Afterimage

by Roderick Geiger

  “Yeah?” a man’s voice said through the thick slab door.

  The security chief was startled for a moment. “Detective Blackburn,” he said forcefully. “I need to talk to you.”

  “What about,” the voice groaned.

  “Please open the door, sir.”

  The inner door cracked open and Blackburn flashed his Texas PI badge, hoping the occupant wouldn’t scrutinize it carefully. He didn’t. “You Felix Henshaw,” he asked, flipping open his little cop-looking notebook. “Open the door, sir,” he ordered condescendingly, pulling out on the storm door. No please this time.

  Henshaw sighed and unlatched the chain lock. “This about Sunday night?”

  Blackburn gave a single nod.

  “The police really interested in this?” He was leaning on the door jamb, arms folded, blocking the entrance.

  “Just routine,” the detective said. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  Henshaw nodded. He was African-American, mid-forties, hefty build, head clean-shaven. Wearing a black T-shirt and blue jeans. It was dark inside. No one else appeared to be home. Blackburn paused, hoping the man would invite him in. He did not.

  “You’re the graveyard orderly at Bethel Convalescent?” Blackburn grunted.

  Henshaw nodded.

  “I know you’ve already told this story to a reporter, but I need to hear it from you, and I need for you to include anything, no matter how unimportant it seems, anything you might not have remembered before. Okay?”

  “It’s all in today’s Register, man.”

  “Humor me.”

  Henshaw frowned. “Okay. Nice old gal. She apparently fell out of bed, knocked the night table over. I heard it and came in. Checked her pulse. Gone. Sometimes it happens like that. They go into spasms and flip outta bed.”

  “Go on.”

  “So I woke up Doctor Sardarian. Had to drive in from her mansion in Hendricks Heights. Poor baby. She got there and called it.”

  “What time?”

  “Twelve-nineteen.”

  Blackburn made a note. “Is that the actual time-of-death?”

  “No. She probably passed right about midnight.”

  “Go on.”

  “So as usual we call in the coroner. Van gets there about 1:30. We - me an’ the driver - go in to get her…but she’s gone!” He pointed a finger at Blackburn. “Now I gotta tell you I locked that door. I know I did. Only way out was with a key or from the inside. So we start lookin’ an’ we find her in the cafeteria. Sittin’ in the dark. Dead as a doornail.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s it. The coroner driver took her away. I never woulda thought too much about it except for what’s been in the news about folks seein’ dead people all over town.”

  “So you called The Register.”

  “Yeah. Thought it might be important. Do you think it might be?”

  “Maybe. What else?”

  “Do the cops think that MRI company has anything to do with it?”

  Blackburn squinted menacingly. “What else? Think carefully.”

  “Well, just the one more thing. Don’t know if it’s important or not. Didn’t notice it ‘till a day later an’ I didn’t tell the reporters. Right where she was sittin’, scratched into the table, the name ‘Thomas.’ Coulda been there before but I ain’t never seen it. You know, these old folks, they not real keen on defacin’ tables and such.” Blackburn’s expression must have given him away because Hendricks now said: “Hey man, that name means somethin’ to you, don’t it?”

  “No. Not at all. Thank you for your help.”

  For Sara the last few days had been full of surprises. First, the meeting at EPA headquarters in DC where she and Gyttings had made an impassioned plea for a substantial grant to extend INFX. She’d thought it had gone well, but on the way back to Dulles International, Gyttings had booked a flightplan to Moscow.

  “We needed to make them feel like a part of our bright future,” Gyttings had said. “But public agencies work too slow…the bigger, the slower.”

  Energomash headquarters, located in Khimki, a residential Moscow suburb, had looked more like a city block of boring, brownstone apartment buildings than a missile research and development facility. It had been built that way intentionally, an elaborate hiding place for the Soviet Union’s equivalent of NASA’s Houston Command. Second, Constanti Dirikov had reminded her more of a pimp than a CEO. A military-short haircut complete with prominent scalp scars, two-day beard growth, an ankle-length, fur-lined leather trench coat. Real fur. Several gaudy gold necklaces.

  His office had also been a surprise - after walking Energomash’s Spartan hallways. From green linoleum, pale yellow walls and florescent lights to a red velvet bordello, brightly colored antique furnishings.

  “Louis XIV French,” Dirikov said in a thick but understandable Akanye Russian accent, gesturing broadly at his satin chairs and gold-painted side tables. He tossed his coat on one, revealing a sleeveless t-shirt, well-developed arms, the tattoo of a chain around his left biceps. Tall, looked to be in his mid-thirties. He shook hands first with Gyttings, then with Sara, a chunky ring on each of his fingers. Good exercise carrying all that extra weight on your hands, Sara thought.

  They were meeting because of something Galtrup had said over dinner the night before the final INFX, just hours before she and Gyttings had left Eugene together in the company jet. They’d been talking about a safe venue to continue the experiments, and Sara, recalling images from the SOHO satellite, had suggested earth orbit.

  “Earth’s magnetosphere extends far out into space,” Gill had lectured. “The magnetic effects would be impossible to predict.”

  “Yeah. But not if you could place it in a magnetic void,” Galtrup had said argumentatively. It was really just an off-handed comment, but Gyttings had seized upon it with vigor.

  “A magnetic void?” Gyttings had repeated as a question.

  Galtrup had nodded, his glasses slipping down his nose an inch or so. “A three-dimensional region of space where the magnetospheres of earth, the moon and the sun cancel each other out.” He’d put one hand over the other to illustrate this. “It’s in constant flux, moving, changing dimensions and shape, so it’s difficult to track, but not impossible.”

  “We’re a long way from putting an INFX laboratory that deep into space,” Gill had scoffed dismissively.

  Then Gyttings had leaned over to Sara and whispered: “Not the whole damn lab, just the Twin Tunnel.” She hadn’t given it much thought at the time.

  Dirikov positioned two chairs around his desk and motioned for his guests to sit. Just then Gyttings’ cellphone rang. He checked it, handed it to Sara. “Can you talk to Doug Blackburn a minute?”

  Her instinct was to say “I’m not your goddamn secretary,” but she bit her tongue, took the phone and moved to Dirikov’s reception area. “Yeah, Doug. What’s up?”

  “Is he there?”

  He? “We’re in a meeting, Doug.”

  “Oh.” Pause. “He asked me to check this business about paranormal sightings here in the Eugene area? I thought it was just mass hysteria at first, but not any more.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Well, I’ve got a lady here who says her mom keeps appearing to her in various ways telling her not to sell the house. But the mom keeps calling her Claire, and that’s not her name.”

  “Claire McCormack,” Sara said immediately.

  “Yeah. So I checked, and sure enough, the McCormack house is on the market.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything, Doug.”

  “Not by itself. But I’ve got a woman who dies, then walks to the cafeteria and scratches the name ‘Thomas’ in a tabletop. I’ve got the victim of a drug overdose who appears to her parents in the company of a man they don’t know. They’d assumed it was her rehab doctor, but when I show them pictures, they both - separately, I might add - ID the guy as Deverson. Sara, all these people died during the 23 minutes the
INFX was open. We can’t just dismiss this as coincidence.”

  “Agreed. Does the situation appear to be getting worse?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m hoping it’s like Evans said, that the sightings go on for a few days, then subside. I called Mr. Gyttings because I need to know whether I should investigate more of these things or head on back to Austin.”

  “No, stay put,” Sara ordered, relishing the opportunity to supervise. “The situation is volatile. We may need you there.” She could sense his reluctance to accept her intrusion into the chain of command. She waited.

  “Uh, okay.”

  “Have you spoken with Chalmais today?”

  “Yeah. He’s in DC. He doesn’t seem to think there’ll be any charges.”

  “Anything new on Gill or Galtrup?”

  “My FBI contact will only say they’re alive. Apparently Mrs. Vrynos and her kids were picked up at her home in Fresno on Monday…by a couple of suits. That’s all I know. Pretty top secret stuff.”

  “Alright, Doug. Call us again in 24 hours.” She hung up quickly, anxious to get back to the meeting, but Gyttings was already on his way out.

  “He thinks we can’t live without him,” Gyttings said, hooking Sara by the arm and leading her back the way they’d come. “He gave me his price and I gave him mine.”

  They were outside now in the overcast, chilly afternoon. Sara pulled the fur ushanka she’d bought at Sheremetyevo International over her head and said: “You haven’t really made me an offer to help you move forward with this.”

  “Strange place to be negotiating,” Gyttings said with only mild amusement. “You’re on my payroll…isn’t that enough?”

  “I’m afraid I’m the one you can’t live without. So no, it’s not.”

  Gyttings paced once in front of her, then turned: “Gill or Galtrup…one or the other…that’s what I really need.”

  “Sorry, lover, we’re a package deal. From here on in we’re all equal partners in your new enterprise.”

  Gyttings didn’t hesitate to answer: “I’ll need confirmation from Gill and Galtrup, if they’re even alive. If so, you’ll each get 10% of INFX Corp, plus a competitive salary.” When she started to speak he put up a stern index finger: “The numbers don’t support anything more than that. So yeah, it’s take it or leave it time.”

  She smiled and hooked his arm. “Where to now, partner?”

  “LAX. I’ve got a friend out there who runs a rocket company. He’s a gambler…I know he’s going to love this one.”

  Wednesday

  Sector Xidia 14-C78

  It was peaceful up here under the observation dome. A privilege of rank, a private dome attached to the captain’s quarters. With the lounger tilted upright, Galtrup could see forward across the cylindrical vastness of Pennsylvania all the way to the lip of the massive INFX Transmit dish. Galtrup pushed an armrest key to full recline the lounger and a moment later 50,000 stars reached down into his naked eye.

  All those stars, 28% supporting planets. A third of those planets, solid, a quarter of those, water-bearing, atmospheric. Gravities, EMFs, life.

  Galtrup couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t get his mind off the name: Sara. Why had he called his drive officer Sara? Something…Sara something…on the tip of my mind…why can’t I remember? He formed a small circle with his index finger and thumb, held it up and peered through it, isolating all but a small area of stars. How much life? He did the math in his head. Four hundred thousand worlds in that tiny circle of space in this galaxy alone. A tenth would host some form of life, a tenth of those, multi-cellular life. Life everywhere. The proliferation of life in our galaxy had surprised all the pre-INFX thinkers and writers. No one had imagined the vast scale of it.

  But in all of that, still no message that said: ‘hey, here we are!’ Nothing like humans, roaming freely throughout a 500-light-year radius around an insignificant little home-world. Earth. When we finally do find sentient life, will they also have a guttural, one-syllable word for their home-planet? Earth. So primitive, so basic, so fundamental it didn’t even call for a capital e. Synonym: dirt. They must be out there! Such aloneness! Where are they?

  It was so quiet up here in the dome now, with the noisy INFX drive off line. Quiet as the deep, endless space all around. INFX, named for the inventor of the faster-than-light engine. No, that’s not right. It was named for the discoverer of lifenergy, the concept which led to the development of the engine…what was his name? Damn, it’s a household name! Must have learned all this at university! But what university? I can’t remember! I can’t even remember being a kid! What is wrong with my memory?

  “Where are we,” a timid male voice said. Then a little stronger: “Who are you?”

  Startled, Galtrup pivoted his chair to the sound, a young couple, the woman clutching protectively to a baby…a large baby, maybe a one-year-old. They wore old-fashioned clothing. Blue jeans? They looked very frightened.

  “I’m the captain, these are my quarters. How’d you get in here?” He noticed his door was still latched from the inside.

  “Are we dead?” the woman blurted, voice cracking with fear.

  “Of course not!” the man insisted.

  “But Ralph! The logging truck!” She looked upward. “And now we’re floating in space?” She started to cry. “Mister…Captain…are we dead?”

  Logging truck? Galtrup couldn’t place it. “Logging truck?” he said aloud.

  “Yes. On the I-5. It rolled over right in front…” Her voice trailed off.

  I-5. I know that!

  “…Couldn’t make the 126 transition into Eugene…”

  “Eugene!” Galtrup blurted, the fleeting image of a large, concrete and glass building lurched through his semi-consciousness. “Eugene, Oregon?”

  Startled, the woman moved backward a step, coming between Galtrup and a lamp, and he noticed that some of the light was still reaching him, that the woman was slightly transparent. Holoimages! His eyes darted around the room, searching for the holojector lenses.

  “Where am I?” a voice behind him asked. Galtrup turned. It was a thin, elderly woman wearing only a hospital gown, a faint wisp of white hair sticking straight up. “Where did the hospital go?” She held her hand out flat. “I was floating above my room. My body was down there.” She looked thoughtfully at Galtrup. “Are you…the boatman?”

  “Is that my dad?” the younger man asked, pointing across the room at nothing. “Hon, do you see him?”

  Another voice floated in. “Thank God it’s over.” The source was a frail, middle-aged woman wearing a bandana on her head. “The pain is over!”

  “We are dead. My poor baby!”

  “Dad, wait! I’m coming, dad!”

  “Fucking doctors!” a teenage girl cursed. She wore two eyebrow rings and a dragon tattoo wrapped around her neck. “Incompetent motherfuckers. Man I am NOT ready for this shit!”

  “The tubes are gone!” an elderly woman said, rubbing her neck. “Where’d they go?”

  Galtrup grabbed the woman in the bandana by both shoulders: “Where were you a moment ago…before you came here?”

  “Sacred Heart…oncology ward…”

  “What city?” There was powerful urgency in his voice.

  “Eugene…”

  “And you?”

  “Bethel Convalescent…Eugene,” the old woman with the wisp of hair said.

  Galtrup pivoted to the teenager girl, who said: “Springfield. What about you?”

  Gyttings-Lindstrom! The words crossed Galtrup’s mind but he did not say them. Instead, he brushed his finger across his armrest com-act and said: “Bridge. Security to Captain’s quarters.” There came no acknowledgement, no sound at all.

  The woman with the baby eyed him suspiciously. “There’s something you know…something you’re not tell…” An unseen distraction had caught her eye and she began moving toward it, fading from view as she did.

  The teenage girl was next. She seemed to wisp away, disappear
ing ghostlike into nothingness. And even as more of them arrived, frightened and confused, others faded, moved away, preoccupied by visions Galtrup couldn’t see. “Security! Bridge, this is Captain Galtrup! Bridge! Acknowledge!”

  “He’s coming back,” a voice said, strong and deep.

  “Security! Intruder alert in Captain’s quarters!”

  “He thinks he’s still in the control room,” a female voice said.

  “He thinks he’s Captain Kirk,” a third voice said.

  Gill? Is that you Gill?

  “Heart rate passing 180,” an agitated female voice said.

  “Stop the xyelephine,” the deep voice said. “We need to slow him down.”

  Galtrup had risen through the dome, his body accelerating into space toward a brilliant star, white-hot, the light engulfing him.

  “I think I’m going to barf,” he muttered as he opened his eyes. Gill to one side, a doctor and two nurses hovering over him, Marcy in the background.

  “We had to bring you out,” Gill said. “You’ve been…comatose for three days.”

  “My head is killing me. Where am I?”

  “Los Alamos,” Gill said. “Guests of the National Laboratory. Needless to say, the federal government has a few questions they need answered.”

  “Jesus Christ, Gill, I was a starship captain! I was so sure it was real! Damn, I got cottonmouth…can I get some water here? It was so real, Gill. Goddamn, no one’s going to believe me.”

  Gill chuckled. “I will. I spent what I thought were several months living in a huge log cabin in the middle of the most beautiful alpine forest…”

  Galtrup grabbed Gill’s arm. “Until all these dead people came?”

  “Yeah…yeah.”

  “He’s stabilized enough,” the doctor with the deep voice insisted. “We’re going to give you something to help you rest now, Dr. Galtrup…”