Afterimage

by Roderick Geiger

  They watched helplessly. Yes, it did look like a command console, like the ones scattered around the bridge.

  “Impact in five, four…” Verge counted.

  It is a console! Galtrup was sure now. He recognized it.

  “Two, one…”

  An MRI control console, A Gyttings-Lindstrom MS 816, just like the one…

  Instead of the impact he’d been bracing for, the dome and bridge of Pennsylvania simply melted away at the advancing object. As it slowed to a stop in front of Galtrup, he realized his ship was gone, crew…gone. Only he and the console remained, colorful displays, switches, sliders…and the pair of main-coil rocker-switches clearly marked just beyond his reach. Throw those switches and maybe the frozen aluminum frame shatters…

  But he couldn’t move. His muscles would not respond. He was long past feeling cold now, instead, a comfortable softness, growing softer, a desire to return to space, to his command chair on Pennsylvania’s bridge. To fall back asleep and resume the dream.

  “Come on, lover. It’s okay.” The soothing voice was Sara’s, coming into view to his right, looking exactly as she’d looked the first time he’d ever laid eyes on her. The same little white sundress, the long bronze legs. If nothing else on earth, her beauty is proof enough of god’s existence, Gill thought. He felt his heart begin to beat again, the sun warming his face. “It’s okay,” she repeated, extending her hand. “Don’t deny yourself.”

  She was standing on the lowest step of a wide stone staircase which led up to a massive, hewn log porch, the façade of a multistoried lodge set in a grove of ancient Sequoia redwoods. Beyond, a boathouse at the edge of a vast, azure-blue lake, small wavelets lapping at a broad, black-sand beach. Rugged mountaintops loomed above, couloirs brushstroked in glistening white. All these wonders he had seen before, but not together, not in the same place.

  “Like it?” Sara said, still offering her hand. “This is the way it was really meant to be all along.”

  “You and me?” he asked selfishly, like a child asking for a parent’s exclusive attention.

  She smiled sweetly, her clear eyes reflecting the sky, the dimple in her left cheek accentuated, the squeal of children’s laughter, the pure golden sunlight…

  “Not quite exactly just you and her,” came a gruff voice from the porch. Gill turned, shielding his eyes from the sun, hoping against hope he had not correctly recognized the source. He had. “Dr. Deverson,” Gill groaned. “How did you get here?”

  The barrel-chested little man descended, staring down at Gill over his thick-lensed bifocals. Still wearing the same wrinkled dark slacks, the same, dual-pocketed, faded, bluish short-sleeved shirt buttoned all the way up to the collar. “Not by invitation,” Deverson announced, shooting a sideways glance at Sara. “But no matter. There’s something you must do.”

  Gill had turned from the voice and was scanning the woods for the now-silent Anabelle and Jennifer. He could see them, standing motionless, two-dimensional like a photograph, the sunlight fading, the woods turning gray.

  “Forget about them, damnit.” Deverson barked. “This whole sector of the galaxy is about to get sucked into an exit aperture.”

  “A what?”

  “Son, You’ve got to power up those coils!” Gill’s confused expression prompted Deverson to continue. “That’s right, it was your idea…and a damn good one too. Torque the frame and maybe the whole thing collapses…”

  Gill realized now he had been transported back to the Control Room, back in his chair, staring at Deverson’s hand as it passed, apparition-like, through the console. Why was my dream so rudely interrupted?

  “What do you want me to say, Gill. Okay, I admit I knew there were risks, but I never expected this. Now get your ass up and throw these damn switches…”

  But Deverson was fading and Gill could see the forest again, the outline of the lodge through the redwoods, faint and colorless but growing sharper, and he heard another voice, a woman’s, weak and distant, falling away behind him: “I don’t think he’s going to make it, Mark,” Adel said. But Gill, now following Sara back into the forest, didn’t hear.

  “Damn,” Deverson grunted. “Then that just leaves the reporter.”

  The Dean of the School of Communications concluded his introduction by saying: “But it is a very special honor to present this next certificate…not to a journalist from a major urban paper…not to a journalist with advanced degrees from a major university…but to a real reporter from the real America, a real person, a hard-working reporter from a small market daily covering the day-to-day stories that most Americans really read. Ilene Ishue, you are a reminder - a symbol - that journalism’s highest honor can be - is - accessible to anyone in our profession willing to roll up some sleeves and do some work. It gives me the greatest pleasure to present you with this year’s Investigative Journalism Pulitzer Prize for your exhaustive series on INFX. Ms. Ishue…”

  She glided to the podium and accepted the certificate, then turned, waiting for the applause and camera flashes to subside. About 500 people, mostly journalists. She counted the TV news crews: seven. Her eyes drifted skyward, up into the vastness of the granite dome above the Forum, her mind on her speech. The right place at the right time, the perspective to recognize an important story and bird-dog it down. But most importantly, the independence from peer-think, from convention, from small-mindedness. That was the key to a free press and a free society…

  Something came between Ishue and the audience, something translucent floating above the crowded marble floor. Ishue wanted to say, “Hey, move it, you’re ruining my moment,” but she couldn’t get her mouth to open. The object was taking form, becoming opaque, like an out-of-focus shadow. The shape of a person. In the background the Low Library faded from view.

  She tried to move her neck, to look sideways where she was quite certain she would find Galtrup to her left and Gill on her right, but the muscles did not respond.

  The shadow was struggling to come into time and phase with the reporter, making slight, jerking movements, repetitive twitches, emitting a low-pitched rumble. The noise gathered in intensity, raising in pitch, the image’s movements growing more fluid, more solid.

  “Ilene…” the shadow managed to say. Then, more clearly, “Ilene Ishue. You’re Asian. I wouldn’t have guessed.” The shadow had become distinct enough for her to recognize the outline of the opaque glasses. Adel.

  Suddenly she found her voice. “Will! Gill! Are you guys getting this?”

  “They can’t hear you. They’ve slipped too far. You’re the only one left, Miss Ishue. You’re the strong one.”

  “Yeah, sure,” she scoffed. “Dr. Vrynos!”

  “They’ve both given it up,” Adel continued. “Laid down in the snow, so to speak. But you – you have true strength of character. You won’t go down without a fight.”

  “Oh god. This is serious. I’m hallucinating.”

  “No you’re not. If ever there was a time to believe in yourself, this is it. What does your instinct tell you?”

  “That I’m freezing to death.”

  “No. It’s cold in here but that’s not what’s happening to you…or the others. It’s the aperture, that thing behind me, drawing the life out of you. It has to be closed.”

  “Aperture? Explain that!”

  “An exit aperture. The largest this planet has ever seen. It must be closed immediately and you’re the only one who can do it.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that!”

  “I don’t have time to do better than that,” the shadowy Adel said. “You’ve got to shut the aperture now.”

  Ishue noticed other shadows forming up behind Adel, coming out of the light and taking shape. “You made us open it, Adel...”

  “Yes. But it cannot stay open. That will tear this planet apart.”

  After a thoughtful pause she said: “Alright, here’s the deal: If you want my help you’ll have to explain this whole aperture business to me, convince me
I need to do this. Start from the beginning.”

  “We’ll be glad to explain afterwards…”

  “You’re wasting time.”

  She could see the shadow wave its arms in a kind of dog paddle. “We promise you we’ll find a way…to answer…tell you everything we know. But the aperture…it must be closed immediately.”

  “Okay,” Ishue nodded. “How?”

  “The imaging console directly in front of you. Can you reach it?”

  She spent a full minute trying, then settled back, exhausted. The Forum dome was starting to reappear. “I’m frozen stiff. I don’t think I can move.”

  “You can and you must. Dig deep within yourself. This will take all of your power, all of you! If you give in now there’ll be no one left to write the story, perhaps no one left at all.”

  Or worse, it will be a prick like Vilasik who gets the story, fucks it all up. My story! She could see the copy, every word, page, dozens of pages already written. She could see the book, its cover, the controversy, the talk shows, the movie adaptation. The Pulitzer!

  She propped herself up with her arms now, her freezing numb arms, and lifted her weight slightly off the seat of her chair. Adel Deverson’s shadow was gone, like a dream she couldn’t quite remember. Now it was just her and the console, coated in glistening, crystalline ice. “Come on Ishue,” she growled through clenched teeth, lifting herself up, locking her knees, lurching forward. After one step her legs caved in, and with her last ounce of strength she lunged, stretching for the switches.

  Monday

  Gyttings-Lindstrom Research Unit,

  Eugene, Oregon

  Al Hamilton pulled up the collar of his new, size XXXL windbreaker, and zipped it all the way to his neck, a procedure made awkward by damp wool gloves. It had been so long since he’d had to wear one of the agency’s navy blue jackets - the letters ‘E-P-A’ emblazoned in bright yellow between the shoulderblades - that his old XXL wouldn’t zip up around his ever-expanding paunch.

  The sky drizzled wet little snowflakes, the crowd milling around the parking lot making fog breath, the sky still darkish even though sunrise had passed a half-hour ago.

  Al was a big man, six-two, conservatively 270 pounds, a disproportionately large head, huge hands, full salt-and-pepper beard. His visage commanded respect and authority, well suited to his roll as chief of the lead agency.

  There was no particular need for secrecy here. Gyttings-Lindstrom management had had ample warning of the search warrant issued an hour ago, when the company’s big Bell 430A helicopter made its last pickup from the rooftop helipad.

  Al checked his watch, then pushed his way through a dozen clambering reporters waving outstretched microphones, to the tight perimeter of FBI agents formed-up, shoulder-to-shoulder, around the dark-tinted glass doors. He pounded on the metal frame and the news corps fell silent in anticipation, cameramen jockeying for the best angles.

  “Open up!” he bellowed in his robust baritone. “This is the federal government! Open these doors immediately!” He knew the warning was mere formality; there wasn’t anyone inside. At least no one in authority.

  Al nodded to Dick Olevin, the FBI Special Agent in Charge, who motioned for his men to bring up the slide hammer. Then, radio in hand, Al ordered simultaneous assaults on the front and rear of the building. “Go, go, go,” he shouted as a stream of agents scrambled through the shattered doors, Al barking directions to the squad leaders as they passed. Olevin read the blur of letters on the jackets hustling by: “FBI, EPA, JUSTICE, CDC, EUGENE PD, LANE COUNTY SHERIFF.”

  “Anyone else got a ticket for the circus?” Olevin said aside to Al. A half-hour earlier, Al Hamilton, Olevin, and the heads of the other involved agencies had met in the command post, an unoccupied warehouse across the street. Al had skillfully controlled the meeting, handing out assignments according to each agency’s area of expertise. A born leader, Olevin thought. The right mixture of receptive and decisive. “You should have joined the Bureau instead,” the SAC had said.

  Although evacuated hastily, the building had nonetheless been effectively stripped of all incriminating, potentially valuable and proprietary data. Loose filing cabinet drawers, disassembled computers and discarded paperwork littered the floors.

  “Looks like they got the hard-drives,” said a Lane County Sheriff’s Deputy Sergeant, holding up a detached cover from a computer tower.

  Olevin laughed. Of course they got the computers. “We lost the element of surprise, eh, Sergeant?”

  Squads of agents dispersed according to plan while Al and the SAC passed through the atrium into the research wing, then down a long corridor through wide, double doors. The two men stopped short.

  “Damn,” Al said slowly. “They did all this in a week?” Before them, a labyrinth of interconnected mobile and portable buildings filled the 40,000 square foot warehouse. “Imagine a public agency that could work this fast.”

  “Scary thought,” Olevin chuckled.

  They maneuvered through the maze of steel supports, conduits, plumbing, ductwork, cross-ties and gussets to the rear doors where FBI agents were busy prying at the stubborn roll-up from the outside. Olevin shouted for them to stand clear, then opened the electric door and stepped onto the dock.

  “Get those fucking people out of here,” he cursed, pointing at two Fox News cameramen who had followed the agents into the rear yard. He radioed for his command van to be brought inside the walls.

  “We found some people,” the radio crackled. “In the hospital wing. Patients… and two nurses, and a doctor.”

  “Is it Lomax?” Al asked excitedly, spooling off blueprints he’d gotten from Eugene Building and Safety.

  “No. Says his name is Carlton. Young guy. Intern.”

  “Hospital wing? Do you see a hospital wing on these sheets?” he asked Olevin. They both turned to face the tangle of modular buildings.

  The radio crackled again, a different voice, agitated: “Sir! Agent Wyandotte here. We found casualties…we’re in R&D Control…uh, room 147. You better get down here right away.”

  “There,” Al said, stabbing the blueprint with a beefy finger. The control room he did find on the floorplans.

  The room had a sickly-sweet, burnt smell; the air smoky, thick with humidity. A paramedic crew worked over an outstretched body barely visible in the haze. As Al and Olevin entered, a stretcher team rushed out.

  “Clear!” a paramedic warned as he prepared to fire his defib. He knew it was dangerous using the machine on wet carpet.

  “What’s the heads-up,” Olevin asked Wyandotte.

  “Two vics, sir. White males. One has no vitals. The other had a faint pulse; they already took him out.”

  “What happened here?” Olevin demanded.

  “Not sure. They were sitting in these chairs. Calmly staring at the static on that large screen, eyes open, unconscious. No signs of struggle or foul play…”

  “I have pulse,” a paramedic with a stethoscope announced excitedly. Another stretcher arrived.

  “Why is it so friggin’ wet in here?” Hamilton asked.

  “Not sure. Fire sprinklers did not go off. Maybe it’s from ice. We found melting ice on that wall when we first came in.” Wyandotte pointed at the wall with a window in it.

  “Melting ice?” Al repeated. “How?”

  A Eugene PD forensics analyst answered: “Liquid helium. They use it to cool the windings to reduce resistance. This is a superconductor. Tank must have ruptured, froze the wall.” He shrugged, as if he wasn’t quite sure.

  “You got pictures before these paramedics wrecked my crime scene?” Olevin asked, turning to Agent Wyandotte.

  Looking sheepish, Wyandotte didn’t reply.

  Hamilton had wandered over to the window. “What the hell is that?” he said, wiping water droplets with his hand. In the next room, a foot-thick pile of debris about 20-feet-long by 10-wide. Shards of various materials, none bigger than an inch square. A ruby laser beam floated about four fe
et above the pile, emanating from a desk-sized apparatus across the room.

  “Looks like they were testing some kind of high-tech weapon,” Olevin said over Al’s shoulder.

  “This place makes my skin crawl,” Al said.

  Just then Olevin’s radio hissed. “SAC? Come in.” A woman’s voice.

  “Go ahead,” Olevin said.

  “I’m out here in…where the hell am I…” Voices crackled in the background “a trailer in the warehouse.” It was Dr. Shirley Esposito, Center for Disease Control Field Supervisor. “It’s the morgue trailer. We’ve got some suspicious cultures here, several carcasses. I think we better lock it down.”

  “Can’t do that, Shirley…I got Blazer tickets for tonight.”

  Laughter came out of the speaker.

  “But Shirley, it’s a playoff game!”

  No laughter now. “Is Hamilton with you?”

  Al Hamilton listened into the transceiver for a moment, his eyes getting big. Of course! They were conducting an evidentiary search at a medical research laboratory. Operating rooms, labs, biological hazards. Now the word came upon him in a lightening flash: quarantine!

  “Doctor?” Hamilton interrupted “This place is a sieve. We’ve had their people coming and going all night. We’ve already had many of our people leave the building recently, and two of theirs, critically injured, outbound with LCFD paramedics.”

  They heard muffled conversation on the other end. Then: “Understood. I’m going to confine quarantine to morgue and hospital. Seal us in, Agent Hamilton. Over.”

  “With pleasure,” he mumbled.

  Olevin, who had been pacing, cellphone to his ear, muttering the word “shit” over and over, now relaxed. “Hey, nice work, Al.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s going to cost you one of those tickets.”

  Wednesday

  Private Residence,

  Springfield, Oregon

  Blackburn rapped on the metal storm door, it’s white gloss finish stained along the edge from years of grimy handprints. He didn’t see lights on through an adjacent window curtain, and even though it was almost noon, the oppressive winter sky would have made it very dark inside. He knocked again, then leaned against the porch wall, eyes closed, waiting, cold, exhausted.