing it open without hesitation. His taser, raised like a pistol, led his way.

The garage was dark. Not entirely dark, as light filtered in through the small windows mounted near the top of its large door that opened to the driveway. The air contained the same unventilated, musty feel that it was always had, except during rainy weather. If someone had passed through it lately, or been working on there, John could not tell by any change in its ambient aroma.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

Two boxes were stacked neatly in a corner. Something about their color and condition told John that they had been delivered recently. The top one was unsealed, its wide transparent slit neatly from end to end. He reached down and opened one flap and then the other one. Light reflected off the clear plastic bags that protected its contents. John leaned closer, unable to clearly see the box’s contents in the odd shadows of the room.

His breath caught and he froze, even before it registered on his consciousness what he saw. Transparent film reflected some of the light back at him, causing John to squint and shift to get a better look. The glossy plastic packages nestled within the box protected items that it took him only a moment to identify: inexpensive gym bags of various colors, exactly like the ones he had seen at each of the murder scenes.

John stared down at them, trying to conjure up any rational reason why his father might have purchased them. He was not much of an athlete. Hardly one at all, John knew, other than for semi-regular trips to the local gym during the week. There was no reason he needed all of these bags just for that . . .

Staring down into the box, John realized that it appeared to be only half-full. Clearly, some of the bags had been removed and—

John froze at a sound coming from somewhere outside the door. Turning slowly, his hand rested ready to draw his taser. He waited, listening, ready to move dart out quickly when the sound was repeated.

For several long moments, nothing happened. John took a slow, deep breath, realizing that he had almost been holding it in.

There!

It was not exactly the same sound, and might have been just another ambient noise from the house, but John moved anyway. He was in the hallway before he realized that he did not know exactly where the noise had come from, other than that it had come from somewhere outside the room. Turning his head slowly, he continued to listen, waiting for another clue as to the source of the noise. Again, several long seconds passed.