Solomon's Arrow

by J. Dalton Jennings

  She activated the PID. “Judah, begin security sequence One, Dash, Alpha.” Mona watched the device come to life. In rapid succession, a series of files began downloading from her original PID. When all the files were transferred to the cloned copy, a signal wiped the original PID of all its stored data. Tucking the device into her jumpsuit pocket, Mona climbed into the alcove, scooted to the rear, which was open, and dropped down to a narrow walkway. When she landed, the steps in her cell retracted and the HV screen slid back into place. If someone were to poke their head inside the cell, nothing would look out of place—except that she was missing.

  Activating the PID’s flashlight app, Mona quickly rounded a corner and headed aft. It would take fourteen minutes to reach the shuttle bay, and then another six to sneak inside, commandeer a shuttle, and flee the ship—if everything went as planned. A nervous trickle of sweat coursed down the nape of her neck.

  •

  “Did they have to die?”

  Lorna gazed down through the observation window into the Room of Atonement. The bodies of the young lieutenant, Jeremy Fletcher, and the pretty, black ensign, Janelle Ogeto, were being removed from the room by a team of acolytes from the Basilica of Knowledge.

  “Yes, Lorna,” responded the Lord. “It was regrettable, yet necessary.”

  Lorna felt sick to her stomach. It had been over four hundred years since anyone had been put to death in New Terra. Over the years, there had been the occasional malcontent who needed reeducation, but no crimes serious enough to warrant execution. Moments earlier, the two had been young and vital, yet now were nothing but lifeless corpses. How tragic.

  “Do not trouble yourself, Lorna. They will, of course, live on.”

  “Yes, Lord.” The young lieutenant and ensign’s genetic material would be incorporated into the whole, providing fresh DNA for the birthing chamber’s breeding stock.

  Regardless of that, Lt. Fletcher’s final words still rang in Lorna’s ears: “Go fuck yourself!” he’d screamed, in response to the Lord’s questioning. Both he and the girl had been exceedingly uncooperative, their intransigence causing the Lord to lose Her patience.

  The two had endured a tremendous amount of atonement, yet refused to answer the Lord’s questions. They’d not been physically tortured, of course, because that would be barbaric. Instead, they’d been subjected to cascading nerve stimulation and hallucinatory horrors—nothing more. They should have talked. It was in their self-interest … so why hadn’t they?

  “The remainder of Commander Allison’s crew has gathered in Calvary Park. You will lead a contingent of Minders to their location and place them under arrest.”

  Lorna’s heart sank. “Yes, Lord.”

  •

  The two remaining security officers stood a few feet away from Floyd, scanning the park for any sign of trouble. One was a tough-as-nails, thirty-three-year-old Serbian woman who’d been recruited out of Interpol two years before the Arrow’s launch. The other was a baby-faced young man who was proficient in the art of hand-to-hand combat, having fought in the Turkish Civil War in 2057. They were the only two to show up. Fletcher and Ogeto had yet to arrive.

  “Where the hell are they, Lieutenant?” snapped Commander Allison.

  “I’ve sent six emergency response codes in the last ten minutes, Commander. I’ve not yet received a reply,” Floyd stated, unable meet the commander’s eye. Fletcher and Ogeto should’ve already arrived at the rendezvous point. Their silence led Floyd to suspect the worst. If the two were caught fleeing the Basilica of Knowledge, they were being held for questioning. If so, he hoped they weren’t being mistreated. “I’ll try again shortly. However, if we haven’t heard from them soon, we need to reevaluate our options.”

  “I agree,” Richard grunted. “Unless Lt. Fletcher and Ensign Ogeto arrive here in the next two minutes, we’ll be forced to scrap our plans. I’m not leaving anyone behind.”

  “This is turning out a lot worse than I—” Out of the corner of his eye, Floyd noticed the youthful war veteran abruptly stiffen.

  “We’ve got company, sir,” the young man said.

  Snapping his head around, Floyd saw that Lorna Threman, together with ten members of her cat-suited goon squad, was striding rapidly in their direction.

  “Commander …”

  “I see them, Floyd.”

  They were outnumbered. Even if they decided to run, where would they go? He suddenly heard a familiar chime. Someone was trying to contact him on his SID. Thank God, he thought, breathing a sigh of relief. Fletcher was finally responding. He must warn the young man to stay away from the park. As the chancellor and her minions picked up their pace, Floyd whipped out his SID and activated the view screen. What he saw shocked him to the bone.

  “What the—” he squawked. “Muldoon! You’re alive!”

  For a moment, all four disregarded the rapidly approaching bevy of Minders and turned their attention to Floyd’s SID: Gloria Muldoon was on screen, looking haggard, sleep deprived.

  “Thank God,” she gasped. “I’m finally in range. Floyd, you’ve got to—” Her head jerked to one side, and she stared at something nearby, a look of abject fear plastered on her face. “I’m being—” The image abruptly jerked back and forth. An unmistakable shout was heard before the screen went blank.

  “Gloria? Gloria! Can you hear—goddamn it!” Floyd stared at the screen, unblinking, worried for his friend’s safety.

  “Was that Lt. Muldoon?” the commander asked.

  “Yes, sir, and she’s alive … but I fear she’s under attack.”

  •

  After nearly two days of constant travel and zero sleep, Gloria was ecstatic to learn that her SID was finally within range to contact Floyd Sullivant. During her grueling trudge across the seemingly never-ending expanse of grass, she’d sent a coded signal every thirty minutes or so, hoping to make contact. When she first saw Floyd’s face on her view screen, Gloria was certain her mind was playing tricks, hallucinations being common to an exhausted, sleep-deprived brain. However, the surprise in his voice and on his face told her otherwise.

  “Thank God,” she gasped. “I’m finally in range. Floyd, you’ve got to—” From the corner of her eye, she saw movement.

  The ground exploded upward to Gloria’s left, followed by another flurry of movement to her right. “I’m being—” Two hairy creatures of vaguely humanoid appearance, which sprang out of matching camouflaged pits, adroitly tackled her, knocking the SID from her hand and crushing it underfoot.

  Gloria had no intention of succumbing to these brutes without a fight. A foot lashed, connecting with an ankle, followed by a swift knee to what she hoped was a groin. The creature buckled on top of her. As she pushed it to one side the other creature took its place. Swinging its fist, it connected with her jaw. Gloria saw stars but instead of passing out, struck back, landing a vicious counter-blow to its furry nose. The creature’s head jerked back, but it recovered quickly. Its eyes, which where deep-set and startlingly blue, registered shock and disbelief over a female putting up such a fight.

  Still lying flat on her back, Gloria reached up, grabbed hold of the creature’s hairy shoulders, and in combination with her legs, flipped the creature up and over her head. As it landed with a thud, she rolled to one side and scrambled to her feet.

  The two creatures lay groaning and conversing in a language that sounded vaguely familiar. This was enough of a distraction that when Gloria turned to flee she failed to hear a third creature approaching from the east. Upon spinning around, she saw it standing less than two feet away holding an inch-wide, foot-long tube to its mouth. Timed to coincide with her gasp of surprise, the creature blew through the tube sending a cloud of light purple powder shooting from the end, engulfing her face. In a panic, she held her breath and spun around, but it was too late, she’d already inhaled a sizable quantity of the curiously sweet-tasting powder.

  The world around her began to waver. Gloria dropped to her knees and pitched face for
ward, her last conscious thoughts incongruous to her situation. Her fear had disappeared, replaced by a curious state of bliss. It must be the effects of the powder, she mused, not caring that she was drifting off to sleep. How odd. The powder tastes rather good, almost like lavender.

  •

  The pain … is easing … becoming … a little more … bearable.

  I feel … my body. I know … who I am.

  I … am … alive. I … am … Bram Waters … and … I … am … alive.

  Bram had struggled mightily for what seemed like an eternity. His entire consciousness had gone into overdrive, working to hold together his and Solomon’s molecular cohesion. He was floating in a void—a golden void, as if from a remembered dream. How long had he been there? It didn’t matter; he was alive … and so was Solomon Chavez.

  “It was not you alone who prevented your destruction, Bram Waters.”

  Who’s talking to me? Is it Solomon? His psychic gaze fixed on Solomon’s position. The shimmering figure was floating in a fetal position, eyes closed, lips unmoving.

  “You owe us a debt of gratitude,” the voice went on. “As such, we could ask for a favor, which we are certain you would provide; however, a simple ‘Thank You’ will suffice.”

  A wizened figure slowly materialized: it was the old man … the psychic projection of the fungus mind that he encountered while trapped underground.

  “Argus?” he heard himself croak. For some mysterious reason, his voice sounded different. Had his lips moved when he spoke? Bram looked down at his body. It was shimmering, like Solomon’s. His eyes jerked back and forth, taking in his predicament for the first time. A sudden wave of fear and nausea threatened to overwhelm him as he scanned his surroundings.

  Where am I? Bram was becoming lightheaded. His body began to spasm. He once again felt pain—terrific pain and agony.

  All at once, Solomon too began to shudder, and then jerk. Unfurling from the fetal position, his body bowed backward, arching in a spasm of pain. He opened his eyes and screamed, his body blurring, fuzzing around the edges, becoming incorporeal.

  “Concentrate, Mr. Waters!” the old man shouted. “Cast aside your fear. You must focus your mind on holding both yourself and Dr. Chavez intact—or face oblivion!”

  Vague recollections crystallized in his mind. He remembered excruciating pain, terror, an arduous struggle to maintain his and Solomon’s physical integrity, while nearly losing his sense of self, his very being. The ordeal had been horrific, an unbearable amount of suffering.

  Not again.

  Bram suddenly found himself pressed against Solomon Chavez, his arms and mind wrapped around his agonized friend. A surge of panic swept across his mental landscape, as his own body began to fuzz at the edges. Quickly tamping down his fear, Bram focused his attention like never before, compelling his consciousness to register his entire being until every organ, every cell, was calm, under his complete control. Without hesitation, he reached out with his mind to help his friend. Solomon was twitching in pain, moaning, unconscious, caught in his own private hell.

  Using his psychic powers, Bram reached inside Solomon’s mind and body. At that moment, he no longer had reservations about reading another person’s thoughts; he had only one goal in mind: saving his friend.

  Time seemed to stand still, and then memories flooded Bram’s mind—memories that were not his own—fearful memories of Solomon having to hide his true identity, of being on edge every moment of every day for over a hundred years, fearing that his secret would be discovered. Memories of lonely nights in labs with few friends to laugh with, all of whom were kept at arm’s length and then discarded, for fear that one day they’d notice that they aged while he did not.

  Bram ached for his friend. What must it be like, he wondered, to live for such a long time? You’d witness all your loved ones fall by the wayside, yet you’d stand unchanging, a shadowy constant in a world filled with perpetual decay. It must be torturous.

  The memories were coming at him fast and frequent, so much so that Bram tried to shut them down. He was beginning to feel that Solomon’s memories were merging with his own, becoming an intimate part of him, that he and Solomon were sharing more than a psychic link—that their very souls were fusing together, becoming as one. He pulled back harder, but there was one final memory left to receive …

  The scene was so vivid, so horribly real, that Bram virtually smelled the acrid smoke roiling from the burning building. In the distance, a small figure was lying face down on the ground, smoking, blackened from flames. A sob of grief rose in his throat, threatening to spill over into a river of tears. The ghastly sight made him feel like he was splitting wide open, creating a psychic wound that might never heal. No one else in the prison camp was that small: the tiny scorched figure could only be his daughter, Selena … wait, not his daughter: Solomon’s daughter. He experienced a momentary wave of confusion followed by profound sorrow.

  Gathering his strength, Bram steeled his resolve to push back against his friend’s memories, but they were too powerful, too compelling, too overwhelming to process without losing oneself. The struggle to separate himself from Solomon’s physical and psychic essence was enormous. When the painful memories finally winked out, Bram found himself in a mental haze, still linked to his friend’s body, like a magnet to iron—but then, something snapped, and he found himself floating in the golden void.

  Drifting backward, Bram saw that Solomon’s body was no longer fuzzy around the edges. In fact, his friend was opening his eyes.

  Solomon turned his head and stared, looking Bram up and down. “Where the hell are we?” he moaned. “And please tell me why we’re both naked.”

  Looking down, Bram noticed for the first time that his clothes were missing. He awkwardly glanced at Argus, who was floating, fully clothed, his legs crossed in the lotus position, a serene expression marking his ancient, bearded face.

  “I’m not sure what this place is, Solomon,” he admitted. “Nor why we’re naked. Perhaps our fungal friend can clue us in.” Bram realized that Solomon was looking back and forth and up and down, eyes wild with fear. The man’s body was once again fuzzing around the edges. “Focus, Solomon!” he shouted. “Focus on me, or Argus. You must try to ignore this void we’re floating in. Calm your fears. Do it now!”

  Solomon’s eyes latched onto Bram. He looked manic, his breathing rapid and shallow. After a moment, he began to blink, his brow furrowing as he gathered his wits about him. “I don’t understand,” he muttered. “Is there oxygen here? How are we breathing?”

  Good, he’s thinking like a scientist, Bram realized. He turned to face the old man. “That’s an excellent question. How are we still alive, Argus? I feel myself breathing. I feel air entering my lungs. But how can that be? How is this happening?”

  The old man tilted his head and smiled. “You would be dead, if not for us,” he said, floating closer. “If you remember, Mr. Waters, we were in telepathic contact when the two of you were sent through the device you call a foldway. It was an interesting experience, to say the least. We have determined that this void exists outside of space and time, an inter-dimensional corridor, so to speak, that connects each foldway to an infinite web of energy that spans the universe. If one possessed the coordinates of a foldway one hundred million light years away, it would take the same amount of time to travel there as to travel from the Basilica of Knowledge to Calvary Park. Unfortunately, the foldway you and Dr. Chavez were so callously tossed into was opened without the benefit of coordinates. Thus, here we are.

  “The only reason you two are still alive is because we remain connected—albeit tenuously—to the world of materiality. A thread of consciousness belonging to what you perceive to be an old man is the only thing holding the three of us anchored to reality.”

  Bram pulled at his bottom lip. “This is unbelievable.”

  “Far from it,” Solomon declared with a nod of comprehension. “It’s the only explanation that makes any sense
.” He was studying the old man closely. “My only question is, can we use this thread of consciousness as a conduit to help us return to the material world?”

  The old man pursed his lips. “That depends entirely on Mr. Waters.”

  “Me?” Bram was confounded. “How am I supposed to get us out of here?”

  “Before too long,” the old man said, “this image you see will dissipate. The longer you stay in this interdimensional void, the more corrupted the connection to the material world becomes. Dr. Chavez, you asked whether you and Mr. Waters need oxygen here to survive. Yes, but this place contains no oxygen.” Argus paused. “We can tell by the puzzled looks on your faces that you are having a difficult time comprehending this information. We shall attempt to explain. Your bodies are being held together by force of will. They need oxygen, but this interdimensional void does not contain a single atom of this precious gas. We have supplied you with the necessary energy required to maintain life. The moment the connection to the material world degrades to the point where this illusion vanishes, your cells will die, lose their cohesion, and then tear apart at the subatomic level. Their energy will be incorporated into the void … completely. In other words, you will cease to exist.”

  Bram exchanged a frightened glance with Solomon. The idea that total oblivion could arrive at any second was a terrifying prospect. Even more frightening was the prospect that it was up to him to prevent that scenario. “What do I need to do?” he gulped.

  Argus flashed one of his disconcertingly beatific smiles. “You, Mr. Waters, must become a human foldway.”

  Bram closed his eyes. With a sigh of resignation, he rubbed his temple. A part of him knew what Argus was going to say. It was inevitable; bridging the gap between dimensions was the ultimate psychic test. To succeed, however, one must attain union with the absolute—a goal he’d never fully realized—aside from that one time, while being attacked by the old man himself. Lifting his head, Bram slowly opened his eyes, knowing that failure equaled death.