The Cocoon Trilogy

by David Saperstein

  A deal was struck. The older Earthmen and their wives located nine hundred thirty-three more old people like themselves who were willing to leave their now unrewarding life on Earth to travel in deep space, replacing the cocooned sleeping Antarean army. Thus the Geriatric Brigade, as the seniors called themselves, was created.

  In a wild land and sea chase with the Coral Gables police and United States Coast Guard, the last of the brigade slipped over the side of Jack Fischer’s boat, the Manta III, and swam to the ocean floor and boarded the secreted Antarean Mothership. The spacecraft departed, leaving Jack and the bewildered group of pursuers behind. As the huge Antarean Mothership soared away into deep space, a silent message was beamed back to the sleeping Antarean cocoons: “We love you . . .”

  And then . . .

  FIVE MINUTES AGO

  A heavy rainstorm moved across south central Florida, stalling just east of Miami Beach. All small craft activity along the entire east coast from Key West to West Palm Beach was halted. The storm intensified, closing airports and interrupting all outdoor activity.

  Under cover of the storm’s thick gray thunderheads and heavy downpour, a small Antarean Probecraft landed and submerged at the mouth of the Red Lake Canal in Coral Gables. Aboard were four Earth humans who had once lived in Florida and one Antarean, the commander of the previous mission that had taken nine hundred forty-one Earth dwellers into deep space.

  This small advance group had returned to the Geriatric Brigade’s mother planet to prepare the way for some others who had been away from Earth for five years, and to plan the rescue of the hidden cocooned Antarean army.

  Their mission, and the decisions they would have to make in the near future, would affect the future of the Earth-human race.

  CHAPTER ONE – WHERE’S JACK?

  Sheets of rain swept across the lush fairway, sending the last of the diehard golfers scurrying for shelter in their brightly colored personal golf carts. Jack Fischer watched the fleeing hackers with amusement from his vantage point behind the fabled eleventh green of the Boca Raton Golf and Tennis Spa. Most homes in this part of South Florida boasted a Florida room—a swimming pool and patio area totally enclosed, walls and roof, with fine screening that allowed the warm weather in but kept the insect hordes out. Jack had designed his Florida room so that a portion of it was covered by a solid roof section. Thus he was always able to find shade, no matter how sunny the day.

  As the rain hammered down and the wind gusted, Jack peered out and grew momentarily concerned about the stability of the plastic bubble that covered his tennis court. He had built the court and then enclosed it in a pressurized air-conditioned bubble so that he could play in comfort, no matter what the weather. It looked like it was withstanding the storm’s fury. Sitting back on his chaise, Jack sipped a mimosa and flipped channels on the portable color TV until he found the local news. After watching a story about yet another drug-related killing, followed by hollow, heartening words from the Federal Drug Enforcement Agency that they were “winning the war on drugs in South Florida,” Jack perked up because the weather report was next. If it was at all positive, he planned to visit with his friend Phil Doyle, who ran a sport fishing charter boat out of the Boynton Beach Marina. They had made plans to go out that afternoon, but as the weather showed no sign of breaking the fishing would have to wait for another day.

  The weatherman began his report. He told the TV audience that it was raining. Then he spent the next five minutes giving weather reports for the entire United States, including, Jack Fischer mused, the temperature in Oregon. The TV meteorologist, who egotistically put “Doctor” in front of his name, again announced that it was raining in South Florida. He gave the current local temperatures in Miami, Fort Lauderdale and West Palm Beach, and told the news anchor that he hoped for a better forecast on the evening program. Jack lifted his glass of orange juice and champagne in a toast. “Now that was one hell of a forecast!” But then again, he mused, they never give a weather forecast in Florida, only a current report that anybody could know by just looking out the window. Perhaps it was against the rules of the Florida Chamber of Commerce. He got up, turned off the TV and stared out at the rain.

  Jack had been uneasy all day, attributing it to the depressing weather that had persisted for two days. But there was something more to this feeling than just the weather. At times, during the past five years, after the fabulous adventure he had shared with the Antareans, a sensation of thoughts, voices inside his mind, would come over him. It was as though Amos Bright, the Antarean leader, and some of the old people who had gone off into space as the Geriatric Brigade were calling to him, actually speaking and greeting him from across the vast galactic void. The contacts were always done with love. Although Jack had never quite mastered the art of telepathing his own thoughts, he was able to receive thoughts from others. It was comforting to know, or at least imagine, that his old friends were safe and that from time to time they thought about him.

  But today the feeling was different. It was close. Very strong. “Ah, well,” he sighed aloud, “they promised to come back for me one day and that ain’t anything shabby to look forward to.

  “Keeping the secret of the Antareans and the Geriatric Brigade had been difficult. He was the first Earth-human to have contact with beings from another planet, yet he could say nothing about it. He lifted his glass toward the leaden sky and, draining the sweet orange fluid, thought a silent loving toast to his faraway friends.

  At the same time Ben Green and Joe Finley strolled through the main entrance of the now completed Antares condominium complex. They smiled inside, telepathing to one another rapidly, excitedly.

  “I remember it all, Ben.”

  “Like yesterday. But look how it’s changed.”

  “Yeah. They actually finished the place.”

  “Can you imagine living here now? Being retired, sitting by the pool, playing gin . . .”

  “Dying of leukemia?” Joe Finley joked, recalling how the Antarean processing cured him. As they walked toward the A Building, passing the pool area, their minds filled with memories of their last days on Earth.

  “Pool’s filled,” Ben remarked, remembering the battle they’d had with the feisty manager, Ralph Shields, when they tricked him into getting the pool filled and operating. Joe Finley glanced over at the B Building. “It’s finished.” Ben Green stopped to check out the high-rise condominium that was just a shell when they’d left, partially constructed and sheltering the Antarean processing room that Ben, Joe, Art Perlman and Bernie Lewis had accidentally discovered. It was in that room, using the Antarean equipment they mistook for a health spa, that their own metamorphosis had taken place, forever changing them, expanding their minds and rejuvenating their aging bodies so that they could become the first Earth-human deep-space travelers.

  “The place looks good,” Joe remarked. “Neat.”

  “That it does, my friend. But way too small for our purposes this time.”

  “That, Commander Green, is the understatement of the year!”

  The rain began to let up and the sky brightened. Jack tried to telephone Phil Doyle at the Boynton Marina, but the storm had downed telephone lines and he couldn’t get through. He wandered into the darkened house, with a slight buzz from his fourth mimosa sans food. The air was clammy. As Jack went to kick up the air conditioner he passed his bedroom and heard the sound of running water. The hot tub was being filled. Cathy was still there. He went into the bedroom that he had decorated like a South Sea Island hut. The ceiling was thatched grass. The carpeting, a soft mat covered with faux animal skins. And the furniture was all rattan and bamboo. His king-size waterbed was placed in the center of the room, covered with a false zebra skin duvet and white silk pillows. Underneath, black silk sheets added the final touch of fantasy. Cathy Chung, a Eurasian of exceptional beauty and sexual prowess, sat in the redwood hot tub that was set off to the right side of the bedroom, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors that
looked out onto a secluded Japanese garden. She was nude. Her long, tapered legs stretched across the tub and were barely covered with the foamy water as it rushed in around her. She waved to Jack, beckoning him to join her.

  “I thought you went home,” he said, slipping out of his flowered shorts. “Want a drink?” He held up his mimosa. She shook her head and arched her back as the water rose. Her breasts, showing their large round, dark aureoles surrounding soft brown nipples seemed to float in the steamy water. “Jesus, you’re gorgeous” Jack muttered to himself as he kicked his shorts away, picked up his drink and headed for the tub. At that moment Cathy slipped under the water and her long straight dark hair, more than shoulder length, spread out, floating like a black silk fan. Although they had spent the night together, Jack was aroused by the time he stepped into the hot tub. As he reached for Cathy she grabbed his erection from under the water with both hands, pulling gently. He had no choice but to slip under the water with her as his mimosa’s orange liquid blended with the bubbly warm water.

  While Jack Fischer played and frolicked, Ben Green and Joe Finley entered the Antares condominium manager’s office. A bright young secretary greeted them politely.

  “May I help you gentlemen?”

  “We’d like to speak to the owner.”

  “You mean the manager. This is a condo. It’s owned by the, ah, occupants. You know, like retired people.”

  “Okay. Then the manager.”

  “There are no units available now.” She reached for a clipboard with papers attached. “But if you’d like to fill out an application someone will contact you. We have several other properties and…” Ben cut her short.

  “I’m sure you do, sweetheart, but we’re interested in talking to the manager.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “What’s his name?” Joe Finley asked.

  “Mr. Parker.”

  “Wally the Wonderful,” Ben quipped. Joe laughed, recalling the battles they had fought five long years ago with Shields, the original manager of the condos, and Wally Parker, who was just the maintenance director at that time. In the end both men had fought a pitched battle with each other that resulted in Parker being hospitalized and Shields jailed. It had all been a setup to distract them away from the processing room in the B Building.

  “I beg your pardon?” the secretary said.

  “Just a private joke. What about Mr. Fischer? Jack Fischer?”

  “Oh.” She smiled. “Now I understand. No. He used to be the owner, but when all the units were sold—that was even before me—like before I worked here? So he left. It was all like sold.”

  “Do you know where we might find him?” Ben asked pleasantly.

  “No. I’m afraid I don’t. He’s somewhere up north . . .”

  “New York?”

  “No. Not that north. I mean like Lauderdale or Boca.”

  Ben and Joe thanked her and left. They would have to make another contact from the past - the trusted Coral Gables banker, John DePalmer. He had assisted Amos Bright in the original purchase of the Antares condos and had handled all the financial transactions for the visiting Antareans, although he never knew their real identity. When they had left Earth five years ago they signed over the complex to Jack Fischer. Ben and Joe reasoned DePalmer would know where to find Jack. But in order to get that information, Amos Bright would have to make an appearance at the bank himself. They telepathed that message to Amos and their wives, who were waiting for them in the submerged Antarean shuttlecraft. They would all meet at the bank in Coral Gables.

  As they walked back through the grounds Ben and Joe glanced over at the pool again and took note of their old table where they had sat, boring day after boring day, playing gin with Bernie Lewis and Art Perlman, watching their lives slowly dwindle down toward the end. Or so they’d thought.

  “A lifetime ago,” Ben commented softly.

  “Well, actually light years,” Joe said. And that was true, for in the past five years they had traveled tens of thousands of light years through the galaxy, sampling portions of its wonders, meeting fascinating beings that populated the cosmos. And now they had returned to prepare the way for some of their fellow Earth-human space travelers who were returning to mother planet to act out a ritual that was as old as life itself.

  Time was short. They had to find Jack Fischer and gather as much help as they could at the highest levels possible, but at the same time they knew their mission, while of the utmost urgency, had to remain a total secret. Public exposure now could cause a disaster.

  CHAPTER TWO – A NEW RACE

  When they had left Earth five long years ago, they had done so by choice. Nine hundred forty-one aged human souls chose to adapt their bodies for space travel and leave their home, their Earth, behind, perhaps forever. Some made the difficult choice of leaving families behind: grown children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, sisters and brothers. They opted for a new and unknown life rather than live out the one they had on Earth with certain boredom and isolation in a society that venerated youth and physical appearance.

  It was ironic that American culture attuned itself to physical fitness, diet and exercise in order to, among other things, live a longer and healthier life. When that was accomplished, however, when people did in fact live longer, they were shunted away to areas like Florida, Arizona and Southern California to “retire and live out their golden years.”

  The decision to leave Earth had to be made quickly by those who were fortunate enough to be approached by the organizers of the Geriatric Brigade, namely, Mary and Ben Green, Rose and Bernie Lewis, Alma and Joe Finley, and Bess and Arthur Perlman. But the secret had to be kept tight and secure. Those with families left letters behind, which Jack Fischer delivered personally. But for most—those who had been deserted, or put away in nursing homes, or left alone in the world to survive on meager pensions, Social Security or handouts, for the largest portion of the group—the decision involved only themselves. They would never be missed.

  The Brigade was not an army to be trained for war. Rather it was to be used for education and training on other worlds. The initial mission was to go directly to Parma Quad 2, a large planet near the star we call Sirius the Dog Star.

  The Parmans, a crystalline life form, had contacted the Antareans, and the Brigade was sent in answer. The Parmans, who had up to that point avoided contact with extraterrestrials, now wanted to venture into space. They offered a unique exchange: They would serve as navigators on Antarean spacecraft. Because they possessed the ability to draw energy from starlight, no matter how distant, they could lock on to any star and guide a craft to it. But more than that, they could convert the starlight to energy. The closer they drew to the star they focused on, the more energy they could convert, until space and time melded into one. The Antareans realized that with Parman guides on their ships they could finally achieve intergalactic travel.

  The deal was struck and treaties entered into. But when the Antareans came to Earth to recover their cocoon army they found it damaged and unusable. It was then that they discovered older Earth dwellers could, because of the nature of the human aging process, be processed and transformed for space travel. Younger people, their bodies still aging and changing, could not take the processing. But nine hundred forty-one older Earth people leaped at the chance to become Earth’s first space ambassadors.

  As ambassadors they were among the best the Antareans had ever met. On the trip to Parma Quad 2, which would take several months, the Brigade adapted to their new life and newfound energy, while the Antareans aboard the Mothership educated them. The humans were eager and bright students. In particular, the eleven who had chosen to be commanders proved to have an exceptional ability to absorb and process information as rapidly as any Antarean commander might.

  They all brought wisdom and an appreciation for life that the Antareans knew was rare in the known universe. Some thought it was a result of the processing itself, while others in the Antarean crew felt t
hat the expanded human brain usage, from slightly more than ten percent of capacity to nearly ninety percent, was the reason for the abilities now exhibited as the Mothership hurtled toward Sirius and the Parman civilization.

  The human commanders knew differently. Their race was oriented toward death as a fact of life. It was part of the deal, as Ben Green had told Amos Bright once. We are born and very shortly thereafter we learn we will die. Antareans were born under controlled conditions and died only when they chose to die, or if they were involved in some accident or disaster. An Antarean could live forever. A human certainly numbered his years and valued them. Now that mortality was changed forever.

  Now aboard the Mothership was a new race, never before seen in space. And amazingly, with their new immortality, the humans grew in their compassion for others as they learned of distant worlds with very different, but at the same time, very human problems. They asked endless questions of their teachers about the suffering of other life forms in the galaxy.

  Amos Bright and the other Antarean commanders aboard the Mothership were certain that their decision to invite these older Earth dwellers to join them had been a proper one. As Amos said to Beam, the female Antarean medical officer on the mission, “These Earth people are quite remarkable. They learn rapidly, but they always want to know more about the beings than the places. They have much love within them, and they want to share that with others.”

  “Perhaps we have brought them into space for another’s purpose.”

  “You mean for the Master?”