Galaxia

by Kevin McLaughlin

  But if that were true, why did he have such a vivid mental image of Dr. Jeong lying dead, his head bashed open and covered in blood?

  “Don’t look at me like that,” commanded Dr. Jeong.

  Jack turned away. The military man who had woken him up wondered, “Feeling anxious, doctor? Don’t worry too much, you won’t be charged. That’s not really how we do things in military intelligence.”

  One of the other men smirked, and the doctor suddenly looked pale and sickly. They began to help Jack get disconnected — there were all kinds of wires with suction cups connected to his head, making him think of some old monster movie.

  Dr. Jeong seemed compelled to defend himself. “I had full authority over Project Charlie, countersigned by the Chief of Staff. Full authority. I did nothing illegal.”

  The man who was helping Jack shrugged. “That’s a debatable matter. Look up the Nuremberg Trials when you get home. I think you’ll find something in there about experiments on human subjects without explicit consent. It’s really a moot point, though. Our area of expertise isn’t the law as such.”

  The man who had smirked before now chuckled quietly and put a hand on the back of the doctor’s neck. “Really, doc, don’t worry. All you have to do is stay quiet about Project Charlie. And not give us any reason to doubt your discretion. Yes?”

  Dr. Jeong nodded miserably. Though his dream was fading, Jack suddenly had another flash of memory. The man who had woken him up was talking to Dr. Jeong, smiling an almost shark-like smile. “We’ll see, doctor, we’ll see. You can choose to look at it as a mere security review, if you really want to deceive yourself, but the subcommittee is making its decision today, and I can tell you this, they will be deciding to put Project Charlie under our control. You think your connections are that good, you’re free to use them. If it turns out you’re right, we have… other methods.”

  The way things were working out, it looked like the doctor’s connections had failed him. The last of the wires dropped away from Jack’s head, and he stood up on wobbly legs. Jack was trying to remember the man’s name, but he couldn’t quite place it. Where did he know him from?

  “Are you ready to walk?” the man asked. “You must be shaky.”

  “I.. I’ll be okay. I just need to go slow.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Jack, we have plenty of time. All the time in the world, really.”

  He turned to the doctor and nodded curtly. “Dr. Jeong.”

  It was a kind of acknowledgment or even a statement of gratitude for services rendered, but it was also a dismissal. The doctor nodded back. He seemed to be trying to maintain his dignity. “Lieutenant Trent.”

  Lieutenant Trent… Jack remembered that name from the timelines he’d seen, although the details were fading rapidly, as with all the others. He did have a vague sense that it was Trent who had saved him in his dream, pulling him out of Dr. Jeong’s experiments and giving him an exciting future. And that matched what was happening, so maybe it was something he had really seen. He felt a rush of gratitude, but there was something else, a troubling feeling, but nothing he could put a name on.

  Trent started walking, matching his pace to Jack’s. His men surrounded them, glancing from side to side discreetly as if checking for trouble.

  The holobox in the lobby was playing the news. It made Jack think about his Daddy, a surprising stab of pain and loss. He had seen what ended up happening to his father, but he couldn’t remember what it was. As they walked past, he listened to the newscast in an attempt to remember.

  “In the aftermath of the Yes-vote Referendum victory, protests have broken out in at least a hundred cities. According to Chaim Aaronson, the No-vote leader, this decision represents the first step in what he calls the march toward military tyranny. Here to discuss this provocative comment, we have Admiral Benoit…”

  Trent noticed Jack watching. “You come from a Yes family, don’t you Jack?”

  They walked out the door, and Jack was so relieved he forgot to answer. He was leaving the hospital where they’d kept him prisoner, heading for the carport. He could hardly believe it. The fresh air in his lungs felt pure and cleansing, although for all he knew the air was contaminated with radiation.

  Trent’s men were grinning smugly, and Jack realized they were all reacting to the same newscast. One of them came up beside Trent and spoke quietly. “So when are we snatching Aaronson?”

  Trent frowned. “We’re not. The man has every legal right to his opinions.”

  Now it was the agent’s turn to frown. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “If you want to keep a dog from running away, you put it on a long lead.”

  The agent laughed. “You’re on a whole other level, Trent. We’re all novices compared to you.”

  Trent turned to Jack as they reached the carport. “I want you to understand this, Jack. It’s important. The Yes-vote is what your father wanted all along, and I know your mother wants it too. Yes, it does mean that the military will have increased powers. It also means we won’t be subject to too much inconvenient scrutiny from the civilian Council. What it doesn’t mean is any sort of tyranny. All we want to do is to continue our important work, without any interruptions or misunderstandings.”

  “Chief, he’s a little boy,” reminded one of the agents.

  Trent looked Jack directly in the eyes. “This boy has seen to the end of time, haven’t you Jack? He’s not so little. Not in any of the ways that matter.”

  Jack shuddered, thinking about what he had seen and what he had been shown. But it was nearly gone, just a few flashes of memory. Fragmented images from a long, strange dream.

  “This is my car,” Trent explained. “Hop into the back and we’ll take a ride.”

  Trent’s car was black and somehow official-looking, although it had no department logo. Jack clambered in and Trent sat down beside him. One of the other agents drove while some of them took a different vehicle.

  “Am I… going home now?” Jack asked. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He still ached for his mother, but the anger he felt toward her was still potent as well.

  Trent smiled at Jack. “You’re safe now. I’m going to take good care of you. You’re coming back with me to the Federation Academy.”

  “The Academy? Really?”

  “Yes indeed. You see, Jack, Dr. Jeong was doing things he shouldn’t have done, but he wasn’t wrong that you’re different. Special, even. Because of your condition, the Federation feels that you will require special care until further notice. Of course, you have to continue your education, which Dr. Jeong was shamefully neglecting.”

  Jack was confused. Why couldn’t they just bring him home? But the Academy was a school, a special school he had always hoped to attend someday. “What about my Mom?”

  “She’s already signed off on this. She was eager to help, really. She wanted to get you away from Dr. Jeong, and the opportunity to attend the Academy isn’t offered to just anyone.”

  Despite all his anger toward her, it still hurt Jack all over again to hear that his mother was not demanding for him to be brought straight home. His face fell, and he asked in a quiet voice, “Will I ever be able to see my Mom and Dad again?”

  Trent looked thoughtful. “Well, we can probably arrange for them to visit you from time to time. Your father is still being studied in hopes of finding a cure for his condition. Don’t worry, though, we will see to it that you’re fine. And you’re going to make lots of good friends… starting with me.”

  He smiled, and it was so convincing that Jack mostly believed it. He did have a strange sense, perhaps from his dream, that Trent wasn’t entirely what he seemed to be. There was something mysterious, a fog of possibilities… but then it was gone, too vague to be articulated.

  At least for now, the most important thing to Jack was that he finally felt safe. Ever since those men had come and taken his father to the hospital, Jack had lived with constant fear. The worst time of all was after his escape
attempt, when they had kept him in a straitjacket in a padded room while he screamed and cried for days. So much fear was exhausting, and now that he felt safe at last, sleep was closing in.

  Jack closed his eyes as the car lifted off, but a growing sense of excitement kept him awake. He had always loved learning things before they took him. He had even spent much of his free time studying things that weren’t taught at school, like Arabic. He had often dreamed of going to the Academy. The greatest school in the galaxy, where diplomats, officers and politicians went to get their education. And now he was going there.

  It was a strange mix of feelings. Betrayal and abandonment, loss and grief — but also excitement and opportunity, a sense of adventure and of new horizons. He opened his eyes.

  Trent reached over. “A little something of yours, I believe.” He handed Jack his bodyguard doll, the medical band twisted into the shape of a person. Jack took it gratefully, then gave Trent a shy grin.

  An empty feeling still gripped his stomach, though. Whatever else this might mean for him, he belonged at home with his family and he knew it. He should be there right now, playing with his galaxy model or any of his many other toys. Mommy and Daddy would be making dinner, glancing now and then at the holobox to find out the news. They’d be together. They’d be happy.

  Well, maybe not. They hadn’t always been happy before all of this happened, especially not since his father’s condition got really bad. Maybe Daddy wouldn’t be there with them either way, and it would just be him and Mommy. But even so, the only reason he wasn’t at home was because of his Mom. She hadn’t stood up for him, and she hadn’t come to get him.

  Jack looked out the viewscreen, watching the city recede below them. He might be safe and going someplace exciting and interesting, but he was still alone. As far as he knew, he always would be.

  THE END

  — — —

  Want to read more by Oscar Andrews?

  Empire Rising

  To stop war from breaking out in the boon dogs of Federation space, Captain Jack Klingerman is pulled from “enforced leave” to answer the call.

  Of course they’d send him, he figures. He is the Federation's top covert negotiator, with an outstanding track record of saving civilizations all over the Federation.

  Glad to head back out into the field, he’s only slightly suspicious that his medical records, that only weeks ago had him grounded, are suddenly a non-issue.

  Scooping up his friend and work partner, Ally, human consciousness in a concierge bot body, their first problem when they get “on site” at the distant planet is talking down the two rival sides that want to blow each other to kingdom come.

  Minutes away from all-out war, if ever there were ever a time to pull out the stops on his uncanny negotiation skills, this was it.

  Unfortunately, standing in the way of any resolution is an escalating dispute over a kidnapped scientist, and a stolen Zero Point Energy generator: a piece of tech that in the wrong hands could rip a hole in the universe.

  Jack’s only chance at saving the entire space-time continuum as we know it is to unravel the sinister plot that is emerging, track the kidnappers and take down all manner of covert delta forces and black ops teams, across multiple planets, to retrieve the device.

  All the while hoping that he can maintain a cease-fire back at New Atlantia.

  Will he be successful?

  Not necessarily — because there’s even more going on that he doesn’t know about.

  For updates on Jack’s adventures, and special discount offers on books and boxed sets, sign up for Oscar’s newsletter here:

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  About the Author

  Computer engineer turned novelist, Oscar Andrews is an avid fan of all the sci-fi greats: Asimov, Clarke, Orwell, Huxley, and Bradbury.

  He lives in Austin, TX with his two dogs.

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  GRACE UNDER PRESSURE: A SHORT STORY

  By Mark Leslie

  The last man standing has never been so literal.

  In a society that has become more divisive than ever, good people do horrific things just to survive and to stay ahead, and as for bad people – it was becoming more and more difficult to see the difference between the ones trying to break free from what is now referred to as the Deadzone and the ones now in charge.

  Bronson Grace didn’t just need the job, he needed to live. He needed to redeem his past wrongs and prove that he was not just a worthy opponent, but a true champion.

  And this would be the interview of his life.

  Stark Publishing

  October 2019

  “Grace Under Pressure” Copyright © 2019 Mark Leslie Lefebvre

  The characters and events portrayed in this short story are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Visit Mark Leslie on the web at www.markleslie.ca

  Follow Mark on Twitter @MarkLeslie

  Sign up for Mark Leslie’s newsletter to receive a free eBook.

  Grace Under Pressure

  BRONSON GRACE WAS a little more than five minutes into the interview process when the bullets started flying.

  The gunfire erupted less than a minute after the awkward silence that followed the interviewer’s words.

  “You are here because you stand out above the rest and can truly make a difference in a veritable hell on earth. But there will be no resting on laurels here. In just a few moments the true test of your mettle will begin. Look to your left and your right,” the broad-shouldered hulk of a man in the military dress uniform said in a husky deep voice that made the rich baritone of James Earl Jones seem a bit soft and feminine. “Within the next half hour only two of the six of you are likely to be still be standing. Good luck.”

  Bronson had heard similar sentiments in the initial class of his first year of college, when the instructor informed the freshmen that by the time Thanksgiving was upon them, as many as one third of the class would not make it. He had called those who couldn’t cut college and would drop out during the first break from school presented to them Thanksgiving Graduates. A few years later, in the police academy, Bronson had heard a similar promise regarding not only the attribution rates of the recruits, but of any of their marriages as well.

  But in none of those cases had the “still standing” concept been that literal.

  When Bronson agreed to enter into this process instead of most likely serving a twenty-year sentence for his crimes, he knew there would be no turning back. Returning to civilian life was not an option. And it wasn’t just that he couldn’t imagine ever being happy again, or even wonder about worrying over mundane things like paying rent or eating, but that it was really a way to finally seek penance and absolution.

  Since being terminated from the NYPD nine months earlier, while he was incarcerated Bronson had been through all manner of interviews regarding his psychological makeup. So when he and the motley crew of five other candidates, all dressed in identical white jumpsuits and either beefy, well cut or built, as Bronson’s Dad used to say “like a brick shithouse” were led into the room and told to take their seats in a semi-circle of black vinyl folding chairs he figured this would be one of those group interview sessions. He thought this would be one of those occasions where one or more interviewers quickly pre-screens a group of candidates by firing questions at them to gauge how a person interacts within the group, and who emerges as a leader or dynamically shines above the rest.

  In this case, though, the firing was of bullets, rather than questions.

  Bronson knew he shou
ld have seen this coming, and mentally kicked himself for not being more prepared when it all went down. But it did make sense. The clues had all been there, well prior to the husky military behemoth entering the room.

  After the administrative assistant, a short, slim redhead, had wordlessly led them into the long narrow boardroom and pointed out the chairs, she stood and broadcast a consistently bright and perky smile that washed generously across every candidate while she waited for the group to settle. Bronson noticed that she didn’t once make eye contact with any of them. That should have been his first clue.

  When the group finally finished settling into their seats and the room was quiet, she said in a bright and cheery voice, “Sergeant DeBakey will be in to start your process in just a few minutes.” The word process rather than interview should have been Bronson’s second clue.

  She then turned and walked out a door on the far side of the room, opposite the door they had all come in.

  It was a long, narrow room, thirty feet by ten, a gray metal door on the left side of each end and a ten foot picture window in the middle of the room on the right. The far wall was occupied by what looked like a white-board, but it stretched the entire area of the wall until about a foot below the ceiling and went down all the way to the floor. The candidates were all seated in metal vinyl chairs in semi-circle at the end of a cherry oak boardroom table, and the only other chair was a Herman Miller Aaron style chair at the far end of the long table.

  As the pretty petite redhead walked towards the far door, Bronson had plenty of time to watch her exit. But, instead of paying attention to the quiet click of the door through which they had entered being locked from the outside, (what would be his third clue) his attention and focus stayed on her tight little ass. It beamed at him through the smooth silky hug of her slacks, the movement of those cheeks just as perky and welcoming as the smile she had cast over the group.