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Walking on the Sea of Clouds

Page 4

by Gray Rinehart


  Jim opened his eyes wide and stared at the blank television screen, to keep from envisioning Alyson’s pallid face and vomit-coated blue lips. He gradually looked back at the picture and focused on the image of her, alive. He wondered why he kept the things he did; he hardly noticed them anymore, and when he did notice them they invariably hurt.

  Maybe if Meredith was still alive, her mother would be, too. But maybe Alyson would have gone the same way, just at another time.

  At least neither of them had to see me in this damn chair.

  The furnace cut off. Jim watched the spacecraft model settle down until it hung still from its moorings as if it floated above his head.

  How remarkable it would be to float so far above the Earth, to look down on the marble-sized globe and watch the silver clouds coalesce and dissolve over the blue surface, to be a sentinel guarding all of humanity instead of a wheelchair-bound paper-pusher living vicariously through his dead daughter’s best friends. Nothing really floated in space, he knew: everything moved, ellipses in ellipses in ellipses without reference to any single, fixed point because there were no fixed points.

  He was still thinking about that when the phone rang. His gut clenched; whatever was wrong was on the other end of the line. He steered himself over and picked up the receiver—he could not abide the room-filling phone pickups that some people had in their homes. Frank’s name was on the little ID screen.

  Not now. Not this late in the game.

  “Hey, Frank,” he said immediately. “Not getting cold feet, are you?”

  “Hello, James,” said Frank. “We may have a problem, my friend.” Frank’s voice was calm and his speech as formal as ever, but Jim sensed that he was serious.

  “What kind of problem, Frank?”

  “There was an automobile accident. The emergency crew has gotten us decontaminated and we have answered the police officer’s questions, but the rumorsphere has picked up on it—”

  Frank was still talking, but Jim’s brain was stuck trying to process what he’d just heard. Accident? Police? Emergency crew? Contaminated? The phrase “breach of contract” ran through his head, and embarrassed him that he thought of money first, before the welfare of his friends. The habits of an accountant turned venture capitalist. And they were his friends now; at first they had only been Meredith’s, but now he claimed them as his own.

  “Frank, are you and Gale alright? Are you hurt?”

  “I had some small pieces of glass in my hand, but otherwise I am unhurt. Stormie also is unhurt.”

  “What happened? How’d you get in an accident?”

  Frank told him the story from the beginning. Jim’s first impulse was to pace about the room; instead, he wheeled his chair one-handed into the kitchen and filled a glass with ice water from the refrigerator door. He drank while he listened.

  “Where is Stormie now, Frank?”

  “She is next to a fire wagon, talking with the police officer. She suspects whoever took her picture ran it through a face-recognition algorithm which matched her to the Asteroid Consortium. She is quite upset about the implications. She looks as if she may begin to wash her hands again.”

  Jim rubbed his face, trying to prioritize the potential problems; in school and in business he’d learned to consider all possible scenarios. Internet gossip was annoying but probably harmless; he would call Claire tonight and they could have some positive spin out in short order. “Decontamination,” on the other hand, implied “contamination,” and even though that might sound worse than it really was, it was likely to cause more trouble. He was no doctor, so he wasn’t sure if his list was complete, but the scenarios that ran through his mind had frightening names like SARS, hepatitis, plague. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. If he could eliminate the worst-case scenario, then they could work their way to the no-problem scenario.

  “Okay, Frank,” he said. “Do the police or the hospital types have any reason to think that the lady Stormie was helping had a disease? HIV, maybe, or something worse?”

  “I do not know. They moved her away and a few moments ago a helicopter arrived to transport her.”

  “Okay, I can call my brother-in-law and get him to dig into that. Did you ever meet Bruce? He’s a detective—he should be able to detect something for us. Meanwhile, ask one of the EMTs to take blood samples from you and Stormie. It’s too soon for anything to show up, but we’ll have it analyzed independently, just to make sure. Better yet, see if they’ll take two samples: one for us to analyze and one for them to keep in an official chain of custody.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe not. I hope not. What I do know is that the contract is pretty specific about timing and disease exposures and incubation periods and such. I’ll have to dig into the details, but if we don’t make the milestones we forfeit our payments, and it’s clear that you both have to be in good health before we send you to Utah. I figure they’ll poke and prod you again when you get down in the mine. It may help to have some test results of our own, even if we don’t need them. It’s best, of course, if the woman Gale was helping was clean. Pity you don’t know her name.”

  “I am sorry, my friend,” Frank said. “We did not intend to cause so much trouble.”

  Jim laughed, a little. “Oh, no, of course not. I guess you had to step in and help, didn’t you?”

  After a slight pause, Frank said, “Yes, of course. We could not stand by and do nothing.”

  “Couldn’t? You mean, ‘wouldn’t.’ I don’t guess many people stepped out of the crowd. Were you two the first ones to help?”

  Another slight hesitation on Frank’s part. “I do not know. Perhaps there were one or two others.”

  The pauses told Jim everything he needed to know: Frank wouldn’t have claimed to be first on the scene even if he was—he was the most humble person Jim had ever met—but it was almost certain that Frank wasn’t actually first. Gale was, and probably in such a way that she earned her “Stormie” nickname. She would’ve seen what needed to be done and jumped in to do it while Frank was still taking stock of the situation. That’s why they made a good team: his tendency to deliberate usually kept her from leaping too far before she’d looked. Usually.

  “Right,” Jim said. “It’s a pretty safe bet you were the first. I’ve known you a long time, Frank, and you’ve never been one to stand idly by when someone needed help. Although in a case like this I bet you were just trying to keep up with that crazy wife of yours.”

  Jim took the silence on the other end of the line for assent. “Don’t worry about it, Frank. It’ll all work out. Meanwhile, get that blood sample. If the EMTs won’t do it, ask them where the nearest Urgent Care is and go there. Then try to get some sleep, and I’ll see you at breakfast as planned. Right now I’ve got to call my no-good brother-in-law about checking that woman’s test results.”

  “All right, James. Thank you, and again I am sorry.”

  Jim said good-bye and put his water glass on the counter. He got a beer out of the refrigerator and took a long drink before he scrolled down to his sister’s number.

  Chapter Five

  Picophages Ready for Delivery

  Tuesday, 31 October 2034

  Stormie and Frank spent Monday and Tuesday in videoteleconferences with Asteroid Consortium contract managers and engineers from the Long Beach headquarters and smaller contract engineering offices. From a conference room at UC-Santa Barbara that Jim had booked, they reviewed plant life growth projections, water reclamation rates, and the schedule for the current lunar setup mission, in addition to air and water system maintenance schedules and some negotiable elements of their statement of work. She smiled at every agenda item they ticked off.

  “That looks like it,” Antonio Harter, the engineering director, said. “Glad you hobnobbin’ hero-types were able to condescend to help us out these last two days.”

  Stormie shook her head, but had given up responding to the jibes. They derived from a mino
r media coup Jim had shown off at breakfast Monday morning, when Lunar Contractor Saves Princess’s Life had beaten out the more salacious interpretations that had permeated the Net. Jim seemed inordinately pleased that the girl Stormie had helped turned out to be royalty, albeit from a small province in Pakistan.

  “Good work today,” she told Frank after they signed off.

  “And you,” he said, gathering her in for a kiss. “Though the day is not yet over.”

  “I know. Do you think Jim will miss us if we don’t go?”

  Not that she wanted to offend the VCs who were bankrolling their lunar venture: their money magic bought and paid for the dream, and she wondered sometimes how Jim had gotten them to invest in it. Those would-be tycoons squeezed turnips until they bled and then sold the blood to the Red Cross. She wasn’t sure she wanted to spend the evening schmoozing them.

  “I think you should check your messages. He seemed quite insistent.”

  She wrestled her CommPact out of her bag once they got in their rented Dragonelle-T/F to go back to the hotel. Jim’s e-mail was titled, “The invitation I told you about.” It started with “There’s a surprise for you at the hotel,” followed by a montage of images from perhaps a dozen movie and television franchises, each image followed by a similar one featuring costumed partygoers.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said.

  Frank grinned. “I am sure it will be an enjoyable affair.”

  At the bottom of the final screen listing the party time and location, Jim had added “Don’t let me down” in faux script on a virtual Post-It Note. Stormie paged back through the images.

  “Very retro,” she said.

  “I suspect James would say, ‘vintage.’”

  * * *

  Almost an hour late, thanks to crushing traffic on the 101, they pulled into the parking area. When Frank opened the car door, the night air ran cold fingers up Stormie’s thighs. Damn ’60s mini-dress.

  Stormie stopped for a moment and savored the faint smell of eucalyptus, mixed with traces of scrub pine. She put her hand on Frank’s arm and they walked up the long driveway already lined with vehicles.

  “Had we been on time,” Frank said, “we would not have to walk so far.”

  Stormie put her thumb against his side and pressed; his tickle reflex kicked him into a little hop. “It’s your fault,” she said. “You had to be different.”

  They rounded the last curve before the house, a Georgian-style home with a columned portico that sported strands of electric jack-o-lantern lights. Elaborate real jack-o-lanterns flanked the steps.

  They stepped onto the walkway up to the steps, and someone called, “The Pastorellis are here!”

  A couple of seconds later, the theme from the original Star Trek began playing through hidden speakers.

  “I don’t know which is worse,” Stormie said, “this costume Jim sent, or that I let you talk me into wearing it.”

  Frank laughed, and exaggerated his accent a little. “You will be the hit of the party, my dear. Listen to the music—you are the star of the evening, and you have not even walked in the door.”

  She tried to smile, tried to display the joy that Frank’s precise diction and gentle manner usually elicited, but the gust of cool wind that found its way up her costume prevented her. She would have preferred a longer skirt, but tonight she was Lieutenant Uhura, from the authentic earpiece down to the shiny boots. Frank stood for a second and admired her; she tugged the uniform’s hem down as far as it could go.

  “Besides,” he said, “you look better than Nichelle Nichols ever did.”

  Now she did frown—she was too tall and too thin and too dark to compare to the original or the 21st century Uhura.

  Frank tilted his head and bowed slightly. Then he stepped back, opened his arms, motioned theatrically toward his chest, and said, “And you have the whole of the galaxy at your command.”

  She shook her head at her handiwork, and the reason they were late to the party: a fair representation of the Milky Way galaxy, painted in several hundred white dots that spread from the base of his throat to his belly button. Above his heart, where most people put the nametags they got at conferences, she had added yellow lettering that declared, “You are here,” with an arrow pointing to a yellow dot on the outer edge of one of the spiral arms.

  Frank made a decent canvas, even if his skin was not as dark as space, and she was glad he wanted to wear her amateur artwork. He would have looked great in the Captain Sisko uniform that Jim had sent for him, but Frank wanted something original. And Stormie had taken special pleasure whenever she painted a spot that tickled him.

  “Yeah, but it’s such a backward galaxy,” Stormie said. “Nobody else wanted it.”

  She started up the steps, and turned around when he didn’t follow. Frank wore the expression of a scolded puppy, but it didn’t fit him: he was bad at play-acting.

  “Cut it out, Frank. Galaxy at my command? Right. First of all, I’m just a lieutenant. Second, I think you really want the co-eds to ogle your bare chest.”

  He smiled. “That never occurred to me, but it does seem like a nice fringe benefit.” He stepped up and took her hand to lead her into the house. With her other hand she poked him about where his appendix was. He jumped and laughed.

  Stormie said, “You watch yourself, Mr. Galaxy, or you’ll see how commanding I can be.”

  Frank looked up toward the second story of the house. After a moment he smiled and quoted,

  “Thou art my life, my love, my heart,

  The very eyes of me;

  And hast command of every part,

  To live and die for thee.”

  “Come here, galaxy man,” Stormie said, and kissed him as the last bars of the Star Trek theme played.

  The small crowd in the living room and down the hallway clapped as they entered. Stormie tugged again at her hem.

  They exchanged pleasantries with and accepted drinks from people they hardly knew, and looked for their host. Most of the guests were Jim’s friends, either from his years at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory or from the venture capital firm he had joined in ’29. One of The Paszek Group partners owned the house, which was built on what had been part of Gaviota State Park until the state of California sold some of its public lands to extricate itself from yet another budget crisis.

  They moved from room to room, admiring the costumes and chatting. Most of the costumes would fit in at any science fiction convention: primarily vintage Star Trek like Stormie’s, plus characters from the other iterations, with a few Star Wars and Firefly and Vorkosigan Chronicles costumes as well. A few people had been more daring, like the stunning Shiva with fully articulating multiple arms or the understated but elegant anime princess who smelled of cinnamon. Everyone recognized Frank and Stormie, and either congratulated them for saving the princess or made small talk about how exciting it would be once they were working on the Moon. Stormie tried to be gracious, but the guests were too obsequious for her taste.

  After nearly an hour, they found Jim in one corner of an office in the back of the house.

  Jim Fennerling looked hideous. His normally salt-and-pepper hair was pewter grey and half his face looked melted. He had only one eye open, and that had a filmy cataract over the iris—an eggshell-colored contact lens, probably. His wheelchair was covered with a shiny black plastic housing that encapsulated him from his shoulders to the floor. On the front of the carapace, three large lights nestled close to his chest in a horizontal row.

  “Great costume, Jim,” Stormie said. “Whoever did your makeup is a pro.”

  Jim kept his head stiff; he didn’t turn or otherwise acknowledge her. The center light on his chair lit up for a second, accompanied by an audible tone.

  “Now I get why you ordered this uniform for me,” she said. “So how’s it going?”

  Jim did not respond. Stormie started to ask again, but Frank stepped forward and said, “Please excuse the lieutenant, Captain Pike. She forgo
t that your responses are limited to yes and no. Are you well?”

  The light lit again.

  “Once for yes,” Frank said.

  “I know how it works,” Stormie said. “I just didn’t think he was going to stay in character the whole time. If we have to play twenty questions, that’s going to get old really quick.” She turned to the ersatz Captain Christopher Pike, late of his encounter with the mysterious delta rays, and said, “What about it, Jim?”

  The corner of Jim’s mouth twitched, as if he wanted to smile. Stormie admired his self-control, but only for a second.

  “Are you going to talk to me, Jim? With your mouth?”

  The light blinked, twice: no.

  “Have it your way,” Stormie said, and started out of the room.

  “Okay, Stormie,” Jim said. He accented the words with great exhalations to highlight his disappointment. “You’re no fun.”

  Stormie turned, and a smile formed on her lips. It was unusual enough for Jim to use her nickname, but she was thrilled to hear him talk about fun. The multiple miseries he had endured the past few years had taken their toll.

  “Nice party,” she said.

  Jim smiled through the makeup. “Glad you think so. Might be nicer if people would wear the costumes that were picked out for them.”

  “I thought it went against the canon,” Frank said. “Now, there was the crewman from ‘The Man Trap’ episode—”

  “Dear God, I forgot how seriously some of you take this stuff.”

  Stormie and Frank looked at each other; Frank tilted his head, furrowed his brow, and gestured to Jim’s elaborate wheelchair costume. Stormie struggled not to smile.

  “Would that be considered irony?” Frank asked.

  “A Freudian slip?” said Stormie.

  “Okay, that’s enough.” Jim might have been blushing underneath the makeup.

  “Projection, maybe?” asked Stormie. Yes, Jim’s ears were definitely red.

  “Power it down, you two,” Jim said. “I give up. How did the meetings go today?”

 

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