Burnout: the mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 (16 page)

Curious, and wanting to understand, Crash asked gently, "Where?"

Anders' eyes glistened for a moment. "When we were younger… when we first became… became lovers," he murmured, then broke off. "I mean, we're both astronomers. It was… she told me, if anything ever happened, if she died before me, she'd wait for me. She told me to look for her in the heart of the Great Nebula in Orion. That I should meet her there, and we'd start out from there and spend eternity exploring the Universe together." His voice cracked, and he paused, swallowing again. "Sounds like total drivel, I know."

"No, Mike. It sounds… perfect." The dark eyes softened in compassion.

"Well, you have to know Cayleigh," Anders explained, a tender, affectionate smile breaking through his somber, strained expression. "There was no question but that I'd agree. For the two of us… it is perfect. Don't forget this, Crash. It's important. Promise me. If anything happens… tell her."

Crash met Mike's pleading eyes, his own troubled. "I will, Mike, I swear." Then he mentally shook himself, trying to break the spell of foreboding that seemed to have fallen over both of them. "If it comes to that. And it won't, not if I can help it," he vowed. Anders nodded acceptance. Suddenly Crash lunged forward on impulse, hugging the other man somewhat awkwardly. "Gonna be okay, Mike," he encouraged, slapping him on the back. "We'll make it." He released Anders, not quite looking at him.

Anders nodded again. "Yeah," he said in a hoarse whisper.

Together, they clambered out of the RV and secured it, surreptitiously initiating the special security system that Anders' "boys" had had installed. Trying to lighten the mood, Crash suggested, "What you ought to get is one ‘a the little talismans the local Indians make."

"Huh?"

"You know, a little fetish, a carved figurine," Crash elaborated, more than half serious. "Different ones are supposed to do different things. Moneymaking, love, protection, all kinds of stuff like that. You need a protection fetish. Not that it necessarily does anything, in my opinion, except provide a little encouragement. Still, right now, I figure we need all the encouragement we can get."

Anders stared at Murphy. "How the hell do you know all that?"

"Mom was half-Indian, from Oklahoma. Cherokee and Irish. Dad was full Irish. That's why I was born with dark brown hair, and my brother Jimmy was born a redhead. Dad had hair like a house afire." Crash grinned.

"Oh."

They entered the trading post and began to look around.

* * * *

The old man saw the newcomer enter the trading post with a friend, and he rubbed his eyes for a moment, in surprise.
No, it's still there,
he noted.
A grey mist. All around him, all over him. THAT sure rings a bell.
The dark-skinned Zuni elder stared at the fair, blue-eyed Australian while he rummaged through decades of memory. At last he found what he sought…

* * * *

"Remember, Vernon," his teacher had told him, after he came back from his vision quest. "You saw the grey mist. This is important. You must remember. You will see the grey mist again and again. In your visions, in your dreams. It is the in-between, the not light, and the not dark; the not life, and the not death, the not waking and the not sleeping. It is the mark of the between," the elder emphasized to the boy.

"But why have I seen it?" young Vernon asked, puzzled.

"Because it is given to you to see it," came the cryptic answer. "You may never, in your entire life, see it with your living eyes. But know that, when it appears to you, whether in vision or dream or living world, that thing, or animal, or person, stands on the edge of a precipice. It is up to you if they stand, or fall."

* * * *

The old man behind the counter nodded pensively to himself as he returned from his reverie. His eyes once more sought out the blond Australian, seeing the grey mist, and beneath, an open, red heart, beating with love and caring. About the Blond's head, mingled into the mist, was a myriad of stars; his ears listened to the soft lilt of the man's foreign-accented voice as he spoke to his dark-haired friend. Dark Hair--who, Vernon saw, walked a red road--pointed toward the jewelry, toward the old man; and the Blond turned, uncertain, but moving in Vernon's direction. The elder pursed his lips, unsurprised.

He is not Zuni,
the old man thought.

Remember
, came the answer.
It is up to you.

"May I help you?" the old Zuni asked Anders.

* * * *

The tiny carving in lapis lazuli caught Anders' eye and kept it. He tried to move past, but was drawn inexorably back. Curious, he finally signaled the old Zuni man behind the counter. "Excuse me--what's this?"

"Oh, you like that?" the Zuni grinned, veiling his knowing gaze. "That's a really interesting piece. The design is very old!" he explained with enthusiasm, removing the tiny fetish on its silver neck chain from the glass display case, and handing it to Anders. "It's based on ancient petroglyphs that our ancestors made."

Anders stared down at the little talisman in fascination, turning it over in his hands. It was a simple, stylized biped, with somewhat crude "mitten" hands and booted feet. The body was stocky, and appeared to be wearing a backpack detailed with buttons, or perhaps gauges, of some sort. The head was oversized and spherical; two large eyes and a mouth slit were carved into the stone, but no other facial features appeared. From the top of the round head, two short, thick antennae protruded. In between these a bail had been affixed through which the thick silver chain ran. On the upper left side of the body, a tiny gecko was etched, like the logo on a shirt. Turning the figure over once more, he spotted a long, thick, tapering tail attached to the back of the legs.

Anders glanced up from his mesmerized study of the artifact, to find the old Indian grinning at him. "Like it, do ya?" the old man asked again.

"Yeah," Anders answered uncertainly, then blurted, "What is it?"

"He, he, he," the old man chuckled in a wheezing laugh. "Nobody really knows."

"Huh?"

"Well," the old Zuni elaborated, "some ‘a those… whadda they call ‘em? New Agers? You know, them folks that go huntin' f'r the vortexes an' ley lines an' stuff. They say they're alien astronauts," the elder continued. "The original stone carvings and paintings were made by the Anasazi, the Ancient Ones. But nobody really knows what it's s'posed to be."

"Is it a…"Anders searched his mind for the word Murphy had used, "a fetish?"

"Oh, yeah."

"What's it… do?"

"This one? Oh, this one is for protection."

Anders' eyebrows shot upward
. Alien astronauts… protection… why am I not surprised? Hell, even the stone it's carved from looks like a star-filled night sky.

"You want it, don't you?" the elder continued, prodding gently. "You should get it. It's calling you."

"What?" Anders stared at the man as if he'd grown a tail himself.

"If it's too expensive, I'll knock ten percent off," the elder added, wheedling.

Anders stood almost rigid as an internal debate took place.
I'm a bloody scientist. What am I doing? This is nothing but superstition. But can it possibly be a coincidence? Ah, it's just a selection effect. If I hadn't been thinking about similar things, I'd never have noticed it. Still…

"O… okay. I'll take it," he answered, impulsiveness winning out over skeptical uncertainty. He laid down a beautiful pair of inlaid turquoise and silver earrings, dangling from French hooks, that he had found earlier on a jewelry display. "I want these, too."

"Ooo. Your lady will love these," the old man grinned again. "They're handmade by a really good Navajo artist." He picked up both the fetish necklace and the turquoise earrings. Holding them cupped in his hands, he began to chant softly in Zuni, in a singsong voice, eyes closed. He raised his hands up to eye level, tilting his face toward the ceiling, then ended the chant and opened his eyes. He removed the small tag from the fetish necklace, then handed it to Anders. "Here. Go ahead and put it on while I ring this stuff up."

Anders complied, studying his image in a mirror behind the counter while the old Zuni painstakingly rang up the purchase. "Hm," was all he said, noting how the little lapis carving seemed to immediately find a spot inside the collar of his grey polo shirt, just below the hollow of his throat, where it lay, soothing and cool.

"Oh, that looks good," the Indian noted, looking up. "Don't take it off. That'll be $167.43."

Pulling out the "special" plastic the government men had given him, Anders handed it to the man, asking, "Don't take it off? Why?"

"Protection," the old man winked, swiping the card through the reader.

"Hm," Anders said again, signing the receipt.

The astronomer took the little box which now contained the earrings, and left.

Crash was already back in the Cheyenne Mountain when Anders climbed aboard.

"Got something for Cayleigh?" he asked.

"Yep," Anders mused.

"I'll drive awhile," Crash offered. "You get that ready to mail, and do whatever else you need to."

"Okay." Anders made his way into the back of the RV.

* * * *

Another Native store clerk joined the old Zuni man at the storefront window, as he watched the RV leave the parking lot. "You finally sold the ‘spaceman,' Vernon?" the young woman asked, curious.

"Yup," Vernon answered. "It was calling him. I could feel it."

"But he isn't even from the States, by the sound of him," the woman protested mildly. "Let alone… Zuni."

"Don't matter," Vernon replied calmly. "I knew when I made it ten years ago, whoever it called to, was gonna need it. It's going where it needs to be."

"I heard you singing. You bless it?"

"Of course. Couldn't you see the grey mist around him? He's going to dark places. He needs all the help he can get."

The woman shrugged, indifferent. "Whatever." She turned to go back to her counter, then paused. "Vernon?"

"Yeah?" The elder stared off down the now empty road. In the distance, a sun glint might have marked where the Cheyenne traversed the rust red desert. Or perhaps not.

"One thing about that fetish I never understood…"

"What's that?"

"The little gecko. I mean, I've seen the stone drawings. You reproduced it exactly--except for the little gecko on the chest. That's not in the rock paintings."

"No, it isn't," the old man replied.

"So?"

"So what?"

"So why the gecko?" The woman was beginning to grow exasperated.

"Because that's what they wear," Vernon answered, smiling mysteriously.

* * * *

Blake turned off the surveillance in his room after rowing up a six-pack of Tooheys on the table, making it obvious that he intended to take some down time and de-stress. Grabbing a can, he flung himself on the bed and popped the lid, knocking it back for a long swig. Reaching for the remote, he turned on the television, searching for something of interest on the satellite feeds that the underground installation received. He ended up, disgusted, on the weather channel.

"Satellite stations from all over the ruddy world, and I end up watching the weather for bloody freakin' Death Valley," he grumbled, irked.

Blake knocked back the beer again. As his head tilted, something unusual caught the corner of his eye.

Down near the floor, in the shadowed corner between the door and the bath, was a small section of wall that appeared to be a different texture from the rest of it. Puzzled, Blake set aside the can of beer, putting it on the bedside table, and stood, moving to the corner. He bent down and studied the area of wall, then knelt and ran his fingers over it.

"Crikey," he said in surprise. "It's…" Probing fingers found a latch, hidden in the edge of the industrial grey carpet, and Blake flipped it.

Without a sound, the section of wall opened up, revealing a rather large tunnel, some three feet wide by four high, dimly lit and utilitarian. Blake's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

In moments, he'd crouched down and crawled in, exploring. Only a few feet in, he found a circuit breaker box and some plumbing. A few feet past that, he discovered a junction. The small maintenance tunnel opened out, merging with several similar tunnels, running far off to the left, out of sight.

"Ooo," Blake murmured, beginning to nose around.

* * * *

A few hours later, the pair traded off driving the Cheyenne again. Crash disappeared into the back of the RV, telling Anders he was going to go over the data in more detail, and Anders nodded. The astronomer turned on the CD player and popped in a jazz music CD to keep himself company as he drove.

Two hours later, as they were passing through a small town, Crash emerged from the back of the RV, sitting down in the passenger seat beside Anders. "Found it," he said with satisfaction.

"Found what?"