The Black Seas of Infinity

by Dan Henk

  I wandered back out and down the hall, nearly falling into another gloomy shaft that dropped away into depths unknown. I was out of climbing rope. We would need to bring in something a bit more sophisticated to explore the rest of the ship. But the first look told me all I needed to know: This ship somehow held my future.

  Weeks passed as we studied every detail of the ship. We found a control room and, off to one side, a smaller room harboring the body. Quarters below were probably for sleeping, and even farther below was a room with a holding cell. Inside was a carcass unlike any of the other bodies. The skin was black enamel, like an insect carapace, the hands long and spindly, the eyes transparent domes. It had dual slits for a nose and a small, protruding mouth. It was the first time I had heard of, much less seen, such a species. We had reports of the other aliens, even if we had no actual bodies, but this one was a mystery. Adding to the puzzle was the fact it was found in a confined area, a cell whose bars were formed by long stalactites extending from floor to ceiling. The ship’s purpose eluded me.

  But the body was what fascinated me the most. It seemed impervious to harm. We pulled it out of its enclosure, dragged it to a laboratory, and tried to run tests on it. The contoured skin was smooth and impenetrable. I broke needles and scalpels against it, saw blades and chisels. Finally I resorted to a blowtorch. None of these had any effect. I used a high-powered laser, tried freezing and then shattering it. Nothing worked. I set it aside and focused on the rest of the form’s immediate surroundings. I examined the room it came in, the curious dual cylinders. I noticed the empty one had a retractable transparent cover. Then it dawned on me.

  I was drinking coffee at my small house adjacent to the base, reading Newsweek, when I froze, my mind racing, the early morning boost of caffeine surging through my system and making my head pound. It wasn’t a body—it was a suit! An indestructible suit! It might have been used for warfare, exploration of hostile environments, or something else I couldn’t even imagine, but whatever its purpose, it all made sense now. It was too basic and utilitarian to be a living creature. There were no reproductive organs. It didn’t appear to have a mouth or nose. It had two shallow ear holes, but those and the eyes were the only breaks in an otherwise seamless construction. That explained the two spaces right next to each other—one was for the suit and one was for its occupant! The aliens had perfected some form of consciousness transfer! It was a wild theory, and I had nothing to back it up, but once it popped into my head, it stuck. I’d found the solution. I had no appetite for my morning eggs and toast so I made a quick shake and bolted out the door and headed for work.

  Like a child with a new toy, I shared my revelation, which was met with skepticism and general disinterest. Even if I were right, what hard facts did I have? What proof? What made my theory better than any of the competing theories? Some argued it was another life form. Others that it was a test mock-up or a manikin—I found that theory especially inane. I knew my explanation was right.

  I stood my ground and eventually got my way, which included permission to focus on the suit and the room it was discovered in. They hadn’t put up much of a fight. Considering the wealth of information inside the ship, one inexplicable artifact was of little interest to anyone. Except me. I was like a Neanderthal banging away at a computer, but eventually I was going to write my War and Peace.

  I was assigned to the project for ten years. Ten long years in dirty, depressing Fayetteville, North Carolina. Ten sweltering summers spent in a small redneck town filled with pawnshops, strip clubs, and GIs walking around pumped up on testosterone and brimming with youthful swagger, just looking for some excuse to act like animals. To fight or fuck. Maybe my memory of it is worse than it really was, but that place wasn’t for me. I joined a local boxing gym, working out my aggression and frustrations in a way that didn’t win me many friends. In fact, I didn’t have any—not what I would consider real friends. I kept my distance from others. I couldn’t connect with the people around me. I’d spend time with girls, but only for the sex.

  I knew there were people out there I wouldn’t mind associating with; I had met some of them when I lived up north. But this time around I didn’t even try. It might have been I was too elitist. I missed up north and simply didn’t want to put any more effort into my personal life in Fayetteville than I absolutely had to. Besides, I was way too occupied with work at the lab. I’d spend hours there, running test after test, rummaging through books, trolling the Internet, the microfilm library, whatever I could find.

  The days piled up, passing with frightening quickness. Seasons came and went. I carried on, through changing administrations and the government’s general waning interest. So many times I thought I was on the verge of a revelation, only to wind up with nothing. With any other research job, if you didn’t come up with answers they fired you. But I was dealing with good old Uncle Sam. As long as I looked busy, they tended to leave me to my work.

  I began a nubile, with about a year on the job, and left a veteran. We had other crashes come in during that time, mainly pieces that were barely salvaged wreckage, but I remained focused. It was my obsession, and eventually it was what led to my discharge. I fell out of the political game, began to insult superiors, small men with even smaller minds who just happened to be in positions of authority. I refused to feed people the bullshit they lived off of, and they grew to dislike me, especially those who outranked me. Not that I was ever too offensive. I maintained a constant, slightly sarcastic wit that seemed to grate on the very idiots I was directing it at. It was brilliant. They would get mad, knowing I had talked down to them in some way, but they could not put their finger on just what the insult had been. I figured it didn’t really matter. No one else wanted this work, and certainly no one else had as much time invested, as much hands-on experience, as me. People would get hot under the collar, pass me over for promotions and pay raises. And in the end none of it mattered. I simply didn’t care. This was all or nothing as far as I was concerned.

  Eventually they found a way to get to me. They took me off the project. After ten years I was replaced, just like that. They ordered me to hand over all my materials to some fresh-faced jerk-off straight out of college. Then I was transferred to Virginia to work on military surveillance drones again. I tried to quit, right there on the spot. It was made clear to me, however, that quitting wouldn’t be in my best interest. A few coworkers I got along with dropped hints, mostly rumors and hearsay, but it was enough. I was mad, not stupid. So I played along, letting them pay to relocate me. I took a raise to compensate for the increased cost of living, not to mention the aggravation of taking on a new assignment. But I saved my money. I had plenty left over from my days in North Carolina. Unlike everyone else, I hadn’t blown it on strippers and hookers—or a family—and even with my stagnation in the raise and promotions departments, I made more than enough.

  A few times I headed out to parties, begrudgingly talked into “a night out! A breath of fresh air from the hermit you’re becoming!” I’d thoughtfully reflect over a beer, peering at some of the fresh- faced and lively girls, my mind running through a veritable “what if,” a hastily edited daydream of a sensual night spent with an irresistible woman. Then I would snap back to reality. I had a goal and an agenda. How stupid it would be to let some base desire sabotage all my hopes and dreams. Like a celebrity caught in a hotel room with a hooker. Everything gone in the blink of an eye. I was better than that.

  With the move, what had once been a distant, barely formed idea became a quest. I lived frugally and saved like never before. I played along, renting a small apartment and stockpiling money for the next three years. I was good at my job. Some of my surveillance drones were used to explore caves in Afghanistan in search of terrorists, but my real mission was to prepare. I went to the target range every week. I worked out every day. I biked to and from work. I took JKD classes in DC, even though it meant a long drive several times a week. I rebuilt a CJ5 jeep from the ground up: an AMC V
8, JBA headers, Flowmasters, EFI, t18a tranny, Warn M8 winch, Superswamper thirty-five inch tires, Safari Snorkel, Detroit lockers in nine-inch Ford axles, Rancho 9000 shocks—the works.

  I rented a space in a local garage, a privilege I hear is becoming less common as owners grow more fearful of lawsuits—but I had a stroke of luck. The guy I bought the Jeep from knew a mechanic, and his recommendation got me in the door. The grease monkeys working there were more than helpful. I bought them plenty of beer, and that is a sure way to win friends. I joined a local four-wheeling club and practiced using my truck for rock climbs, river fording, and mudding. I made friends on the team who were impressed by my zeal for hitting new terrains and my endless tech questions. Everything had to be just right. There was no room for error. I rebuilt an old Mustang—the guys in the garage really liked that—and drove it down to southern Virginia. Parking it in a clearing between trees, I stored an extra optima battery and a couple of gas cans in the trunk. I bided my time.

  After all that, I almost ruined everything. There was a coworker who started talking to me every time I saw her. She even went out of her way to make sure we ran into each other, always popping up with her wide smile and sharp tongue. Initially I didn’t think much of her. She seemed very white and conservative in style. I actually liked her friend, a thin, tan Native American girl, much more. But she grew on me. I hit a local music club with them one night, and it was then I started to take more notice. To be honest, after a few beers, what really grabbed me was her cleavage, which was virtually popping out of a low-cut dress. But her almost blinding grin, small, curvy body, and smooth dialogue certainly didn’t hurt. After a few more encounters at work, I convinced myself it wouldn’t hurt to hang out with her, and we went out for a beer. She knew most everyone at the bar, and her conversation and skillfully delivered flirtations kept me there much longer than I had planned. I went home that night filled with tumultuous thoughts. She was the smartest girl I had ever met, leaps and bounds above anyone I had dated before, and it didn’t help that she had become incredibly beautiful to me. But did I really want to get involved? I liked her too much to be a total cad about it. I knew there was only one way to play this. I was too caught up in the novelty of it to ignore her and too trepidatious to dive right in.

  After a few trips to the pub it started to consume me. Thinking of her would make my breath run shallow, my chest tighten up. I’d go for a morning run, and like a looped tape, I’d play the various scenarios over and over. Although I couldn’t quite focus on the nature of my attraction, I was convinced she was something unique. What was I to do? Give up my dream? Find some way to work her into it? It was driving me crazy. Logically I was headed into traffic going the wrong way. Was I really in love? Try as I might, I couldn’t keep my mind from wandering. I would nebulously flit through a broad range of possibilities, only to keep coming back to her. I chose my clothes with care, changing uncertainly into and out of outfits. I was totally at her mercy, and it infuriated me—but I couldn’t pull away. Like a deer in headlights, I saw my impending doom steadily rolling toward me. It was almost as if I didn’t even care.

  The late-night trips to a local bar quickly turned into opportunities for us to hang out. At her suggestion we planned to watch a movie at my house on our day off. She was bringing a friend over, both for companionship and as a way of convincing herself that anything serious might occur. At least that was my take on it. I broke out my expensive new Korean dishware and eating utensils I had bought on a whim during the period I was obsessed with Tae Kwon Do. I finally ventured into a bookstore and bought a Korean cookbook—something I had wanted to do for a long time. Making a trip to Whole Foods, I spent a good three hours working on a detailed recipe for a traditional hot pot. I wanted to impress her, and miraculously I managed to create a savory and unique dish. No longer much of a drinker, I picked up some liquor for after-dinner cocktails.

  We didn’t even make it through the first half of the movie. Everyone enjoyed the food, and at her suggestion we pulled out my blender and started making Mudslides. The liquor kicked in quickly. Physical closeness on the couch, a slip of the hand, and that was all she wrote. I’m sure her friend was immensely uncomfortable as we tangled like snakes beside her. Our inebriated passion led us from the couch to the kitchen, where she drunkenly brought the proceedings to a halt as she informed me in a strangely calm tone that she had another man in her life. It wasn’t really the time or place for serious deliberation. I was already too intoxicated and in too deep to stop. In no time we made our way from the kitchen into the bedroom. Truth be told, it bothered me, but only a little.

  We continued our affair, the tension mounting within me as I grappled with everything from jealousy, to doubt, to a less than subtle sense of having been manipulated.

  In the end, it didn’t last long. The final straw was when I woke up naked under her covers and saw her playfully chatting on the phone with her boyfriend. She sat on the edge of the bed, putting on an Oscar-worthy performance of rising alone and getting ready for the day. She gently nudged me to keep silent. I didn’t overreact immediately, but the gnawing tension had swelled to a turbulent current. I went home that day, thought it through, and confronted her the next day. It didn’t go well. We were both calm and reserved, at least on the outside. She seemed genuinely distressed, and I delivered an ultimatum. I couldn’t settle for status quo. I was, almost desperately, hoping she would make a change and choose me. But it didn’t work out that way. Slowly, with a series of small, killing steps, she shut me out of her life.

  At first I was resentful. Debating my decision, I would grow angry and then calm in drawn out spurts. How could I be so stupid? I was acting like a teenager in heat. I had been married once before and told myself I should have been beyond all of this. It’s as if human beings are crippled by their emotions, all their great accomplishments merely a bizarre afterthought that occurs between useless rushes of passion. That was it. My brief flirtation with a normal life was over, and as my feelings grew calloused and bitter, I resigned myself with renewed intensity to my mission. This, at least, was bound to succeed, and the final result would far surpass the possible implications of any petty human relationship. I had been a loner for much of my life, not really connecting—or even wanting to deal—with what I saw as the unwashed, ignorant hordes of humanity. I don’t know what I was thinking, trying to fit into a box I had always resented. It was better this way.

  CHAPTER III

  MY TAXI DRIVER MOMENT

  I couldn’t quit my job without arousing suspicion—and possibly a visit from the FBI. So I took a month-long vacation. Suiting up in my apartment, I must have looked like some special ops agent. I was outfitted in black BDUs, combat boots, a pocketed work shirt, a holstered gun, a sheathed knife, and a utility tool secured by a thick military nylon belt. I looked in the bathroom mirror and channeled Travis Bickle. I even mouthed the words, “You lookin’ at me?” But whereas Travis had a screw loose and was living in a state of muddled confusion, I had never felt so clear-headed in my life. I knew what I had to do. This was Darwinism in action. Either I won big time or I would live a life in prison. If I didn’t die trying. It was frightening and exhilarating at the same time. This was something I had to do.

  I started fairly late, even though I had woken up early, unable to go back to sleep because of the excitement coursing through my veins. I held out my hand, trying to hold it steady, but to no avail. Anticipation, mixed with a nagging fear, was eating away at the corners of my consciousness, constantly reminding me that if I were wrong—or even unlucky—my life would be forfeit. The minutes crawled by, and I anxiously waited for afternoon, not wanting to roll into Fort Bragg too early and risk arousing suspicion.

  When I couldn’t wait any longer, I absconded, still earlier than I should have. I hopped in the Jeep, cranked the engine, and began the long drive back to Fort Bragg. I was hoping that any cop who might stop me would see the giant truck, hear the accent I had picked up in Nort
h Carolina, and figure I was just some good old boy headed out to the wilderness for a weekend of fun. I even stuffed camping supplies in the back of the Jeep to help with my cover.

  The drive south seemed to last an eternity. The road signs and stoplights seemed to multiply, appearing in unprecedented numbers, all with the express goal of slowing my odyssey. I turned on the stereo, turned it off, and turned it back on. All I had was the radio. I wanted this mission to be as untraceable as possible. We all know that radio is shit. The banality of the bad songs was made even worse by a churning sense of unease and stress. I switched off the radio and left it off.

  The common road scenes of late night bombarded me. Sparsely populated interstates, corridors of black asphalt, brilliantly illuminated by the sweep of headlights, the walls darkened blurs of trees and underbrush. The traffic picked up as I neared cities and died down as I reacquired the wilderness, the grand tide ebbing and flowing, worker ants following the contours of their daily sugar trail. My mind would start to wander, dwelling on how pessimistic I had become, how anathema the normal, everyday course of the human race was to me. It wasn’t like I thought most people were inherently bad. They were sheep, blindly following emotions and cravings they barely understood. There were some people that made me sit up and take notice, real people with real ideas and plans of action. But it was depressing how few of them there were. I’d catch a glimpse of a more populated city, a blur of motion and a hundred lights off to one side of the freeway, and snap out of it. It was hard not to think in black and white terms. There were a lot of gray areas, but they would only get in my way. I couldn’t waver, couldn’t let emotions creep in. They were just chemical signals that activated base animal instincts, and I was stronger than that. My thoughts would change course from the broad and metaphysical, and I’d focus on the immediate task in front of me.