Solomon's Arrow

by J. Dalton Jennings

  Thankfully, Mona was far enough away to avoid being caught in the explosion itself, but the blast wave hit her hard, hurtling her toward the lift at a terrific speed. As she shot backward, she realized she’d become entangled in the line. Both her right shoulder and the back of her left thigh felt like they were on fire.

  She’d been hit by shrapnel. Tiny pieces had punctured Mona’s suit, leaving bits of skin exposed to the harshness of space. She was in agony. Something must be done or the frostbite would spread and she would be dead in less than a minute.

  “It worked, Floyd! It worked! But I’ve been hit by some shrapnel.”

  Floyd responded at once, sounding composed over the loud background celebration. “What’s your damage, Mona?”

  She was too frightened to reply. The blast had thrust her beyond most of the safety line, but not all; a tangled mess was wrapped around her legs and torso. Bouncing off the edge of the lift, she tumbled a few yards then found herself floating above the lift, moaning, faint with nausea.

  “Mona! Are you all right? What’s your condition?” The worry in Floyd’s voice was palpable. His normal reserve was wavering.

  Mona didn’t hear any more celebration in the background.

  “I’m … I’m hurt, Floyd,” she moaned.

  “The tears in your suit,” he snapped. “Are they large or small?”

  “Small … I think.”

  “What you need to do is press the torn pieces together. The insulating gel will seal the tear long enough to get back inside. Can you reach them?”

  “Um … the leg, I can. Not so sure about the shoulder.”

  After all she’d been through, and now this, Mona felt herself going into shock.

  “Don’t give up now, Doc,” Floyd implored. “I have a full bottle of thirty-year-old single malt with your name on it in my office. Don’t make me drink it alone.”

  “I’ll be there, even if it’s a bottle of cheap tequila.”

  Floyd chuckled then grew silent, not wanting to distract her while she worked to save her life. The most worrisome tear was the one on her thigh. As she floated above the lift, she strained to see the damage, located it, and pressed the small flap of suit back in place. She saw tiny globules of dark, frozen blood floating around the leg. Damn that hurts! Seconds later she released it and smiled; the tear had successfully sealed itself.

  The shoulder, which she could barely reach, came next. As Mona arranged the pieces of her suit, her vision began to cloud. What now? she wondered. It was becoming difficult to catch her breath. “Judah, analyze my suit … is the oxygen tank damaged?”

  “Yes, Doctor, the valve was damaged—either by the explosion or when you crashed against the lift. You are currently receiving five percent of the oxygen needed for survival. You must return to the airlock within fifty-two seconds or you will pass out … and then die.”

  Mona wanted to say No shit, Sherlock, but knew to conserve oxygen. With her shoulder tear mended, Mona snagged the mass of a safety line and began to reel herself down to the lift. The instant her feet touched, she whipped out the maintenance laser and sliced through the safety line, directing the beam carefully. She had to concentrate—the heavens were spinning like her college dorm room during a weekend of drunken revelry.

  Was that Solomon’s voice? If so, his voice sounded muffled. Why was he speaking when she needed to stay focused? Having freed herself from most of the safety line (which seemed to take forever), Mona wrapped the usable portion around her hand and stumbled wearily, drunkenly, toward the maintenance ladder.

  She didn’t think she was going to make it. Those fifty-two seconds (or was it forty-seven?) must’ve expired by now, she thought.

  Swinging herself over the edge, Mona barely noticed the ladder rungs while descending.

  She heard distant chatter, mingled with her own tortured gasping for breath. Her vision was filling with brilliant flashes of light.

  Reaching over, she felt but couldn’t see the entrance to the airlock.

  The next thing she knew, she was inside, on her knees, unable to breathe. Fumbling around, feeling snow-blind, she reached outside to unhook the safety line from the guide rail but failed to locate the clasp. The line would keep the door from shutting all the way. To cycle the airlock, she needed the door completely sealed. All her efforts would be in vain if she … no … even if these were her last seconds, the mission would go on. And for that she was thankful.

  But this was not enough for Mona Levin, chief engineer and architect of the Ark Project. To admit defeat was not in her nature.

  Tearing the tangled safety line from her hand, Mona uttered a last, pitiful scream as another part of the suit tore, allowing the burning ice of space to bite into her skin. With her muscles twitching and her mind reeling, Mona tossed the safety line through the airlock and, in a tiny, faltering voice, wheezed, “Judah … close the … the airlock … now.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  Mona didn’t hear the door close, but she did feel the pressure return. The whiteout she’d been experiencing was fading to black. Her indomitable willpower was the only thing preventing her brain from shutting down completely. Feeling as if her lungs were collapsing in on themselves, she gave her helmet a shaky twist and, pulling it free, sucked in tremendous gulps of wonderful, precious oxygen.

  PART TWO: THE ARROW OF TIME

  “Time’s wing half pauses in its onward sweep

  across the vale of years,

  as if to give hushed hearts a time to weep—

  a time for prayers and tears.”

  —From the poem “Time’s Pulse,” by Mary T. Lathrap

  5

  THE INDEPENDENT NATION OF PACIFICA: SIX MONTHS LATER

  “Tell me, Richard, what changed your mind about accepting Dr. Chavez’s offer to pilot the Arrow?”

  Richard Allison sat nervously on a comfortably upholstered armchair, staring at the telegenic host of The Darren Brantley Show. The man’s snow-white teeth gleamed brighter in person than on HV.

  “Well, Mr. Brantley—”

  “Please, call me Darren.”

  Richard bristled inside, but kept a smile on his face. He wasn’t exactly sure why the amiable newscaster tweaked his nerves. Everyone else fawned over him, like a rock star. Perhaps it was because Lawrence Murchison, press secretary to Solomon Chavez, had insisted on this interview, claiming contractual obligations. Oh well, the HV special wasn’t entirely about him. A number of other passengers and crew of the Arrow were also being interviewed.

  “Very well, Darren,” Richard said. “Please, call me Commander.”

  A puzzled look flickered across Darren Brantley’s wide, approachable face. He then gave his knee a slap, looked directly into the camera, and began to laugh.

  “I better stay on my toes, ladies and gentlemen. It seems that Commander Allison is not only the world’s most famous pilot, but he’s also a comedian.” Turning back to his guest, Brantley leaned forward in his chair. With fingers steepled in front of him, he gave Richard a searching look. “It must have been difficult returning to work after what you’ve been through. I, myself, well … I would’ve been a basket case.”

  “On the contrary, Darren,” Richard replied. “Work was my salvation. After recovering from my injuries, I threw myself into managing the shuttle training program. Nearly two months later, I found myself laughing at one of the trainee’s jokes.” Richard paused momentarily, a wistful expression crossing his face. “I felt guilty for experiencing that brief flash of happiness. But after arriving home that evening, I thought about it and realized I was dishonoring the memory of my wife and son by wallowing in self-pity. They’d want me to be happy, not shut off from the world, floating in a black cloud of despair. The very next day, I met with Dr. Chavez and accepted his offer to pilot the Arrow.”

  Darren Brantley nodded understandingly. “I think I can speak for all our viewers when I say that the Ark Project is better off with you in it, Commander.”

  Richard wa
sn’t sure how to respond to the newsman’s praise. Thankfully, he didn’t have to, for Darren Brantley went straight to the next subject.

  “Have you met any of the other passengers, Commander? For instance, have you met Bram Waters, the psychic? Now he’s an interesting fellow, that one.”

  Richard shook his head. “Not yet, though I did read his memoir in college. I’m not sure what to believe, but if half his claims are true, the mission will be gaining a valuable crew member.”

  Darren Brantley again turned to the camera. “If half his powers were mine, I’d be running this network.” He chuckled and turned back to Richard. “What about Dr. Levin? Have you worked with her yet?”

  “Yes I have, Darren. She’s quite formidable.”

  “No doubt. I’m looking forward to interviewing her in the next few days. If the public hadn’t already dubbed the starship Mona’s Ark before the terrorist attack, they would’ve done so after her amazing heroics.”

  Richard cocked his head. “A little advice, Darren. Don’t call the ship Mona’s Ark to her face. The first time I met her I made that mistake and, let’s just say … I’ll not be doing that again.”

  Darren Brantley again turned to the camera. “That’s good to know,” he quipped, raising his eyebrows in mock fear. Richard could almost hear the audience laughing. Shifting his attention back to his guest, Brantley turned serious. “I’m curious about something, Commander: What do you think should happen to Jimmy Jamison, the fanatic billionaire who allegedly financed the attack on the space elevator? Rumor has it that he’s also linked to the terrorist attack that killed your wife and child.”

  Richard’s eyes turned to slits, his voice cold as a Siberian winter. “If the police ever find him, I hope he resists, and therefore goes straight to hell.”

  •

  ORANGE COUNTY, CALIFORNIA: SIX DAYS LATER

  What a crappy way to spend my birthday, thought Bram Waters. It was November 9, and instead of getting sloshed at B. B. King’s blues bar, he was hanging around an old fart’s bedroom, trying to divine the sorry bastard’s location.

  Behind him, a security agent assigned to the case whispered to a fellow agent. “He’s stalling for time. He has no clue where Jamison’s hiding.”

  Bram returned an obscenely expensive, ancient Chinese rhinoceros horn cup back to the suspect’s mahogany nightstand. “I thought I made myself clear … I need complete silence to do my job.”

  The agent’s eyebrows rose, surprised that he’d been overheard. “Sorry ’bout that.”

  Bram nodded curtly while scanning the room. He was looking for an object Jimmy Jamison touched while deciding where to flee. Unfortunately, the closet had been cleaned out. Shoes were ideal for the job, given that they were saturated with residual psychic energy.

  The billionaire skipped town soon after his plan to destroy the space elevator went awry. The security network at the complex had promptly traced the saboteur’s scrambled phone calls and, shortly after Mona Levin’s heroics, notified the FBI. But by the time they arrived at Jamison’s mansion, he was long gone. The bastard had dropped off the grid and remained off it for the past six months. A worldwide manhunt had been initiated but failed to uncover a single piece of evidence as to Jamison’s whereabouts. That’s when Bram was called in.

  Bram had kept his detective work local for over ten years and was reluctant to accept the job. However, after learning how much it would pay, he reconsidered. All in all, it wasn’t as if he needed the money. Royalties from his memoir continued to trickle in and, in three months’ time, he’d be onboard the Arrow, traveling to another solar system. No, he’d accepted the offer for one purpose only: To create a trust fund for Charlene, his longtime assistant. He wanted to make sure that the old girl wouldn’t be forced back into stripping (or worse) once he was gone.

  “I don’t think we’re gonna find anything useful in here, fellas,” Bram said, turning to leave the lavishly furnished bedroom. Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he noticed something brown peeking out from under the bed. “Hello … what have we here?”

  Kneeling beside the canopied four-poster, Bram slipped its blue, satin skirt up a few inches, exposing the heel of a house slipper. Placing both hands on the shoe, he opened his mind and the psychic impressions locked within the footwear flooded his consciousness. Most of the visions were trivial: The old man lounging by the pool or watching HV or talking on his PID. Others (of a more personal nature) Bram skipped through. A mere twenty seconds after opening his mind, he was viewing more recent events.

  Agitated, Jamison was listening to his PID. He was being called a fool, and then was told he had a choice: To disappear willingly or by force. Interesting. Jamison was not the head honcho. Oh well, thought Bram. He was being paid to locate this person, not an entire ring of terrorists. He’d inform the lead agent, but he wouldn’t allow himself to be roped into some long, drawn out, worldwide search for some shadowy cabal. Those days were long gone.

  Delving deeper into Jamison’s imprint, Bram felt the man’s fear, the concern directed toward his children and grandchildren, the regret that he would probably never see them again … and then, Bram began to picture a place—the place where Jamison had decided to flee—to make a final stand, if needed.

  Bram isolated the image, focusing on it and it alone…. His shoulders sagged.

  “I know where the sorry bastard is. But—” he grumbled, glowering at the agent in charge, “—you’re gonna need me to pinpoint his exact location! Dammit!”

  •

  NORTHERN CANADA: 6:23 A.M., TWO DAYS LATER

  The small, picturesque log cabin was nestled in the middle of a snow-covered clearing, a steady stream of gray smoke drifting from its stone chimney.

  Kneeling in a stand of evergreens located forty-six yards to the east, Bram scanned the cabin. He was accompanied by a seven-member Special Forces unit from Canada and five security officers from Elevator City, commanded by Floyd Sullivant. The sun had yet to rise, but its pink and orange rays were painting the sky a rosy glow.

  “Are you sure Jamison knows we’re here?” Floyd asked. Like the others, his broad, angular face was framed by the hood of a white parka designed to blend in with their snowy environs. “We’ve taken extreme precautions to ensure this raid succeeds.”

  Bram’s eyes were locked on the cabin. “Yep,” he whispered. “We registered on a nearby security sensor … one of many located around the perimeter of the clearing. In all likelihood, the sensors are there to alert him to the presence of wolves or grizzly—but also humans. I sense that he knows we’re not a prowling bear.”

  The leader of the Special Forces unit was stationed to Bram’s left, listening intently. “I want you to read Jamison’s mind and find out if he’ll do anything crazy, like kill himself or put up a fight when we storm the place.”

  “I can tell you this, Lieutenant,” Bram sighed, “he’s not suicidal. As for reading his mind, I don’t do that. However, I sense that he’s got something nasty up his sleeve.”

  The Special Forces leader studied Bram intently. “To be clear, are you saying that you don’t read minds, or that you won’t read Jamison’s mind?”

  “My impressions are accurate, Lieutenant,” Bram replied. “As for your question, many years ago I vowed to never read minds. A person’s thoughts are personal, private. I have no qualms about reading images and feelings, but there are places in one’s mind I refuse to go. It’s a form of mental rape, and I won’t be party to that, no matter who that person is—even Jamison.”

  The Special Forces leader shook his head. “Sir, I appreciate your ethical dilemma, but you’re placing us in danger. I need something better to go on than, ‘He’s got something nasty up his sleeve.’ Do you copy?”

  Bram scratched his two-day-old beard. “I don’t know what to tell you, but I don’t think he’ll put up a fight once he’s in custody.”

  The Special Forces leader grumbled under his breath before giving a hand signal to one of his men
. The designated soldier burst from the stand of evergreens, skis hissing as his momentum increased. Tucking both ski poles under one arm, he pulled a teargas launcher from his holster, aimed at a window, and fired as he zipped by the front of the cabin. With a crash of shattering glass, the canister entered the cabin and began to emit its noxious fumes.

  The soldier made it back to the group unscathed, having met no resistance. Within a matter of moments, the teargas would flood the cabin, forcing a coughing Jamison to stumble out the front door with his hands in the air. Gas could already be seen seeping from the broken pane.

  Bram waited expectantly but nothing happened. No coughing. No Jamison stumbling outside.

  “The bastard must be wearing a gas mask,” snapped Floyd Sullivant.

  “I agree,” the Special Forces leader replied. “Everyone, don your masks! At my signal we’ll start the assault. Mr. Waters, bring up the rear, you’ll enter the cabin once it’s secure.”

  Fine by me, Bram thought. Following the squad across the snowy clearing, Bram approached cautiously, half expecting gunfire from a window. There was none.

  Kicking up sprays of white, the squad came to a halt, released their skis, and burst through the cabin door, shouting, “Special Forces!” and, “Show your hands, Jamison!”

  With his back pressed against the cabin’s outer wall, Bram stood wide-eyed, listening to the rapidly dwindling ruckus, his nerves too frazzled to use his powers. His eyes kept darting back and forth, searching the tree-line, half expecting Dr. Conrad Snow or one of his mindless clones to appear. Bram was still plagued with occasional nightmares from the events he experienced two decades earlier, which were documented in his bestseller Snowbound. He’d been held captive in a secret underground installation near the Cascade Mountains while the crazy bastard formulated his twisted plot for world domination.

  Bram heard curses followed by Floyd Sullivant calling his name.

  Rushing inside, Bram expected to find Jamison trussed up on the floor like a Thanksgiving turkey, but instead saw the assault team standing around with anger and puzzlement written on their faces. Jamison was nowhere in sight.