Five minutes later the teenager hung up the phone and, raising his chin, asked, “You Ms. Sullivan?”
Brianna nodded. “I’m not sure why I’m even here, it’s not like the dog here is mine.”
He shrugged. “Might as well take a look. Come on, I’ll take you back.” Gesturing toward another door, he said, “Right through there,” and held the door open for her. They entered into what was obviously the kennel part of the shelter. Chain-linked cages flanked both sides of the long building. Renewed loud barking was an assault on her senses. From what Brianna could see, every cage was occupied. And each dog, whether small or large, was wildly vying for their attention.
She walked behind the teenager. His oversized, baggy-assed jeans hung so low on his hips she marveled how they stayed up—didn’t drop to his knees as he walked ahead.
“Here we go … it’s that cage on the left,” he announced, both pointing and yawning at the same time.
Brianna positioned herself directly in front of the cage and stared down. In her estimate, he was the only dog in the whole facility not barking. She studied the dog as the dog stared up at her. It really was uncanny how much the animal looked like Larry. Exchanging a quick glance with the teen, she lowered herself down to one knee next to the chain-link fence separating them. Definitely a Golden Cocker mix, it tentatively stepped up closer, sniffing at her fingers pushed through the fencing.
Immediately, the dog began to yelp, wag, and wiggle. He jumped up, pushing his snout through a link opening, his pink tongue frantically licking at her hands.
“Dog’s been here for three days … first time he’s done anything like this. Acts like he knows you.”
But Brianna wasn’t really listening to him. Vision blurring from overflowing tears, she brought her face close enough for the dog to lick. “Can you open the cage for me?”
“I don’t know, we’re actually closed now.”
“This is my dog. I don’t know how, but this is Larry. Please, just open the damn gate!”
Chapter 14
Commander Jack Landon, securing his own helmet into place, then helping Greg Fischer with his, was just now coming to a second realization. Their spacesuits certainly would provide them the necessary life-support functionality over the next eight, or so, hours, but since all ISS radio communications, including their individual EMU’s, utilized the station’s main communications hub control unit—one currently no longer getting any juice—unless they were right next to each other, they’d be stuck exchanging basic hand gestures, or writing hand-written notes, to communicate with one another.
Landon activated the integrated light on his helmet and watched as Fischer did the same. The Node 1 airlock brightened all around them. Touching his helmet against Fischer’s he pointed toward the open hatch, leading back into the ISS, and yelled, “Need to check on Mirkin … see if the ISS is still in one piece.”
Fischer gave him a thumbs-up gesture, apparently catching enough of what he’d shouted out.
After the incredibly loud noises—metal scraping hard against metal that he’d heard earlier—he was more than a little surprised to find the station hadn’t been breached, and that its internal pressurization was still intact. He studied the narrowed open hatchway through his visor. Their EMU’s were ridiculously bulky—ungainly. Sure, it was possible to move about inside the ISS in their spacesuits. They’d trained for it in case of emergencies, but it was a royal pain in the ass.
In the end, it took three times longer than it normally would to reach the Pirs airlock unit. Arriving there, they found Mirkin, perspiration glistening on his brow and upper lip, had yet to attach his helmet. They made eye contact. Floating closer in the weightless environment, Landon barely heard Mirkin yell, “So what the fuck’s going on? What’s with all these noises?”
Landon, nodding, took Mirkin’s helmet from him. The Russian EVU’s utilized a slightly different latching mechanism than those found on NASA suits, and he had to fumble with it some. His thick gloves greatly limited his fingers dexterity. On getting the helmet properly seated and latched over Mirkin’s head, Mirkin mouthed thank you.
Two minutes later, Landon, with Mirkin following close behind, joined Fischer within the somewhat cluttered Russian Zarya module. Pointing to the space around them, Fischer held up his hands and made a face, then gave it a thumbs-up. Landon got his meaning. Everything seemed to be okay, but he wasn’t one hundred percent sure. And truthfully, how could he be?
Suddenly, and much too violently, Landon found himself crashing down hard onto the deck. His helmet smashed down face first. His padded EMU absorbed the brunt of the fall, protecting the rest of his body. What the hell? How is this possible? There shouldn’t be gravity … not here in space!
Substantially darker in the module now, Landon figured his helmet light may have broken in the fall. He tried, but failed, to lift himself up, applying what was akin to an upper torso pushup. Even after steadfastly following a set pattern of daily routine exercises, his arms and chest muscles had weakened from months of a zero gravity existence. The three hundred-and-twenty pounds of dead weight added on by his EMU made such an endeavor nearly impossible. Giving up, lying in a prone position on the Zarya module metal deck, he had a clear view of Fischer. He too looked to be struggling, like himself only a moment before. He imagined Mirkin, the most muscular and fit of the three, would be struggling as well.
None of the recent happenings made any damn sense, starting with their total loss of communications with Mission Control. Then the power outage and the subsequent total ISS systems failures. Next had come the series of external noises—as if the ISS was being dragged down a gravel-pitted road. But now the impossible had occurred, the loss of weightlessness, the return of gravity.
While Landon lay there—his finite air supply depleting with each drawn breath—his thoughts raced. So what can we do? What do I do now?
Only then did Landon notice a bluish cast to the limited, ambient, lighting within the Zarya space module. He blinked several times in rapid succession, thinking perhaps his visual perception had changed—maybe the air supply was compromised. Although his EMU certainly might be damaged, there wasn’t any complex air mixture to get screwed up since their spacesuits simply stored pure oxygen.
Movement!
A darker shade of blue passed within a foot of his helmet. Shadow-like but not a shadow, Landon’s eyes tracked whatever the thing was as it moved about the module. It definitely had form—shape. Almost transparent, he could now make out what could be arms and legs, and maybe a head. But it was so very faint; a bluish blur of radiating … energy.
Two new energy forms joined the first. This isn’t happening. I’m imagining things. I must have struck my head harder than I first figured, Landon thought.
Suddenly he was being lifted up, rising vertically and standing on his own two feet. Blue energy forms stood on either side, holding him steady. He could feel the pressure of hands gripping his upper arms. The third blue form now stood directly before him. Heart pounding in his chest, and on the verge of hyperventilating, Landon consciously willed his breathing to slow down— his heart rate to normalize. He tried to swallow—tried to think. What should I do? And then it hit him; there was absolutely nothing he could do.
Landon found himself smiling and then, inexplicably, chuckling. This really was happening. Non-Human, alien life forms had somehow infiltrated the ISS. He laughed out loud at the notion. When faced with an equally momentous occasion, Neil Armstrong had declared on taking that fateful first step onto the moon: One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind. Christopher Columbus reportedly said something like: By following the light of the Sun, we left the Old World behind. Well shit, now’s my chance … and I’ve nothing to say.
That’s odd! Landon hadn’t noticed it before but he certainly did now. A substantial portion of the portside bulkhead was no longer there; only an oblong opening, six to seven feet wide by seven to eight feet high, was there instead. Beyond was
only blackness. That, at least, explained how these beings, whatever they were, had entered the ISS.
No longer seeing any humor in the situation, Landon turned his attention to his fellow crewmembers. But both Fischer and Mirkin were gone.
The energy form in front of him moved closer. So close he could almost make out facial features—eyes, nose, and a mouth—remnants, perhaps, of former, evolutionary aspects. Landon felt the clasp mechanism beneath his helmet being worked on and thought about struggling. Pushing them away. With that breach in the bulkhead, his very survival maybe dependent on his suit’s oxygen supply. But he didn’t. He quietly stood and let them do whatever they intended to do. He then heard a familiar series of clicks and clacks as his helmet was unsealed, then turned and lifted up over his head. For a moment he held his breath. Closing his eyes, he eventually let his lungs fill up with oxygenated, breathable, air.
Landon asked, “What have you done with my crew?”
Chapter 15
Scotty Sullivan chided himself for not being more careful. Yesterday’s handcuff stunt was just plain stupid. Was I just showing off for her?
He probed the side of his face with the tips of his fingers. No longer tender, he knew if they were to X-Ray his cheek again, they would discover his injuries had all but healed. Yet he’d keep the bandage in place, anyway—no need to draw undue attention to himself at this point.
Scotty felt good. His mind was sharp, his memories once again intact. The re-acclimation process, now fully completed, had taken him days instead of the intended few hours, thanks to that big cop wielding the flashlight. He would need to reestablish contact soon. He thought of Seve and the others and wondered how much time they had left. Hang on, please! Just hang on a little longer.
He listened to the latest CNN Breaking News Report, concerning the disappearance of the International Space Station. The drawn privacy curtain blocked visual view of the TV, which was fine. He didn’t need to see any of it. He knew all too well what was going on, two-hundred-fifty miles straight up. He knew the oddly pieced together space station hadn’t actually erupted in a ball of fire, or disintegrated from an all too quick fall from orbit hitting the planet’s upper atmosphere at supersonic velocity. And the crew, he was fairly certain, was fine also. Certainly scared, but okay otherwise.
Scotty thought about the woman again—the FBI agent. He sensed she was conflicted, wondering if he was mentally unstable. A lunatic. A crackpot. He sure could use an ally now, considering all he needed to accomplish moving forward. Would that be her? She’d mentioned she would return this morning; even offered to drive him over to where his mother now lived—somewhere off Main Street on the island.
He turned his attention to several seagulls, taking flight off the roof of an adjacent building. Headed toward the nearby Atlantic Ocean, their silhouetted forms were almost black against the brilliant blue sky. Suddenly, a deep sadness fell over him, as he recalled just why he was here—why he had been sent back.
Scotty let his eyes roam over the distant horizon. He could make out cars, moving steadily along the various interconnected streets. Close by, the rooftop of a yellow school bus whizzed past the hospital window. Somewhere near the coast, a motorboat was blaring a forlorn-sounding horn. Life steadily was meandering along within this small picturesque corner of the world; probably not that different from yesterday, or the day before that. But all too soon life—not just here on quaint Nantucket Island, but on the entire planet—would be coming to an end. The trajectory was indisputable. An inbound interstellar gamma ray burst would blaze through the solar system in a mere instant, leaving nothing behind in its wake. But Scotty wasn’t here to save a planet. That would be impossible. He was here to save a species—his own species. To save Humanity—at least to the extent that they wanted to be saved, those who would believe him and accept his presence back as an intergalactic liaison.
Although he didn’t personally remember the exact course of events— happening so long ago and being a terrified child at the time—he recalled enough that even today he was surprised he’d survived the ordeal. But survive he had. No longer that same child, nor the same person, he wasn’t even completely Human—not really.
Regaining consciousness in an unfamiliar new world—one with a high-level of radiation that would eventually become dangerous to Humans—Scotty would soon transform into something different. No, transformed wasn’t the right word for it. Joined would be more accurate. Indeed, though an aspect of him was still Human, he also was a unique form of Vallic. A species that had almost completely discarded embodiment in physical form, exchanging it instead for one primarily composed of energy. Two species now joined, or merged, together—albeit sharing a single consciousness. Most of Scotty’s subsequent sixteen years of life on that alien world were lived as a Vallic. Composed of a more hyper-dimensional energy form than one Humanlike, having no crude, obtuse, animal-like, mass. But his Human self, his complete genetic DNA attributes, still existedand were still accessible. But only when needed, like for teaching purposes—or preparing for this mission.
Thus he’d been able to free himself from the handcuff restraint as easily as a child stepping over a cardboard box.
Suddenly, the hospital room’s privacy curtain was pulled to one side as FBI Special Agent Alison McGuire entered Scotty’s enclosed space. Looking radiant, and more casual—wearing close-fitting jeans and a red hooded sweatshirt—she smiled and said, “Hey there. Took me a bit longer to get all this stuff.” She plopped a large shopping bag along with several smaller bags onto his bed. “I’m assuming you’re ready to get the hell out of here?”
“You have no idea how ready,” Scotty replied flatly.
“I had to guess your sizes: Waist, shoe-size.” She then proceeded to pull out a new pair of jeans from one of the bags, its tags still secured by strings onto a belt loop. She opened a second bag and withdrew white tennis shoes. Another bag held both socks and underwear. The last bag contained a folded blue T-shirt, with a big Nike logo imprinted across the front. “I’ll let you get dressed. Let me know when you’re done. I’ll be out in the hallway. Sound good?”
Scotty nodded, staring down at all the clothes. She’d bought all this stuff on her own—a kindness he never expected. “Um … thank you!”
“Hey, you can pay me back someday … if you ever get a job.” She smiled, holding onto his gaze for a moment.
A large dark shape moved into the space right behind her. Officer Donald
Platt glared at Alison and Scotty, then down at Scotty’s unsecured right arm.
“Who un-cuffed this prisoner?”
Chapter 16
Platt moved with all the subtlety of a freight train. Hurrying around the end of the hospital bed, he clipped the bed’s far corner with his hip, causing the bed to jerk and shift askew several inches. Maintaining a perpetual sneer, by the time he reached Scotty’s right side the mountain of a man had already withdrawn a metal handcuff key from his pocket.
“Don’t resist and don’t fucking move,” he barked, grabbing Scotty’s right arm.
Scotty’s eyes flashed onto Alison, wondering what she would do. He watched as she reached her hand around to a rear pocket, where she withdrew and then held up her FBI credentials. In that moment, he glimpsed beneath her hoodie, saw a concealed holstered weapon was clipped to her waistband.
“Hold on, officer! Put so much as one hand on that man and I swear you’ll regret it. This has become an FBI matter, so stop right there!”
Ignoring her, Platt’s vice-like grip grabbed ahold of Scotty’s right wrist, twisting and jerking it hard enough around to make him grimace.
Even more determined, Alison took a step closer. Leaning her body across the left side of the bed, she ordered, “Stop!” then held her creds up higher—put them right in his face. “You don’t want to push me, unless you want to see your career head right down the toilet from this point on. Screwing with the FBI is never a good idea.”
Scotty felt for her.
Platt was not only ignoring her authority, he was smirking. Scotty’s thoughts flashed back to the earlier beach scenario. Lying on the sand several nights before—naked and defenseless—he was badly beaten; struck repeatedly in the face with Platt’s flashlight. He’d watched helplessly as Larry was doused with mace. Now, struggling to keep his growing inner rage in check, he felt a handcuff slap hard around his right wrist; tightening, to the point his flesh was being bunched together and pinched. Platt next grabbed ahold of Scotty’s left arm and yanked it closer to him. Alison, looking humiliated and unsure of herself, seemed at a loss for what to do next.
Scotty closed his eyes, relaxed his body, and calmed his mind—detaching all consciousness from the material world: A necessary prerequisite prior to undergoing a physical form-shift. He had undergone the Dyad-Geneses procedure as a child, but being able to form shift in the blink of an eye was a feat that took a number of years to fully master. In Scotty’s case, considering what he was now tasked to do, he had the unique ability to make dominant either form: Human physicality or Vallic energy-based physicality, pretty much at will. At this point, in his present mindset, he was able to make multiple form shifts—back and forth—all within a perceived instant.
* * *
Alison lowered her creds. She stared in utter amazement. It happened so fast she was having trouble believing what she’d witnessed with her own eyes. One moment Scotty’s arms and wrists were forcibly yanked and twisted around to accommodate ratcheting-tight handcuffs. Next, a momentary stuttering of motion, along with a bright flash of blue light, occurred. Somehow the handcuffs were no longer secured to either of Scotty’s arms. As amazing as that trick seemed, it was nothing compared to the fact that it was the oversized policeman who was now handcuffed to the bed’s railing. Impossible!
Boy Gone Page 6
