Force
Page 17
Modes Of Transportation
In all the travelling through the multiple dimensions, flying off buildings and flinging out of cars, shooting and being shot, surviving accidents only to inexplicably time-jump into an alternate reality where I arrive at the exact moment everything is destroyed—in all of that, the one thing that has my head twisted, the one thing that has captured my attention and won’t release it, is the weird round thing that’s appeared a hundred yards in away and is now bulleting toward me.
In this blank landscape, there’s literally nowhere to hide. What can I do stand here, waiting for whatever’s coming? The strange vehicle reminds me of the hovercraft in the way it floats but is utterly different in appearance. It’s a flying ball shooting across the icy surface until it halts less than five feet away.
It’s the strangest mode of transportation I’ve ever seen, second only to the blue fiery gateway that the Threestone opens.
This round ship looks like a giant snowball, but as I look closer, I see it’s not white. Its metal and reflecting the snow. The sphere is formed from tiny triangular pieces of shining metal, knit together.
I pay close attention as the shape of a door forms in the curved side—just like the Biolock—and slides open. Like something out of Star Trek.
A man steps out. Two feet set apart; the legs wrapped in white solid material, the thin torso, boxy chest, and then the face. That face.
It’s him.
The man emerging from this weird, circular transporter looks like my father. Not exactly, but stunningly close to my dad when he was in his thirties. I have to close my eyes, shake my head, and count to three. Check and then check again to make sure I’m not dreaming.
When I open my eyes, I find myself flanked by two other men in gray jumpsuits and helmets. One of them twists my arm behind my back while the second unfastens my hood and flips it back. Glacial air blasts my face and it hurts to breathe. I can’t stop myself from being shoved forward, towards the opening of the circular ship.
“Into the Orb.” An even voice from behind me says. It sounds male. “Now.”
My eyes are glued to the officer standing by the doorway. His answering stare is cold. Emotionless, as if he’s never seen me before. Guess he doesn’t own a mirror
“Confiscate his belongings.” The man says. “Destroy the weapon.” With that, he turns and walks into the Orb.
The inside is nothing like the spaceships I’ve seen on TV. There are no walls filled with flashing buttons, no enormous window that doubles as a screen for communication. No control panels anywhere. Just hard, white benches that rise up out of the floor a few feet behind a single chair facing, what I guess is the front of the spherical transport. There’s the man again, sitting down, facing the lone control panel, that’s no more than a rectangular keypad set above a joystick under a portal-like windshield.
One of guards strips the backpack from my shoulders. I make a stink of it like there’s something important in there. They ignore my ranting and force me into a spot on the hard bench using smooth, synchronized actions—moving in perfect unison as if they do this a hundred times a day.
To keep up appearances, I decide to let the first guard hold me down, but make a big show of it by first smacking the front of his helmet. It’s not hard enough to knock his head back, but my cold hand stings. All the while I’m rambling about violations of privacy while the other helmet-clad guard removes and analyzes everything inside my bag, asking stupid questions.
“What is the purpose of this device?” The second guard asks while holding up my small soup pot.
“For hitting yourself over the head. Go on, give it a try.”
The cabin space of this transporter is small. When the man occupying the pilots’ chair turns around, our knees almost touch.
The two guards drop what they’re doing, straighten and salute. This odd, circular craft—this Orb—that literally looks like a giant bouncy ball is being operated by a guy with another version of my father’s face.
Staring at him sends me back to that bathroom where I was standing behind his wheelchair with that stupid shaver in my hand. I took every moment with him for granted. Except a span of about five seconds after he told me he was going to die and right before I realized I couldn’t handle it and shut down. I wanted nothing to do with his secrets and predictions.
The memory pulses as I watch the man reclaim his seat in the single chair and remove one of his two white gloves. I’m sure he’s going to say something smarmy when he addresses me, at least remark that we look like we could be related, but he’s all business.
“Alien, I am your captain and pilot. You are my prisoner. You will obey my orders at all times. If you struggle, the lieutenant will shoot you. If you—” He stops and touches a hand to his ear, scowling.
He remains silent, tilting his head as if listening and staring at the guard seated directly across from me. The one holding my backpack makes an odd squeaking sound, not quite like he’s clearing his throat. Then all three of the soldiers nod.
The pilot doesn’t bother with finishing his instructions as he turns away and punches a series of buttons on the panel in front. The entry of the space craft closes; the panel disappearing like no door was ever there.
Another punch into the keypad and a band reaches out from the wall behind me, coming around my shoulder and passing across my chest to lock into the wall behind my other shoulder, securing me in place. The guard holding me lets go and I adjust myself, feeling the shape of the stones gouging into my chest.
The Commandant then presses his flat hand onto the keypad in front of him and the Orb shoots forward. I wouldn’t even know we were travelling if not for the snow blowing past the front window. There’s no sound of an engine or rumbling, nothing to show that we’re actually moving.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask and get the answer I expect: nothing.
I keep watching as the pilot punches one code after another into the panel on at the front of the ship, trying to memorize them. Some have two digits, others have three. The commander and the guard across from me exchange words in voices too low for me to catch, even though I’m so close, I should catch every word.
I look at the guy nearest me. “What did you say?”
“Doyen wants to see him.” The man repeats in monotone. Or maybe his dark helmet makes it sound that way. Then he leans forward and touches the top of the pocket on the front of my suit. I flinch as far back as the vise around my chest allows.
“Are you malformed, Alien?” His obscured face seems to examine me. “Your symmetry construction does not suggest biological defects.”
The guard moves one gloved hand in the air between us and the band over my chest glides down, exposing the stones to inspection. I try twist away, but he’s got my pocket open and the rubber pouch in his hand before I can stop him.
“The weight and shape do not match any known weapons. What is the purpose of this?”
The other guard is turned in my direction, watching me struggle against the restraints. “Don’t open that.” It’s the fastest way to get them to do just that.
It’s a gamble. We’ll probably crash, but my only advantage is the element of surprise.
The commander is out of his pilot chair—a man, very near mirror-image of my patriarch—he’s tilting his head with extreme interest while the snow outside keeps blurring.
“We are immune to human disease.” The men all speak—three voices in unison, all perfectly matched monotones from three different mouths.
“I’m begging you, please don’t.” I brace myself as he rips back the zipper.
The lights go out. A loud whirring noise sounds through the cabin, pitching higher and higher until it sputters out. The Orb jumps and shudders like we’ve hit something.
A body flies through the cabin—crashing and bouncing against every surface. It could be anyone of them. I’m glad I’m strapped to the bench.
The Orb keeps bouncing and soon my belt snaps.
Then I’m flying too. For a second before something bangs into my shoulder and side of my head.