Solomon's Arrow

by J. Dalton Jennings

  “… and later in this hour I’ll be speaking with Dr. Alice Shively about Commander Allison’s long-term prognosis. The public is still clamoring to learn about his condition. Since his dramatic rescue at sea, which was viewed by over 1.2 billion people on various network and interlink outlets, Commander Richard Allison has become one of the most talked-about people on the planet.”

  The news of his celebrity status was an unpleasant jolt back to reality. Richard was aghast as images from six weeks earlier appeared on the screen. He’d avoided watching the HV up until this morning, but his nurse had insisted, thinking some light entertainment would help alleviate his doldrums. Richard had shrugged, not caring whether the HV was on or off. But this, this was different. This was the first he’d seen of his body floating in the dark-blue waters of the Pacific, surrounded by smoking debris, surrounded by sharks and dolphins.

  “Who can forget the horrific carnage or the heart-stopping minutes surrounding Commander Allison’s rescue?” Darren Brantley intoned, his famous baritone voice evoking the perfect amount of empathy from his audience. “I know I never will.”

  As the camera zoomed in, the holographic picture looked so vivid, so real, that it was easy to imagine he was watching the scene take place through a window in his room. He saw himself floating unconscious, oblivious to the battle raging around him. Richard watched as the dolphins surrounded him seconds before the hammerhead sharks’ arrival, their dorsal fins cutting through the water on an intercept course. At the last second the sharks veered off, forced aside by the fast-moving dolphins. Not dissuaded, they kept circling, making dashes toward his damaged body, trying to keep the madly protective dolphins off guard.

  As for the dolphins, they were ready and waiting, coordinated, sensing when the sharks were about to strike. The mammals were darting about, ramming sharks with their hard snouts. During the actual event, each time a shark attacked, the viewer at home would gasp in horror, thinking Richard’s luck had run out, followed by a cheer, praising the valiant dolphin’s courage when the shark was driven away.

  Despite knowing he was watching a prerecorded broadcast, Richard’s heart nearly leapt from his throat when he saw the first shark attack. While watching the nerve-racking battle between deadly predators and peaceful protectors, Richard began to appreciate why the real-time audience had become so invested in the outcome. It felt like he was having an out-of-body experience, like he was watching a stranger in jeopardy, not himself. When the rescue chopper finally arrived, he caught himself breathing a sigh of relief. The appearance of the chopper was the last straw for the sharks. Whether it was the noise or the downdraft from the whirring blades, the sharks suddenly fled the scene. Not so for the dolphins: half gave chase, leaving the other half to circle protectively around Richard.

  While his body was being lifted to the safety of the rescue chopper, the pursuing dolphins rejoined their brethren. With their permanent grins pointing skyward, the dolphins rose halfway out of the water, watching attentively until Richard was safely within the chopper. In unison, they began to chatter and leap backward through the air. After slashing down, they spread out, returning to the business of inspecting the plane’s smoldering wreckage.

  “By God, I could watch that footage all day,” Darren Brantley gushed. “Why, if I had a nickel for every goose bump that scene’s given me over the past six weeks, I’d be rich.”

  The camera switched back to the smiling HV host. His snow-white teeth, perfectly coifed, light-brown hair, and wide amiable face had been gracing the airwaves for well over two decades. Lacing his fingers together and leaning forward at his desk, he affected a more serious demeanor.

  “After the break, I’ll be speaking with a panel of experts about the mystery of Reverend Creswell’s involvement in the plane’s downing. Was he a willing pawn of the CRA? Could he have been the mastermind behind the failed plot to assassinate Solomon Chavez? Or, as some people believe, was the CRA using his wife as a tool to—”

  “Computer, turn off the HV,” Richard grunted, feeling drained and deeply disturbed. With a frown, he turned his head to gaze out the window.

  “It seems you’ve become quite the celebrity, Commander Allison.”

  Startled, Richard whipped his head toward the voice and saw Solomon Chavez standing in the doorway, his arms crossed as he leaned against the doorframe.

  “May I come in?”

  “Of course … have a seat.” Richard watched as his employer, who was wearing a faded pair of jeans, a gray V-neck sweater with white t-shirt underneath, positioned a chair beside his bed. The man’s casual attire was a bit jarring. “To what do I owe this unexpected honor, Dr. Chavez?”

  Crossing one leg over the other, Solomon studied Richard’s face. “In a matter of weeks, you won’t be able to tell that most of the skin from your left temple down to your jaw was replaced. And the new skin on your neck looks great.” Most of Richard’s injuries were barely noticeable due to the advances in treatment brought about by CIMRAD technology. “You should be able to leave the hospital by the end of the week.”

  Richard’s heart sank at the thought of living in an empty apartment.

  Solomon continued: “I apologize for not coming sooner. I’ve been very busy with …” he paused to shake his head. “I am so sorry for the loss of your wife and child. Their deaths were a senseless, terrible tragedy. I understand how you must …” Solomon stopped to clear his throat. “I can only imagine how you must feel right now, Commander Allison. This Sunday there will be a special memorial service for all those lost in the crash. We’ve delayed it, waiting for you to be well enough to attend.”

  Richard looked away, unsure if he could deal with the thought of sitting in a pew, staring at wreaths of flowers, listening to mournful tunes. “I … I don’t know if—”

  “The public expects you to be there, Commander,” Chavez cut in. “Since the crash, you’ve become the face of the Ark Project … together with your son, David—a beautiful boy if I’ve ever since one.”

  “David? I don’t understand.”

  “As I said earlier, you’ve become quite the celebrity, Commander. Of course, the public was outraged by what happened to the other passengers, but it was the picture of your son that set a billion tears flowing. For weeks the public was beside itself, calling for vengeance, retribution for David’s death. As a result, the CRA was forced even further underground. Even some of their right-wing supporters have been calling for their heads. So, you see, you simply must attend the memorial, Commander. It’s as much for the public, who’s invested a piece of their hearts in your boy, as it is for you and the families of the other victims.”

  Richard offered a slow, hesitant nod.

  “Good, I have one more thing—”

  “Can’t this wait, Dr. Chavez? I’m exhausted.”

  “Just one more thing and I’ll be out of your hair, Commander,” he said, glancing toward the HV screen. “I have someone who’d like to speak with you. Computer, connect with M-103.”

  The screen came to life. There, staring back at Richard was the face of a woman he hoped to never see again: Admiral Katherine “Battleaxe” Axelrod, former supreme commander of NATO and Captain of Solomon’s Arrow. Her prematurely gray hair was pulled back in a severe bun, her stern, angular features seemingly carved from granite, her navy-blue officer’s uniform adorned with the many ribbons awarded during her twenty-three-year career in the British navy.

  “Hello, Richard. I’m pleased to see you’re recovering so nicely. Sorry about your family.”

  The admiral’s characteristically indifferent manner grated on his nerves. Richard forced his irritation aside. “Hello, sir. You’re also looking well.” He always addressed her as sir, remembering vividly how, as a young lieutenant under her command, he’d made the mistake of calling her ma’am. He’d received a tongue-lashing he could still quote word for word. She’d said, “I’m not your mother,” and for him to call her sir, which was a sign of respect, and to never again
insult her with that other appellation. One thing Richard would never call her was a friend; though he did respect her, which meant he was all ears when she appeared on screen.

  “As you well know, Richard, we lost many good people in the bombing, including Russell Takahashi. He will be sorely missed. But he’s not irreplaceable. There are other qualified pilots who could do the job nearly as well, but there is only one person who could do the job better, and that’s you. We’d like you to honor Russell’s memory by stepping into his shoes. What say you?”

  “But I’m not qualified for the …” that’s when Richard remembered: now he was qualified for the job. The main precondition for joining The Arrow’s crew was that their life be devoid of family. Six weeks ago he’d become eligible, and he hated it with a passion.

  Both Solomon Chavez and Admiral Axelrod waited patiently while he wrestled with the idea of their offer. It was too soon, Richard thought. They needed to find someone else. “I … I’m sorry, but I can’t accept your generous offer. I’m leaving the program. I need time to grieve, time to come to terms with what’s happened.”

  “Nonsense, Richard,” the admiral barked. “What you need more than anything is to work. You need to immerse yourself in your job, distract yourself with work. Lying around in bed all day does you no good. You’ve had too much time to dwell on your misfortune.”

  “Misfortune?!” Richard snapped. “What happened was not a misfortune, sir! Who the hell do you think you are? My life is destroyed! If you think I’ll—”

  “That’s enough, Commander Allison!” she warned. “You’re acting like a daft prick teetering on the edge of insubordination.” Her eyes flared with anger. “For the sake of what you’ve been through, I’m willing to overlook your behavior this time, but not again. Do you understand my meaning?” Richard’s glare should have made her explode with fury. Instead, her voice lowered, becoming cold, monotone. “Answer me, Commander.”

  Swallowing his resentment, Richard grumbled, “Yes, sir. Your meaning is perfectly clear, sir. However, that doesn’t change the fact that I have reservations about remaining in Pacifica, much less joining the mission.”

  That’s when Chavez chimed in. “Well then, let me clear those reservations up for you, Commander. I have your name on a contract. You are legally required to work for CIMRAD for the next eighteen months. And I’ll be holding you to that contract.”

  Stunned, Richard stared open-mouthed at Solomon Chavez, unable to believe his ears.

  “I wish it wasn’t so, Commander. Nevertheless, I will put the hammer down if required. All I ask is for you to not make any rash decisions. Start the job you were originally hired for. And if, in a month or two, you want to decline the Admiral’s offer, I’m confident we can find someone else to take your place. However, you owe it to your son’s memory to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and set a good example for all those who’ve come to care for you.”

  Letting his head fall dejectedly to his pillow, Richard lay staring at the light-green ceiling, feeling his future slip from his control like water through a sieve. With a barely perceptible nod, he murmured, “Fine … I’ll consider the offer.”

  •

  Having earlier that day returned to the Lake Victoria complex from Pacifica, Dr. Mona Levin, the fifty-one-year-old designer and engineer of Solomon’s Arrow, stared out her penthouse window at the massive, circular structure lying at the heart of Elevator City. Owned and operated by a multinational conglomerate and constructed sixteen years earlier, the space-elevator was hailed as one of the world’s greatest technological marvels.

  At the turn of the century, the prevailing theory was to anchor the space-elevator with a carbon-nanotube cable, which would rise tens of thousands of miles into space to counteract the effects of gravity. This theory proved unrealistic and was mothballed until the year 2032, when a young quantum engineer, Dr. Mona Levin, designed the first independent, magnetic-levitation engine. After that breakthrough, it didn’t take long for the notion of a space-elevator to resurface. The maglev-engine could use a laser guidance system, allowing the orbital platform to be built closer to Earth, thus shaving what would’ve taken days to reach space down to hours and turning an impractical dream into a practical reality.

  The platform, orbiting three-hundred miles above Kenya, housed a rotating crew composed of seventy-eight scientists, administrators, and technicians, all of whom were working feverishly to build Solomon’s Arrow, aka Mona’s Ark. She hated the nickname, but also secretly relished it, knowing the reference applied to her Jewish heritage—a play on the ancient story of Noah’s Ark, of which the project was a modern day equivalent.

  The huge ground-side complex employed vast numbers of people, all of whom required housing and entertainment. Elevator City was built to accommodate their needs, and before long a booming economy was established.

  Mona studied a small dot rising through the atmosphere. The dot was the elevator’s transport container, and it was filled with supplies destined for the Arrow of Time (a nickname she coined, though it never stuck). As the transport passed the elevator’s midway point, Mona’s thoughts turned to Pacifica, causing her temper to flare once again.

  Damn that Solomon Chavez and his fucking rules!

  The junior Chavez was just like his father, a stickler for protocol and procedures. Everyone knew that she was the foremost quantum engineer on the planet and obvious choice to be the Arrow’s chief engineer. But no, her mother was still alive. Hell, her mother was pushing eighty and in poor health. As for Mona’s age, she was barely one year past the cutoff. There should be some leeway when it came to people such as her … important people, valuable people, people who put their heart and soul—their blood, sweat, and tears—into this momentous project.

  It wasn’t fair, and she stressed that fact in the only way she knew how, without much tact, while accompanying Solomon to Commander Allison’s room. She’d been present when the poor fellow awoke from his chemically induced coma.

  “You’re a son-of-a-bitch for not bending the rules, Solomon,” she’d snapped before entering the commander’s room. “You need me on this mission and you know it!”

  Solomon had come to an abrupt halt and faced her, a cold anger burning in his eyes. The timbre of his voice remained steady and he seemed his usual unflappable self, but she could tell he was furious over her continued attempts to change his mind. But he was a cool one … just like his father.

  “Mona, you need to stop harassing me about this. You know the rules better than anyone. If I break them for you, everyone from aging movie stars to pop tarts and their idiot brothers will be calling me up.” Solomon appeared sympathetic. “You and I both know you’re the best person for the job. But you don’t meet the qualifications, and that’s final. You belong here. After all, who’s better qualified than you to run the show once I’m fast asleep in a cryo-chamber?”

  Right, he just had to remind her that he was a member of the invited elite.

  Over six thousand people from various fields and professions had already been invited or would soon be invited to embark on the grandest, riskiest adventure mankind had ever attempted. They would arrive the week before liftoff to begin the process of cryogenic freezing, each person being kept alive in suspended animation using a recently discovered chemical treatment (from CIMRAD, naturally) that replaces their bodily fluids with a synthetic glucose designed to prevent the destruction of the body’s cellular integrity during the freezing process.

  Solomon, along with the other colonists, would fall asleep one day and, through the miracle of modern technology, awaken ten years later feeling as though they’d merely taken a cat nap. There would be minimal side effects, the most pronounced being a headache which, if treated promptly, would fade within twenty-four hours. During their ten-year nap, the Arrow would accelerate to just below the speed of light, using a zero-point electric engine (designed by her) together with a warp bubble to protect the ship from expanding to infinity, which, according t
o Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, would occur as the vehicle approached light-speed. The theory also maintained that during those ten years—two of which would be spent accelerating and then decelerating—the Earth would age nearly three thousand years.

  This prospect was what infuriated Mona the most. Her bones would be long turned to dust by the time Solomon climbed from his cryogenic chamber and set foot on humanity’s new home.

  Stepping away from her apartment window, Mona crossed the bedroom, slipped on her work jacket, and gazed at the full-length mirror hanging on her bedroom door. She wore no makeup, which accentuated every minute of her fifty-one years. Examining her dark-brown hair, which she’d always kept in a pageboy style, she noticed a couple of gray strands here and there. Perhaps it was time to visit a stylist and wash that gray right out of her hair, like the advertisement said.

  Although her features were plain, she was far from ugly. Her body was slightly overweight, not stick-thin like the models she saw in fashion magazines. Fortunately, her curves fell in all the right places. And she was certainly not a shrinking violet. She’d gone to bed with her fair share of men—and a few women—over the years. She was a well-respected, highly-intelligent scientist who was good at solving engineering problems … and getting her way.

  After a decade of working her fingers to the bone for Solomon Chavez, combined with the previous five years working for his father, she would not be relegated to the sidelines. She ached to be named chief engineer of the Arrow. If that dream was thwarted, Mona would be forced to take matters into her own hands … and institute plan B.

  3

  TEN MILES EAST OF MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE: 3:57 P.M., MAY, 15, 2060

  Bram guided his antique, electric-powered, candy-apple red trike down the dusty back roads of his adopted home state, enjoying the spring breeze in his hair. He’d bought the three-wheeler months ago, but this was its first road trip. Shortly after noon he’d loaded the trike in the bed of his pickup and programmed the GPS to take him to an isolated stretch of dirt.