The Xactilias Project

by RJ Lawrence

  And then she saw Nathan calmly looking over the rest, his head shaking slightly, an amused smile on his face. He turned suddenly, as if her stare had burned a painful impression on the back of his neck.

  "Isn't this fun?"

  Claire shook her head.

  "Not for anyone but you."

  The plane jolted and the cabin filled with little yelps and deep groans.

  "Embrace it," he said. "You feel your heart beating? That's how you know you're alive."

  She bit her thumbnail as the lights dimmed and reset.

  "Preexisting knowledge," she said.

  He smiled and touched her arm, his hand weighty and impossibly dry.

  "There's no point in worrying. We're in no position to control this outcome."

  She moved her arm.

  "This type of worry is involuntary."

  He looked at her and unfastened his safety belt just as the plane lifted a moment and clumsily bounced back to earth.

  "Really?"

  "Stop that," she said. "You're making me more nervous."

  "Why should my personal decisions make you more nervous?" He asked. "Are you afraid my loose body might lift from the seat and render you unconscious?"

  She turned her head to the window.

  "Let's just not talk until this is over."

  He nodded once.

  "Agreed. If we survive."

  "Stop it," she said and he grinned.

  "I can tell we are going to be friends," he said.

  "Shut up, shut up," Alfred said. "I'm trying to keep from having a heart attack."

  Seconds later, the aircraft finally gathered enough speed to ride the air upward, the hulking steel mass plowing through the gush of downward wind, a terrible thunder reverberating from its giant smoldering engines. The plane climbed and climbed, wavering some, long wings dipping and rising, some of the passengers driven to nausea, the smell of vomit wafting between shoulders and heads.

  Once airborne, the plane finally steadied and the passengers began to settle. The attendants unbuckled their belts and straightened their little hats. One by one, they turned to face the passengers, their stiff faces replaced by preset masks, friendly and calm and pretty as the world could offer.

  Alfred put up a finger and motioned one over.

  "I think I'll have a drink, miss," he said, as he ran his hand through his dry, coarse hair.

  "Certainly, sir," she said. "Each passenger is entitled to two alcoholic beverages. What would you like?"

  "A vodka tonic, please."

  "I think I'll have one, too," Nathan said. He nudged Claire.

  "How 'bout you?"

  She looked at her wrinkled palms.

  "Yes."

  The attendant took out a note pad and made three check marks.

  "Three vodka tonics."

  While they waited for their drinks, Alfred toyed with a coin.

  "What is that, Alfred?" Claire asked.

  "A very powerful good luck charm, my dear."

  Nathan looked at him.

  "You carry a good luck charm, Alfred?"

  "Indeed."

  Nathan shook his head, as the old man leaned forward and handed it to Claire.

  "Please be careful with that," he said. "It is very valuable."

  Claire took the coin and looked it over. Nathan watched from the corner of his eye.

  "It's just a penny," he said.

  Claire turned it over in her hand.

  "Does it hold some sort of sentimental value?"

  "Yes," said Alfred. "But that's not what makes it valuable. It's a 1969-S Lincoln cent with a doubled die obverse."

  He looked at each of them, as if expecting expressions of appreciation.

  "So," Nathan said.

  "So," said Alfred. "This coin is exceedingly rare. If you look closely, you will see a clear doubling of the entire obverse except for the mint marking, which would suggest a case of strike doubling. In this case, the doubling of the obverse without the doubled mint mark indicates a doubled die, which is what makes this coin so exceptional."

  Nathan and Claire looked it over.

  "The 'Liberty' looks blurry," Claire said.

  "That's it," said Alfred.

  "So you think this penny's lucky because it's blurry?" Nathan asked.

  Alfred looked disappointed.

  "No, it is only valuable because of this. Monetary value has no bearing on its ability to provide luck.”

  "How valuable is it?" Claire asked, as she turned it by the edges between her thumb and index finger.

  Alfred smiled, proudly.

  "That coin is worth between 70 to 80 thousand dollars."

  Claire stopped turning the coin and immediately cupped it with two hands.

  "Jesus," Nathan said. "What the hell are you carrying it around for?"

  Alfred shrugged.

  "Because it is lucky for me."

  Claire offered it back.

  "Please take it. I'm afraid I'll lose it."

  Alfred smiled and took it from her palm.

  "I'd be rid of that thing as quickly as possible," Nathan said. "Take it to auction and be finished. I couldn't stomach the thought of losing something like that, lying in bed at night thinking about it passing from one take-a-penny/leave-a-penny jar to the next."

  Alfred opened his jacket and pushed it into a pocket.

  "I thought you weren't given to worry."

  Claire smiled.

  "Touché," Nathan said. "Still, I can't believe anyone on this plane is believes in luck."

  The old man looked at Claire and winked.

  "It's bad luck not to believe in luck."

  It was quiet for a moment, except for the tapping of Nathan's foot.

  "The Secret Service confiscated the early specimens until the U.S. Mint finally admitted they were genuine," Alfred said. "Imagine that. All that expense to avoid the simple admission of a minor mistake."

  Nathan dusted his lap.

  "Well, that's the government for you. Where the hell is the alcohol?"

  As if summoned by his words, the attendant arrived with their drinks, and they slowly took liquor from the glasses, the warmth sweeping their bodies like a strong emotion, rushing through their veins and over their skin. Alfred wiped the wetness from his mustache.

  "Tell us about yourself, Claire," he said. "If you will."

  Claire rubbed her forehead and drank some more.

  "I'm sorry, Alfred. I want to, but I can't."

  Nathan flipped his hand.

  "Don't worry, Albert; I can tell you anything you need to know." He took a deep breath. "Our friend here is one of us without being one of us." He took the old man's arm. "You see, she is one of the precious few on this flight who is blessed with the genetic ability to succeed without barter. Look around you, if you will." He raised his hands over his head and made swirling motions with his index fingers. "All these passengers are busy giving their resumes to one another, their accomplishments, proof of their viability." He reached over and took Claire's hand. "Claire here has no need for such gainless strategies, because she automatically knows she is better than anyone here."

  Claire ripped her hand away.

  "I'm guessing most people don't like you very much," she said.

  Nathan nodded.

  "Perhaps. But you shouldn't trust anyone who is well-liked."

  It was quiet for a moment.

  "People at my lab dislike me because I don't use the e-mail," Alfred said finally.

  "That seems like a very thin reason to dislike someone," Claire said.

  "I leave notes for them," he said before downing the remainder of his drink. "On their desks mostly. I despise computers, though I'm forced to use them frequently to record data and such. But when it comes to communication, I wholeheartedly believe when someone puts a pen to paper, their words are truer than those placed in movable type, or electronic type as it were. To write by hand, it requires a steady attention, at least if one is to craft legible script con
siderate of the reader's understanding. These days, few maintain the muscle coordination to print or scribe legibly, at least for long periods of time."

  He leaned forward, his eyes growing wide and serious.

  "Did you know they have moved away from teaching cursive in traditional public schools? Can you believe such a thing? You'd better, because it is true."

  He leaned back and looked to the ceiling for answers.

  "It's archaic, they say. But there's so much more to it than simple facts and expressions writ to paper or digital storage devices. Ever so much more."

  Nathan looked at Claire and smiled.

  "Oh simple thing, where have you gone?" He asked. "Quick," he addressed Claire. "Take this pen and scribe some coiling sentences to soothe our friend."

  Alfred crossed his legs and raised a finger.

  "Laugh all you want, but refinement for ease is not refinement at all."

  He dusted his legs and looked from one to the other.

  "You consider e-mail refinement for ease?" Claire asked.

  "No, not at all." he said. "I'm a scientist, after all, not some old fool commit to useless relics that remind him of better days that never were."

  He raised the finger again, as he seemed to do at the conclusion of every point.

  "But when I want to send someone a message, I will have the consideration to raise a pen to the occasion."

  Nathan tapped his elbow against Claire's arm.

  "Wouldn't it be funny if his penmanship was indecipherable?"

  Alfred shook his head.

  "Oh, to be young and brilliant."

  Nathan looked at him crossly.

  "I'm 40, thank you very much."

  The old man's face grew impressed.

  "Oh, 40, my goodness."

  Nathan raised his eyebrows.

  "And what of smoke signals, Alfred? Will you be taking up their cause, as well?"

  The old man leaned forward and took Claire's hand.

  "Let me ask you this, my dear. Would you rather receive a love letter written by the very hand of your lover or one printed in New Times Roman?"

  She smiled.

  "I very much see your point."

  His mouth grinned as he released her hand.

  "And, you," he turned to address Nathan. "Don't judge the old until you have gotten over the hill to see. And if your sweetheart ever writes you a letter by hand, you'd do well to regard the content with keen, attentive eyes."

  Nathan put his hand atop the old man's shoulder.

  "It's between the lines what counts, my old friend. True today as it was yesterday, machine text and handicraft alike."

  The airplane bellied a thick pocket of air, loping suddenly and then falling just as fast. Some of the passengers groaned over the passing weightlessness, but Claire only felt Nathan's stare upon her while she gazed through the window glass.

  "Tell me about yourself, Precious Few," he demanded.

  "I have flat feet," she said without looking at him. "Is that the kind of thing you're asking?"

  He bent over to take a closer look.

  "At least they're only flat on the bottom."

  She shook her head slightly, elbow on the armrest, chin nestled within her hand, her eyes watching the moonlight pour over the tops of clouds, like an ethereal sun above a land of gossamer makings.

  "I mean, what's your story?" he said.

  She turned.

  "It's not very interesting," she said. "Maybe you should just read that magazine."

  He reached into the pocket on the backside of the chair before him and withdrew a Turkish publication called "Skylife."

  "That's old news," he said. "It's been on the back of my toilet for weeks."

  He rolled it up and began tapping it against his knee, as Albert leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes.

  "How'd you come about this little journey," he asked?

  She looked at him crossly.

  "Haven't you read your card?"

  He reached into the interior pocket of his sport coat.

  "What, this?"

  He pushed the magazine back into the pouch and pulled his card from the little yellow envelope.

  "What of it?" He said as he passed it over.

  She pushed his hand away and looked around.

  "I don't want that. For God's sake, put it back in your pocket."

  A puzzled look spread over his face as he looked around.

  "Jesus," he said. "It's just a little card."

  'She turned back toward the window.

  "Let's not talk anymore. I don't think it's a good idea."

  He took another look around the plane: most of the passengers trying to sleep, a few reading beneath pale little lights. He sat back down.

  "Why?" He asked as he leaned toward her. "What does yours say?"

  She did not respond.

  "What does yours say?" He said loudly, another passenger clearing his throat at the disturbance.

  "Shh," she whispered, placing her hand over his bare arm. "It says not to discuss myself with other passengers."

  His jaw fell a little as her fingernails dug in.

  "Alright, alright," he said rubbing the skin she'd just released.

  His eyes grew suspicious of the woman before him, as if she'd just exposed herself as delusional. Just in case, he opened his envelope and withdrew his card to be sure he hadn't overlooked anything. When he was satisfied, he tossed it onto her lap, text up.

  "Here," he said.

  She flinched from it, her body turned wooden, as if he'd thrown a writhing serpent onto her legs.

  "I don't want that," she said. "Please, stop this and take it back."

  He shook his head and collected it in his fingers.

  "Fine," he said, pointing it at her, his face stern. "You need to relax, Precious Few. This is going to be a long flight."

  With that, he killed the overhead light and pushed his seat back, eyes closed, forearms wholly consuming both his armrest and hers.

  She watched him for a moment, his mouth open and breathing, dark morning stubble growing along his jaw and neck, a hopelessly handsome man, with or without a shower, civility or refinement.

  After a while, she turned her eyes back to the window, but her thoughts remained on his card, its message odd and troubling, the tone innocuous and soft.

  "Welcome, Mr. Walker," it said. "We are very pleased you have chosen to participate and are confident you will find great success with our organization. Please let one of our agents know if you need anything during your trip, and thank you again for your commitment to the Xactilias Project. - Demetri M."

  Chapter 7

  The plane landed three times on its way to wherever it was going. Each time, its passengers remained seated without the slightest idea of where they were or how long they'd be there. As the hours passed, they muttered to one another and fidgeted in their seats. Outside the idle plane, they saw only paved tarmacs, the skylines empty of mountains or buildings, everything barren and lifeless and even as the blade of a knife. After countless hours in transit, the gravity of their choices had taken on size, whatever lives they had left behind growing both smaller and greater with every mile put between them and whatever was left behind.

  Soon, little freedoms seemed to go away, attendants hard to flag, beverages and bathroom trips difficult to secure. Before long, a soft mutiny began its slow birth beneath the sustained quiet and order, but this was quelled by an unexpected announcement that they'd be landing soon and for the final time.

  Within minutes, the plane began its descent, its passengers looking over one another out the windows, stiff-legged and aching and ready to get to their feet. Outside, they saw a forest land beneath them, tropical and lush, tiny toy motorboats zipping over the ocean along a flawless coast. They looked at each other with raised eyebrows and pleased expressions, some showing outright excitement, others the ease of relief.

  The airplane rode the air downward and landed, the tires gripping seamlessl
y the runway, as if caught up by an invisible corresponding track. The pilot brought the aircraft to a slow and wheeled it off the runway, settling on the tarmac and coming to a halt.

  "I'm pleased to announce we've arrived at our tertiary destination," the pilot said through the intercom speakers. "Please unbuckle your safety belts and exit the plane in order, allowing those nearest the exits first opportunity. Once you've left the aircraft, Bernard will provide you with further instructions. I'm grateful to have had the opportunity to transport you and wish you much success with your new opportunities."

  They exited the plane as instructed, the sun bright and centered above them, like a piercing white hole in the bold blue sky. There was an unfamiliar sweetness in the air and it mingled with the scent of ocean salt, and as they descended the steps, a comforting wind cooled their sweating skin.

  "Gather around me, please," said Bernard, his strict demeanor unaffected by the length of the flight. "You will all board shuttles, which will transport you to your temporary residences. In these you will stay for three weeks."

  He looked over them and smiled politely.

  "It has been my privilege to oversee your journey; however, I must now leave you in the hands of Romero, who will be your guide over the next several weeks."

  He put his hand out and a svelte-looking man stepped forward, his tanned arms and legs looking muscular and healthy against his white shorts and polo t-shirt.

  "Welcome, guests," Romero said. "I'll be your host while you’re here.” He gave a crooked smile that made his perfectly symmetrical face seem more human. "I'm sure you are all very tired from your trip, so if you will all board a shuttle of your choosing, we'll be on our way."

  Everyone looked at Bernard to see if Romero had erred in his orders, but the former had already begun walking the stairs back to the plane.

  "Let's go," Romero said, and the passengers formed lines before various shuttles, many sticking with their seatmates from the plane. Claire took a place behind Alfred, and Nathan followed suit, his fingers furiously scratching the dark whiskers flourishing along his jawline.