Solomon's Arrow

by J. Dalton Jennings

  Copyright © 2015 by J. Dalton Jennings

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Talos Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015933719

  Cover design by Owen Corrigan

  Cover photo credit: Thinkstock

  ISBN: 978-1-940456-22-5

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-940456-32-4

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Part One: Stringing the Bow

  Part Two: The Arrow of Time

  Part Three: Hitting the Mark

  Part Four: The Bull’s Eye Undone

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  “The illimitable, silent, never-resting thing called Time, rolling, rushing on, swift … like an all-embracing ocean tide, on which we and all the universe swim like exhalations, like apparitions which are, and then are not …”

  —Thomas Carlyle

  “You are the bows from which your children, as living arrows, are sent forth.”

  —Khalil Gibran

  PROLOGUE

  THE INDEPENDENT NATION OF PACIFICA: DECEMBER 22, AD 2051

  The conference room was packed with reporters of all stripes, each there to hear from and hopefully pose a question to Dr. Solomon Chavez—President and CEO of Chavez International Medical Research & Development, Inc., otherwise known as CIMRAD. Over the previous months, speculation about the reclusive son of the corporation’s late founder, Dr. Juan Chavez, had been running rampant. Only one clear photo existed of him, and it was a publicity shot distributed to the press shortly after his father’s funeral. He was a cipher: no one knew he existed until the day of his father’s funeral.

  The elder Chavez was one of the most famous people in the world: scientist, philanthropist, inventor, and the world’s first trillionaire. A certifiable genius, he’d made his name in genome sequencing and industrial cloning. The scientific community had dubbed him a wunderkind, and his knack for innovation soon allowed him to open his own research lab. In the year 2023, he burst upon the public consciousness by inventing the first workable, artificial womb, supplying replacement organs cloned from a patient’s own stem cells. This groundbreaking achievement heralded a new era in transplant surgery, eliminating the need for anti-rejection drugs and saving millions of lives. Fame and fortune followed in its wake, and within ten years, Dr. Juan Chavez was the richest man in the world.

  Then disaster struck …

  On the morning of April 10, 2051, the world learned of the great man’s death. Nearly every Holovision channel interrupted its programming to report that he had perished in a single-person airplane crash while en route to his home in Pacifica, the floating city that he, along with a thousand of the richest people on Earth, had built in the Pacific Ocean, off the coast of Peru. Very little wreckage was recovered, and the authorities found no trace of his body.

  During the days leading up to the funeral, conspiracy theorists argued that he’d been murdered by one of the terrorist organizations located in the United States of America, possibly even the Christian Republican Army itself. The CRA’s leader, Reverend William Mannheim, had branded Chavez a heretic, so there was ample reason to suspect foul play. But no amount of investigation—by police or journalists—could tie the good doctor’s death to terrorism.

  The funeral had been private, followed by a public memorial at the Pacifica Concert Hall. Many dignitaries from the scientific, political, and entertainment world had attended. The incomparable mezzo-soprano, Claudette Mulroney, sang a powerful rendition of “Ave Maria” that brought many to tears. Her performance, combined with a long list of testimonials, made for a magnificent send-off. The memorial was talked about for days, yet it was the lone figure seated in the late doctor’s private box that sparked the most speculation.

  The stranger appeared to be in his thirties and wore dark sunglasses. His body was cloaked in shadows, yet it was plain to see he bore a striking resemblance to the day’s honoree. The service had no sooner ended than a tremendous buzz flooded the social media and news networks: Who was this man? Why was he allowed in the doctor’s private box? Was he related to Chavez, and if so, in what way? The deceased had never been married, nor had children—to the world’s knowledge.

  The following day, a press release identified the young man as Dr. Solomon Chavez, son and sole heir to Dr. Juan Chavez. The release was accompanied by a somber publicity photo that looked remarkably like the good doctor in his youth. This revelation was followed by another round of intense speculation: Why was the public hearing about him now? Where was he raised? What schools had he attended? And the most pernicious of questions: Was he really Dr. Juan Chavez’s son, or a clone?

  For the next three weeks, little was learned except that Solomon was adjusting nicely to his new role as head of CIMRAD. As with every news cycle, the buzz faded and other news took its place: the civil unrest in Africa; floods in Tennessee; water shortages; food shortages; terrorist attacks in the American heartland; the fifteenth anniversary of the Hebrew/Islamic Peace Accord; and the premieres, scandals, and deaths in the entertainment world. The public focus was elsewhere on the day CIMRAD issued a press release stating that in one week, Solomon would be holding a news conference at their headquarters and that all the major news organizations should attend.

  On the scheduled date, a huge crowd of reporters gathered in the company auditorium, waiting impatiently for the mystery man to arrive. The air was electric. Most of the reporters were speaking via interlink, with network anchors located in studios half a world away, when Solomon entered the room. They immediately switched off their link-implants, took their seats, and turned their attention to the lectern.

  Stepping up to the microphone was CIMRAD press secretary Lawrence Murchison. Most of the reporters in the room had dealt with Murchison over the years and knew him to be a smooth operator. The blond, blue-eyed, thirty-eight-year-old ladies’ man was famous in his own right, having been the company’s face for the past six years, and from all appearances, it looked as though he’d been asked to continue in that position.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Dr. Chavez will be making an important announcement. Please note that he will not be taking questions at the end of this press conference. However, each of you will receive a press packet with supplementary info regarding today’s announcement.”

  A low murmur filled the auditorium. With disappointment registering on the reporters’ faces, they glanced from Murchison to Chavez, who stood beside the press secretary, his hands clasped behind his back, looking not the least bit nervous about addressing the public for the first time. He wore an expensive silk black suit and a red power-tie; his face was angular; his jet-black hair perfectly coifed in a style similar to his father’s, making him look remarkably like Dr. Juan Chavez, with only subtle differences telling them apart.

  “I’m sure you have many questions about Dr. Chavez’s background,” Murchison continued, “but this press conference is not about him, specifically. He is as security conscious as his fathe
r was before him, and he will decide whether to disclose further details about his upbringing. I assure you, what he plans to say is much more important. So, without further ado, I’m pleased to present Dr. Solomon Chavez.”

  There was no applause—as was protocol with the press—when Murchison relinquished the stage to the man who’d garnered so much speculation over the previous months.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” Dr. Solomon Chavez said, sounding confident. “As you know, twenty years ago my father built this magnificent city. He envisioned an ocean community that would be self-sufficient—a model for the future. Overpopulation was the impetus for that ambitious vision. With 75 percent of the Earth covered in water, he felt that Pacifica could serve as an example for future generations, proving that humans—being so adaptive—could live on water. By taking some of the load off the landmasses, he instilled hope that the human race wasn’t teetering on its last legs.

  “Twelve years ago, his vision was fulfilled, and thus began an influx of businesses and families that continues to this very day. Pacifica is a success … despite some controversy.” A few of the reporters chuckled knowingly. The project had been a favorite target of environmental extremists from the day it was first announced. “However, not a person alive can say my father’s heart was out of place. He was always looking to the future, always concerned about the welfare of the human race. But after observing the continuing hardships around the globe—the food riots, water shortages, the inability to stem the tide of over-population, the religious strife in America, and numerous other issues—he became worried for humanity’s future. Being an optimist, he knew that an even more ambitious program than Pacifica was called for … a program to prevent the human race from vanishing, due to its own shortsightedness.”

  Solomon paused momentarily to let those dramatic words sink in.

  “Unfortunately, his tragic death left this announcement up to me. I’m here to let the people of the world know that CIMRAD, in league with the scientific community and the world’s most prosperous corporations and nations, will develop the most ambitious construction project ever attempted, which is tentatively titled, the Ark Project.”

  A low rumble of excitement rippled through the auditorium.

  “We hope to complete this venture within the next ten to twelve years, and—”

  “Could you be more specific, Doctor,” shouted a reporter standing near the back of the room, known for his combative style. “You’re being a bit vague. I’m sure we’d all appreciate it if you—”

  “Mr. Brantley … if you possessed a modicum of patience, you’d know I was getting to the point,” Solomon snapped back, his face clouding with obvious contempt. “Unlike you, I am patient. However, if you interrupt me one more time, you will be escorted from the room. This is not The Darren Brantley Show. Have I made myself clear?”

  The reporter appeared as though he would launch into one of his famous diatribes about the freedom of the press when his producer ordered him to quiet down and listen. Chastened, he nodded and glumly took his seat.

  “Very well,” Solomon said, taking a deep breath to collect his thoughts. “As I was saying, within the next ten to twelve years, the Ark Project will be ready to proceed. But what exactly, you might ask, is the Ark Project?” Solomon cut a quick glance at Brantley, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Utilizing the Lake Victoria Space Elevator, we will soon begin transporting equipment, hardware, and prefabricated components into orbit, whereupon we will assemble a massive spacecraft that will leave on a one-way voyage to the Epsilon Eridani star system, where an Earth-like planet has recently been discovered. After reaching the planet, we will set up a colony designed to perpetuate the species.”

  A collective gasp swept through the room.

  “We can no longer afford to keep all our eggs in one basket,” Solomon stated, looking straight into the camera. “If not dealt with, the human race’s shortsightedness will be our undoing. My friends, it is my fervent hope that we will solve our problems before the tipping point is reached. We are capable of great things, as proved by what science and the arts have accomplished thus far. But we must not be blinded by optimism. We can no longer rely on nature to heal the wounds we’ve inflicted upon Mother Earth—we must be realistic and hedge our bets. It’s imperative we develop a contingency plan that will ensure the survival of the species. By coming together in a common cause, we can accomplish miracles.

  “Thank you for your time, ladies and gentlemen. Good day.” And with that, Dr. Solomon Chavez exited the auditorium amid a frantic swarm of unanswered questions.

  PART ONE: STRINGING THE BOW

  “Time passes!” Men in fond delusion say.

  “No!” Time demurs; “’tis men that pass away.”

  —From the poem “Man and Time” by Arthur Guiterman

  1

  PHOENIX, ARIZONA: 8:25 A.M., APRIL 3, AD 2060

  “Hurry and finish your breakfast, young man. We need to be downstairs in ten minutes.”

  The curly-haired six-year-old tore his eyes from the frenetic cartoon playing on the seventy-two-inch HV set mounted on the hotel suite’s wall, responding with a loud whine, “Mom … The Benzie Badger Show’s not over yet.”

  “Listen to your mother, David. You don’t want us to be late, do you? After all, you’ve been looking forward to this as much as we have.”

  “Yes, papa,” the boy grumbled. “Computer—end program.”

  The crystal-clear, holographic image of Benzie Badger—who was set to whack Needles the Porcupine over the head with a club—faded to black. Hopping to his feet, David took his cereal bowl into the kitchen.

  Adjusting his tie, Richard Allison smiled at Erin, his wife of eight years, thinking how lucky he was to have such a beautiful, devoted partner in his life. She stood five-foot-seven in her stocking feet, had long blonde hair, a button nose, and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Her creamy-white, Nordic complexion was in sharp contrast to his own mocha coloration.

  Naval Commander Richard Allison stood six-foot-two inches tall and was thirty-five years old. He was in excellent physical condition, was exceedingly handsome—in an Old Hollywood sort of way—and was one of the world’s premiere astronauts. He’d just been hired by CIMRAD to oversee the final stages of pilot training for Solomon’s Arrow, the interstellar spacecraft at the hub of the Ark Program. With his exemplary service record, he would’ve been the perfect candidate to pilot the craft; unfortunately, one of the set requirements was that each crew member must be single, with no family members to grieve over during the interstellar journey. This requirement made it more difficult to fill certain technical positions. But with ten months until launch, the crew complement was nearly complete.

  Nine years ago he would’ve scraped and clawed his way into the pilot’s seat, but having a family changed his priorities. Still, it was hard not to envy the chosen pilot, Russell Takahashi. They were high school classmates, attended the U.S. Naval Academy together, and were often referred to as “Russ ’n Rich.”

  Then along came Erin …

  The two men had met the blonde beauty at the Navy’s annual ball. Russell had asked her to dance and afterward introduced her to Richard. The two were drawn together like magnets. Over the next few months, Richard and Erin spent every free moment together, which obviously upset Russell. However, their devotion to each other was apparent, and Russell’s bruised ego soon gave way to happiness. He even accepted Richard’s offer to be best man at their wedding.

  Soon after, his and Richard’s paths diverged, though their reputations took a parallel course: Both were considered the best in their field, with Russell edging out Richard in his devotion to flying and keeping his piloting skills fresh, but only barely. When Russell was hired as chief pilot for the Ark Project, Richard wasn’t surprised. His friend deserved the honor.

  Richard hadn’t seen Russell in four months, but after his hiring by CIMRAD, the two would be working together on a daily basis and be reunited as
“Russ ’n Rich.” It was hard to believe that he would soon be sitting with Russell and a number of other dignitaries on the tarmac of Sky Harbor International Airport, ensconced in the luxury of Dr. Solomon Chavez’s private Space-plane, taxiing toward a new, better future in the floating city of Pacifica.

  Picking up his Personal Interlink Device and slipping the flexible, rectangular gadget—about the size of a playing card and twice as thick—into the breast pocket of his shirt, Richard turned to his wife and son, and said with an excited smile, “Our lives are about to change forever. We’ve made sacrifices—bidding goodbye to family and friends—but it won’t be forever. Erin, you’re a freelance writer—your job isn’t affected by where you live. And David, you’ll have a brand new set of friends before you know it.”

  Erin smiled and began to scoot her son toward the door. The boy was understandably nervous to start this new phase of life, but also excited. Shortly after learning where they were moving, he began to study everything he could download about oceanography. David’s young, inquisitive mind reminded Richard of himself at that age—only his field of interest had centered on the history of aircraft, then later, the anatomy of girls.

  These days, the only female anatomy he was interested in was Erin’s. After eight years of marriage, their passion had yet to wane. He was sure he couldn’t be more in love with another person … unless that other person was David. When his son was born, a completely different part of Richard’s heart opened up as he learned to love in a powerful new way.

  As he exited the suite with his family, Richard could barely contain his joy. “This is it,” he gushed. “Let’s go touch the wild blue yonder.”

  •

  When Richard and his family exited the sumptuous lobby of the Arizona Biltmore Hotel and boarded their waiting limousine, the car’s automated voice began: “Welcome to Sky Harbor Limousine Service. Our goal is to make your ride a pleasant one. If you prefer to use your PID in place of this vehicle’s interlink device, please insert it in the appropriate slot.”