Skyfire (9 page)

“Unknown. There is nothing I can do independently to mitigate this, and there is not enough time to return to RCV4, assemble the council, and plan a course of action.  We must move immediately.”

“Brother, do you fully understand that of which you speak?  You do not have universal input right now.  What are you planning to do?” 

As enlightened and powerful as Ætherean culture had become over the last 800 years, it could still stifle citizens from making independent decisions, without the consult of limitless information, input, and cooperation. 

Ronak did not lack for a sense of independence. He had been placed in difficult situations in the past.  He understood that the primary function of a Legate was never to act as a combat operative.  Legates were emissaries of the Ætherean people - erudite in cross-cultural interaction, application of lessons learned from all known histories, political manipulation of developed societies, and much more.  They took pride in monitoring and providing balance to the galaxy.  Yet combat was certainly included in the compendium of education and training afforded to all Legates.  Ronak, unfortunately, had needed to apply this aspect of his education on more than one occasion - once when he was 92 years old, and again at 214. Both instances were during unintentional wars Æther irresponsibly ignited with factions they should never have been analyzing.  In life, Æthereans believed that being nice to others was paramount.  But Ronak had learned that being nice did not always work.  If needed, he was always ready to act.  He took pride in individual resilience, much more than the vast majority of other Legates.  Successful exploits in combat had given him confidence throughout his life.

“Nexus, I realize this is unorthodox, but at this rate we will lose a young species under our protection within months.  I must make first contact now.  We need to round up their best available minds.  We need to find a solution.  Observation will not suffice any longer.”

“Legate, you have a reputation for unnecessarily bold action when you lack the convenience of universality.  Are you certain of this?  RCV4 Nexus again reminds you that this is all being archived as we speak.”

“RCV4 Nexus, this phenomenon may mean the end of the valued way of life you so poignantly mentioned earlier in our conversation.  The terrans are utilizing iron tools to remove earth from the ground.  They are placing the earth into nylon receptacles and stacking these upon one another as a means of defense.  They have formed a perimeter of warriors equipped with tools that expend molded lead at high velocities, in hopes they might live.  They are apprehensive, and lack any idea regarding a proper reaction to this scenario.  Their warriors do not stand a chance.  But instinct tells me they have the means to find the terran scientists who can, at a minimum, begin to comprehend the magnitude of what we face.  We can combine thought processes and move forward with a solution that works for them.  Remember, you were skeptical of my decisions during the second war against the heretics as well.  If you want to inform the council that the only living Legate with two Valorous Accolades of The Veil is about to make first contact impulsively and that you do not support it, you have my encouragement.  I do not wish to diminish your illustrious record of service.  You can help me, or await my return and punish me.  As you said, time is of the essence.  Ronak out.”

Thermoptic camouflage deactivated.  First contact procedure initiated.
  Ronak slowly walked toward the terran leaders’ recon, plainly visible, his arms outstretched to his sides.

JESSICA

Hoboken looked as old as its long history suggested.  Frank Sinatra and baseball had been born there.  Nearly three hundred years earlier, Henry Hudson had landed in the area while working for the Dutch East India Company.  What became Hoboken had been an agrarian community then.  By the 1800s, it had developed into a waterfront resort for people from New York City.  By the early 1900s, it was a waypoint for much of America’s World War I military might.  “Heaven, hell, or Hoboken by Christmas!” had been a common phrase during the Second Battle of the Marne.  By the Second World War, Hudson County had two tunnels and a ferry network connecting North Jersey to New York City. The area’s thriving industry supported America’s military machine as it grinded across Europe and North Africa. 

Trent sighed as he walked down Willow Avenue.  What had once been a down-to-Earth, blue-collar town with real people had morphed into an ugly, bankrupt, overtaxed, wannabe high-end hovel, infested with privileged college students and the new money of Manhattan’s most recent litter of finance babies.  It was a sea of Ed Hardy and Affliction T-shirts.  A great many people despised it.  However, anyone would have traded everything to see it that way now; dead bodies lining the streets were not an upgrade to a douchebag subculture. 

It was eerily quiet.  The chill in the air was moderated by the sun, directly overhead.  Trent took off his sweatshirt and pulled out his favorite Yankees hat from the flap in his assault pack.  The hat fit into place snugly over his close-cropped, dark hair.  The sun and continuous movement made him hot.  He looked to the left and right, at the narrow, nearly identical row houses.  There were a lot of deep reds on the exteriors of the buildings. The street barely had any place to walk because it doubled as the most poorly planned parking lot anyone could design.  The excessive dead bodies lying everywhere along their path didn’t help matters.  They walked single file, Trent in the lead, weapon up and scanning diligently.  Callie was in the rear, Jessica in between.

“Hey Trent, why do all the houses look like small versions of my school?” asked Jess.

“Jess, this town is old as hell.  Some people like to call it ‘charm,’ but I just call it old.  No one wants to do anything about modernizing it, but it’s close to Manhattan and you pay a ton for the privilege of being part of it.  It’s nonsense. It’s why I bought a place back on the Boulevard instead of here or Jersey City.”

I don’t understand why people would pay so much for something that sucks
, thought Jessica
.  I remember that one time mom’s old boyfriend brought me to a music festival at Sinatra Park.  An older guy tossed bottles onto the stage, stopping the music, and then he threw up all over himself before the cops took him away.  The whole time his pregnant girlfriend was yelling at the police until she got put in the car too.  How could Ray have thought it was OK to bring me to that while he was watching me?  I don’t like this place. 

“So what is your shitty job?” said Trent, careful not to take his eyes off the road ahead.

Callie breathed a deep drag of her joint before tossing it onto the ground.  “I’m a dancer.”

“Really? I love dancing!  What kind of dancing do you do?” asked Jessica.

“Well Jessica, I do the kind you don’t want to get into.”

Who doesn’t want to dance?
“Ummm, OK.”
Jessica turned her attention back to the fractal presence over the city.

“Aaahhh, OK,” said Trent.

“Oh please, don’t make this weird.  I do it for the money.  It’s just a means to an end,” said Callie.

“No, not at all. I love strippers!  I lost my virginity to a stripper in New Orleans when I was 19 years old!” Trent said, thinking how awkward he sounded. 

“Oh Jesus, you’re one of those.”

“One of what? I’m not some creep!”

What are these guys talking about?
Jessica wondered.

“No,” Trent continued, “what I meant was, I am the last person to judge a stripper.  I mean, it’s not like I go around fucking strippers all the time.  I was 19 and she wasn’t a hooker and I didn’t pay her,” said Trent.

“Alright, so, just the way you said ‘last person to judge a stripper’ makes me feel terrible.  That and think about how you basically just equated being a stripper to being a prostitute.  Come on man, look at the obvious.  This is why you should be smoking this weed with me.  Right now, emotionally, you’re like if you took a twelve year-old kid with Down syndrome and put him in an antique store with a lot of expensive shit, and then gave him a sledgehammer to play with. And you‘re doing all this thinking, nah, he won’t use his retard strength to break anything.  He’ll just play quietly.”

“I’m really sorry Callie.  You’re absolutely right.  I didn’t mean any offense.  I put my foot in my mouth all the time.  I’m trying to be better at recognizing it nowadays, but I still fuck up a lot.”

“I know.  I can tell you’re not a bad dude, but just think, man.  Clearly, I’m not pleased with the way events transpired in my life.  I’m just trying to make some quick money while I still have my looks, so I can move onto bigger and better things.”

Wow, she’s kind of smart, in a weird way. She’s really pretty too. 
Jessica was quickly taking a shine to Callie.
 

“I get it.  Again, I’m really sorry,” said Trent.

The sky turned overcast in a matter of minutes.  Prior to this, the weather had been some of the best any of the three had seen in autumn in a long time.  Now, tumultuous clouds began expanding from the stationary phenomenon over the city.  Each point of the storm looked as if it were the perfect spiral of hundreds of miniature galaxies, swirling in limitless patterns.  None of it made any sense.

“Dude, shit’s getting weird now.  I mean, it’s been odd, but what the fuck is all THAT?”  said Callie.

I feel sick.  It’s coming back.  The red feeling is coming back. 
“Trent, I don’t feel good,” said Jessica in barely more than a whisper.

“I have no idea what that is,” said Trent.  “I don’t think it’s anything we know of yet.”

“What the hell do you mean, man?” Callie asked.

“Well, I know we didn’t make it…  There was this thing I saw in Braddock Park yesterday,”  said Trent. 

Callie looked extremely puzzled.

“Trent.  Callie.  I think I’m gonna throw up.” Jessica’s nausea began to overtake her.

“Jess, c’mon.  Those MREs from earlier weren’t that bad,” joked Trent.

Oh my god, he doesn’t understand again.  It’s coming back.  Mommy, help me.
  “Guys, help.  I can’t kee-,”  Jessica stopped and threw up all over her shoes. She fell to her knees as dead weight, lacking any strength to brace her fall.  She heaved again.  Her high-pitched child’s cry was shrill enough to be heard over the gagging and spitting as her vomit hit the ground.  Squeak, gag, splash – again and again.  It was clear that Jessica was in immense pain.

“Oh, honey!  Come here, baby.  Come to Callie!”  Callie mustered every ounce of maternal instinct she had as she ran to Jessica and pulled her long brown hair behind her head, clearing it from the path of vomit.

“Callie, I’m sorr-” Another bout of vomit emptied out onto the pavement, splattering across Jessica’s hands as well as Callie’s clothing and face. 
Callie, Trent, Mommy. Anyone.  Please.  I’m dying.  Please help me.  I don’t know what to think.  Please god!  Mommy said you were real that one time and that you help little girls when they ask for help!  Why aren’t you helping me? 
Jessica had no strength left to keep herself upright. She fell forward onto her forearms, her forehead resting on the ground.  She shivered and expelled the remaining contents of the morning’s meal. 

“Holy shit, Callie.  This is not good,” said Trent.

“THANKS DR. HUGHES, IS THAT YOUR PROFESSIONAL OPINION?” 

“Callie seriously, we need to move.  We need to haul ass.  I already couldn’t save this fucking kid’s mom yesterday. I refuse to lose another one or you or anyone!  Enough is e-fucking-nough!”

“Dude, wait.  What happened to this kid’s mom?”

“Some tweakers tried to assault her on the Boulevard.  One of them got her before I could get him.”

“Shit Trent, what do you mean GET him?  What happened to the ‘tweakers’?”  Callie said, putting “tweakers” in air quotes.  She was not convinced.  She placed her hand on the Beretta she had only shot once.

“Look, I need to get this girl medical attention.  Fucking come with me or don’t!”  Trent picked up Jessica and held her tight to his chest.  Trent didn’t seem to care Callie was seriously considering the prospect of shooting him.

“Did you kill them?” asked Callie.

“Yeah, I did.  Trust me, what the fuck do you think I am, some pedo trying to steal a kid during the end of everything?  I just want to find my goddamn wife and not be responsible for anyone else dying today.  Or for the rest of my life.  Now, are you going to fucking shoot me or not?  I am going to turn around and start walking.  We are a little over half a mile out.”

Callie was silently analyzing Hughes.

“Look, Jessie is whimpering.  She’s in pain.  I am walking the rest of the way to JC with or without you, but I’m asking you to take a leap of faith here.  I have never, nor will I ever, hurt this girl, you, or anyone else that isn’t trying to fuck our shit up.”  Trent’s voice cracked; he began to tear up.

Callie was dumbfounded by this outburst of such unbridled emotion.  If nothing else, she respected him for it. 

Trent lowered his voice and composed himself.  “Callie, I’m turning around now to get us to safety.  I sincerely hope you follow and don’t shoot me in the back with that pistol you keep groping like it’s some scumbag’s hog at your club.”

“I’ll do you one better, dude. Let me carry her.  I’ll keep an eye out behind us.  You just keep that thing you got raised and pointed up, doing that scanning thing you’ve been doing for the last few hours.”

“Fuck you, bitch!  You expect me to give you the kid AND my back?”

“Trust for trust, right?” said Callie.  “Leap of faith?”

How come they can’t just be friends?  The red is too scary!  Mommy!

Callie and Trent were locked in their own version of a Mexican standoff.  Neither would allow the other to win this battle of wills.  Both were so emotionally damaged that they refused to be the first to fully confide in the other.  It was a display of the horribly deteriorated state of society.

“Trent, please help me.  You promised,” whimpered Jessica as she cried into Trent’s shoulder.

“Fuck this.  Callie, kill me if you want.  I got shit to do.  Offer still stands.”  Trent turned around and began walking with the longest strides he could muster, carrying his gear, the child, and her small knapsack.  He walked about one hundred meters toward Jersey City.  His legs and lungs burned.  Then he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Hey dude, you made a new friend.  If you ever call me a bitch again, I will fucking cut your dick off and shove it down your throat.  Give me the girl and her backpack.”

Thank God.  The red…

“Thanks, Callie.  I’m sorry.  Here, take her.  Imagine you have my kid now.  That’s how important her not dying is to me.  I will fall apart if I make another one dead.”

“You got it, dude.  Let’s roll,” said Callie.