by Mich Moore
Honestly, it looked doubtful. But would it inspire the people living through the troubling events of the here and now to hope for these things? Well, if nothing else, its spectacular good looks would cause a few much needed goose bumps of delight!
Tennyson snapped out of his reverie. "I'd like to say hello. What are the names of the Archangel pilots?"
Chambers glanced out the window at the waiting spacecraft. "Captain Russell Datmita and Captain Leslie Datmita."
"Are they related?" Tennyson asked.
"Yes, sir. Captain Cornfield, would you patch us through to Archangel, please?"
"Will do."
Tennyson watched as the SA-72s rocked gently from side to side and felt oddly at peace. This was a good sign.
"Okay, sir. We're connected," Cornfield announced. "Archangel, this is RAF Fox8. Please acknowledge. Over."
A pleasant male voice filled the cockpit. "Roger. Fox8, this is Captain Russell Datmita. Archangel One. Over."
The co-pilot handed the prime minister his headphones. Summoning up some vestige of his old stagecraft days, Tennyson spoke into the headset's mic with the Imperial tone. "Captain Datmita, this is William Tennyson of the United Kingdom. I just wanted to say welcome aboard the team ... and that so far, so good! You look fantastic over there!"
The prime minister was surprised when a low, sultry female voice answered. "Roger. This is Captain Leslie Datmita, Archangel Two. You are very kind, Mr. Prime Minister. Thank you. Over."
Tennyson jolted in his seat. He shot a look of total surprise at Chambers, who just stood there watching the SA-72s through the cockpit windows.
The prime minister moved his bottom around, allowing his upper body to loosen up. "Well, thank you!" Tennyson depressed the mic button again. "Captains, I look forward to meeting you both when we arrive in Paris." The Canadian prime minister was hosting a state dinner for the former American president, Doug Haverson, later that evening in honor of the first Archangel flight. Dignitaries from all of the G5 nations would be in attendance. Tennyson was smiling to himself. What would the first female spaceship captain look like? Pretty or plain? He had not had a proper conversation with a woman since The Troubles started. That might be a nice thing to do.
Tennyson's mind raced forward to more practical matters. Archangel might represent the end to a long nightmare and the beginning of a long-sought dream—Man's finest living amongst the stars. These brave and highly trained Archangel pilots and the astronauts aboard the Docking Disc would form the cornerstone of that dream. He believed that they had just crossed over into a new era of mankind's history: the Star Age.
"Likewise, Mr. Prime Minister," Captain Russell Datmita replied. "Over and out."
With that, the two aircraft banked ninety degrees, collapsed into two single points, and vanished.
"Jesus!" he exclaimed. "How did they do that???"
No one said anything. Then a man's voice that Tennyson had not heard before came over the cockpit speaker.
"Who's this?" Tennyson demanded.
Chambers grinned again. "Identify yourself, please."
"Hello, Mr. Prime Minister. This is Neal Broussard, executive officer of the Archangel Docking Disc. It's a pleasure to meet you. Over."
Tennyson sighed. "Likewise. Well, Mr. Broussard, we've seen the Archangel spaceships and I cannot lie, I'm impressed. The Docking Disc ... well, I'm still having some difficulty getting my mind around that one, but I trust staff here and if they say your people can help us accomplish this mission, then you have my support for as long as I can give it."
"Thank you, sir. We appreciate that."
A mischievous gleam came into the prime minister's eyes. "Mr. Broussard, how's the steering on that thing?"
There was a momentary pause. "Not bad. Captain Hoestettler actually pilots the Disc. But if you want my opinion, it doesn't handle turns as well as I'd like."
Tennyson laughed heartily. "O-kay. Thank you for the demonstration today. I look forward to meeting you tonight at the dinner."
They could all hear light chuckling through the tinny speakers. "Same here, Mr. Prime Minister. Over and out."
The Docking Disc gradually receded into the background, leaving the presidential plane alone in empty, untroubled air.
Tennyson thanked the men for a job well done. A steward rolled out several bottles of Champagne and the group spent the remainder of the flight toasting each other.
Near the end of the flight, Tennyson cornered Chambers.
"The Archangel pilots," he whispered. "Are they married?"
The air chief marshal drained his glass and signaled the steward for a refill. "You mean to each other? No. They are siblings."
"I see."
Chambers regarded his boss with unabashed amusement.
"What?" Tennyson asked.
"Wills, there might be a couple more surprises in store for you tonight. Not bad ones, mind you," he added quickly, "but, well, you might find them interesting."
Tennyson stared into his bubbly. "Interesting ... I could use interesting right about now."
Chambers stopped talking and fell into his own thoughts. They flew on and the veil of dusk soon closed in on them. The other men soon relocated to the plane's cabin, leaving the prime minister alone with the two pilots.
Tennyson reached out and touched the back of Cornfield's chair.
"Corny, remember my middle son?"
"How could I forget?" the captain replied. "My Elizabeth was daft about him. How's he getting on? We don't get much news about your lads since the Big Fight started."
"He's still uncertain about what he wants out of life. Of course, events might take some of the guesswork out of things soon enough. But one thing that he's sure about is that he's ready to take on some responsibility, play an active role in the new government, and possibly take a wife. Maybe he could give Elizabeth a call?"
Corny beamed. "Absolutely!"
Tennyson turned his attention to the co-pilot. "Does that bare ring finger mean that you're presently unattached?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Well, if you're interested, I've got a daughter, too. She's older, a bit wild ... small and scruffy like her mother, but she's got a heart of gold, and I'd trust her with my life. Interested?"
The co-pilot could barely contain himself. "Yes, sir. Very much so, sir. Thank you, sir!"
"No. Thank you."
Prime Minister Tennyson gazed out the co-pilot's window again.
"Corny, is the Disc still in the air?"
"Yes, sir. They're about twenty kilometers northeast of us."
Tennyson was grinning like a happy child. "Then what say we fly this bucket over there and get another look at her?"
"Yes, sir!"
19
Caelo, Manitoba, Canada
It was nine o'clock on the nose when the knock came at the front door. Sharon had been on the telephone with her mother for the last two hours and had long since tired of their conversation. But gabbing away with Mum was far more enjoyable than having to consider the loads of dirty laundry piled up in the living room. Or the sink full of dishes. Her husband, Dana, never lifted a finger to help out around the house. His job was to make sure it stayed dirty. She despised housework ... and sometimes even him.
"Hold on. I've got someone at the door." She tossed her phone on the couch, walked to the door, and cracked it open.
"Hi, J-Man." She opened the door fully, and the man's tall frame almost filled up the space. Dana's flagpole, with the Maple Leaf and the North American Patriot flags whipping in the icy wind, filled out the rest.
"Hello," he said. "There was a note on my door. I have a package?"
"Oh, yeah. It arrived this morning." She pushed a bag of unpacked groceries out of the way with one foot. "I almost forgot about that. I've been so busy."
J-Man pointedly looked around at the clutter spilling out from every corner of her living room and then back at the woman.
That made her mad but she said nothing. Dana and just about eve
ry other male in Caelo would challenge anyone who would speak ill of their upstairs neighbor. Dana called him a man's man. Whatever that meant. To her he was just rude.
She stepped away to rummage through a pile of clothing and shoes. After some digging, she produced a large, neatly wrapped box and handed it to him.
"It's from America. You know someone down there?"
There was no return address. He glanced at the postmark. The box had originated from Morning Star, Alabama ... six months ago.
"Thanks. Dana home?"
"Not yet. He's running late." Dana worked the night shift at the local post office.
"Well, tell him I might have a small job for him. He can give me a call tonight."
The woman's attitude immediately improved. "I will, and thank you." She quickly slammed the door, anxious to get back to her phone conversation.
J-Man carried the box upstairs to his tiny apartment. He set it down on the dining table. After showering and preparing a small meal of vegetables, his attention turned to the package. He took out his penknife and carefully cut the heavy straps of tape away. Within a few seconds he had the box open. The thing was filled with so much Styrofoam popcorn that its true contents were literally buried. He plunged both hands inside and pulled out two identical objects.
After blowing away the bits of Styrofoam, he gently set the objects down on the table beside the empty box.
They looked like large metal spiders. They weren't quite identical. One was larger than the other. A pink bra had been painted across the smaller spider’s chest. They appeared to be lifeless.
J-Man stroked the tiny solar cells on their backs with his fingers. Immediately their eyes lit up, and then their legs began
