The Third Craft

by James Harris

  If Grayer could have seen his watch, he would have realized that he was running out of time.

  By pulling with his hands and pushing with his feet, he could gain both a handhold and a foothold on the rough unfinished concrete surface. It was trial and error.

  His body formed an X. His arms were flailed out in front of his face. He used his elbows and knees as brakes to keep from sliding backward down the algae-slick shaft. Sometimes he felt totally wedged in as the irregular shaft narrowed without warning. Grayer fought claustrophobic panic and wriggled through the tight spots, ripping his skin in the blackness. Perhaps it was a blessing that he couldn’t see how precariously he was perched, a hundred feet above the room.

  He kept hoping to see some light, but there was only inky blackness. He could feel the acidic burn as rotted concrete raked across his body, opening fresh flesh wounds. Bands of sweat snaked down his brow into his eyes. He blinked the sweat from his eyes and squeezed them shut to ease out the stinging liquid. His forehead was badly scraped, and beads of perspiration burned as they oozed into the fresh wound. Onward and upward he crawled, inch by painful inch, in the pitch-blackness.

  Suddenly, his fingertips struck and crumpled painfully against something solid. The shaft had ended abruptly. Oh my God! It ends here! He felt his heart flip in a spike of fear. The ceiling above his head was completely concreted.

  So this is how death feels! He thought. It ends in a claustrophobic dead end.

  Grayer flailed his hands about in the blackness. Then, with his fingertips, he felt the nothingness of an opening. There, on his right side, the shaft continued horizontally, at a sharp right angle. His sudden surge of hope was then dashed as he realized his predicament.

  The shaft’s too narrow for me to crawl inside. I’m trapped inside the upper shaft, he thought.

  He couldn’t maneuver his body to bend at such a sharp right angle without losing his grip and plunging down the shaft. He needed something, or somebody, to pull him into the nearby cavity. There simply wasn’t enough room to maneuver. He would plummet to his death a hundred feet below. His thighs began to burn with the intense effort of holding his position.

  There wasn’t anything in his pockets except for his knife and some irrelevant odds and ends. His pistol and ammo belt were strapped to one ankle, and his water bottle was strapped to the other. Grayer stilled himself.

  Breathe, deep breaths, relax, he thought.

  His calf muscles felt as though they were on fire and were threatening to cramp up. To relieve the pain, he maneuvered himself into a crab position just below the horizontal shaft entrance. He pushed against one side of the shaft with both feet, with his back pressed against the other. The relief was instantaneous and his cramping abated. That maneuver gave him an idea. He might be able to use this position to gain access to the shaft. He could enter it headfirst and upside-down on his back. His legs were longer than his arms, and there was just enough leverage to catapult into the adjoining tunnel without plunging down the chute. It might work, he thought.

  Grayer awkwardly shifted his body upward. First his hands, then his head entered the narrow shaft. He arched his back and pushed down hard, bracing his feet against the sidewalls of the vertical shaft. He began thrusting. His spine grated painfully along the edge of the opening of the adjoining horizontal shaft. He screamed in pain. He kicked against the far wall, using it as leverage to push him into the new shaft. It worked. He was lying on his back in the horizontal shaft. Grayer realized that he’d been presented with a great opportunity. He no longer had to climb inside a shaft. He didn’t need to wriggle and squirm to move upward, he could now move forward by propelling along a smooth surface.

  He decided to put his aura Gift to good use. He took a deep breath, focused and his body flared, and then radiated a soft green-hued cocoon. He relaxed and let his psychic energy build. His body became lighter as it lifted a few centimeters off the ground. He became completely enveloped in his protective shield. Once his body was encapsulated in the green shield, free of gravitational friction, it would be frictionless as it slid across the floor of the shaft.

  He raised both knees slowly, and then slammed his feet against the far wall. His body catapulted away from the vertical shaft wall, along the horizontal air duct. Without friction, his speed was spectacular. There was some energy loss as his shoulders scraped along the sides of the shaft, but this happened only from time to time so the loss was minimal. Grayer slid along the floor like an upside down luge racer, hands at his side. He could feel a gradual, subtle increase in elevation.

  It took five minutes for the joyride to come to an end. Grayer slammed to a halt at the end of the shaft. He collapsed in a heap. Uninjured because of the protective shield, he let it down. His heart was racing. He was lying on his back and staring up at a thin stream of dull orange sunlight. He was near the surface.

  There is light, and hope!

  Grayer struggled awkwardly to his unsteady feet. He observed that the shaft widened as it rose and led straight up to the surface twenty feet above. He had made it close to the outside, and this juncture was large enough for him to stand erect. He stood up slowly, willing the ache from his sore joints to disappear. He was tattered and bloody.

  At chin level there was a step – made of an iron rod bent into a rectangular U – jutting out ninety degrees from the wall. Following upward with his eyes, he saw a series of rods forming steps leading to the surface, and to safety. If time didn’t run out. One by one Grayer grasped the knurly steps and lunged upward.

  As he approached the surface, he was able to distinguish a metal grating of some kind blocking his path. He groaned. Another obstacle!

  He pushed against the grate. It was unyielding. He grabbed the grate with his hands and rattled it. It didn’t budge. He pushed with his mind as hard as he could, but the metal arched and bulged without snapping. He didn’t have the strength to remove it. He slumped down and hopelessness flooded in. It irked him to have come all this way only to be met with yet another seemingly insurmountable obstacle. For several minutes he stared at the grate. It was made of thick mesh welded to a metal frame. The frame was attached to the shaft with four corroded half-inch-diameter bolts.

  Grayer slammed his open palm against the grid. He was running out of time. Soon there would be a massive underground explosion. The force would blow him into the grate, then the ground would implode about him, burying him alive. His shield wouldn’t be able to save him against the tons of dirt. He would live for a while, but would then die the slow, claustrophobic death of suffocation.

  He knew he had to find a solution, and very quickly. He looked at his uniform and idea came to mind. He reached down to his ankle weapon. He snagged his gun belt free from its Velcro buckle and fished it upward. He popped four rounds from the ammo clip, and placed them beside the nearest of the hexagonal bolt heads holding the plate to the shaft. He grabbed another four rounds and repeated this action. He kept going until he had sixteen rounds surrounding the four bolt heads. His clip was empty. He began scrambling down the metal rungs.

  Suddenly, there was an explosion from below.

  Oh God! he thought.

  He had run out of time.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and mentally pushed with all his might, spiking his power and focusing it on igniting all sixteen bullets simultaneously. A bright white arc flew from his body and divided into four paths, one toward each bolt. A micro-instant later, he activated his protective aura, shielding him from the upcoming force.

  Then a deep rumble, and BOOM, the world exploded around him. A fiery gale blew upward from the underground shaft. His shielded body was thrown, away from the rungs and up toward the metal grating. At that same instant, the ammunition – ignited by the incendiary power of the push – exploded and sheared the bolt heads. The grate blew free.

  Grayer collided with the grate, which cartwheeled upward and sideways, bouncing against the wall of the shaft and out of the way. He blew out of the airshaft l
ike a circus performer shot from a cannon. He flew sixty feet into the air.

  Twenty yards away, a stunned helicopter crew stared in disbelief. They had arrived a few minutes early, and were waiting for Grayer to emerge. But they never dreamed he would emerge like this. The crew had been chatting quietly in the open bay of the camouflaged helicopter’s rear deck when they saw a green object burst from the ground, followed by a huge billow of air, dust, and particles. A plume of dust rose about a hundred feet, and then curled like a question mark.

  The men jumped to their feet and rushed toward the prone figure. Surely he was dead! The blue Air Force suit confirmed that it was Grayer.

  The setting sun struggled to filter through the settling dust. By the time the men reached Grayer, he was on one knee, getting up. He dusted himself off.

  “Whew! That was a close one.”

  “Are you OK, sir?” one of the crew said. The others stood in silence, dumbfounded.

  Grayer couldn’t hold back a silly-ass grin. He shrugged. “I’m fine, just fine,” he said.

  The small group of soldiers looked on curiously. “Sir, we have orders to assist you in a mop-up operation. Is that still valid?”

  “No, it is not. The enemy has escaped.”

  The soldiers looked around. There were no vehicles and no tire marks. “How? How did they come and go? Sir, did you engage the enemy?”

  “Never mind. They’re gone.”

  “But sir, the explosion …”

  “Soldier, this mission is over.”

  “In that case, sir, we have orders to get you back to Washington ASAP.”

  Stell’s ship was perched precariously at the edge of a rusty-colored cliff, its nose aimed majestically at the setting sun. In the control room Stell stood with his feet wide apart, like Captain Horatio Hornblower steadying his feet on a rolling deck. His eyes were quietly assessing the situation at the silo. He was waiting for the explosion, half dreading his evil deed and half exhilarated by it. The ship’s main screen was at maximum size, giving him a full panoramic view of the desert expanse. Below, about ten miles away, he saw the Air Force helicopter swoop down near the entrance to the underground missile silo.

  On cue, there was a puff of smoke from the ground.

  “Level II underground explosion,” a computerized voice said. “Non-radioactive imitative nuclear device. Nuclear re-containment 100 percent. Fallout zero. Trace decreasing to negligible.”

  As the computer droned on, Stell witnessed Grayer bursting from the ground enveloped in a green aura cocoon. He couldn’t quite sense Grayer’s Signature himself from this distance, but the ship’s systems did. Grayer’s Signature pulse was strong because he was under tremendous strain.

  “Human jettison identified as Commander Kor,” the computer said. “Nine miles to the west, coordinates 260 magnetic. Uninjured. Rescue Kor?”

  “Negative. Commander Kor has alternatives.”

  “Acknowledged. Kor, as a royal, has primary directive encoding that cannot be overwritten. Royal safety and preservation is my prime directive. Please stand by. Accessing Prince Kor’s bio feed.”

  Stell bit his lip in concentration. He couldn’t fool himself. Inwardly he was glad that Grayer had not been killed, but he would never admit it to himself or others. That would be a sign of weakness.

  “Assessment completed. Prince Kor is uninjured and has alternative transportation.”

  Stell nodded to the pilot. “Time to go.”

  Then he turned to the rest of the crew. “Time to change our plans.”

  “He’s like a cat,” Cringen moaned, slamming his hand against the console.

  “Nine lives,” O’Sullivan said.

  Stell turned and studied the pair. Their reaction was uncharacteristically vehement. They were more intent on killing Kor than seemed reasonable. Stell realized that his attempt on Kor’s life was a mistake spurred on by Cringen and O’Sullivan. He never should have listened to them. Now Kor would seek revenge.

  CHAPTER49

  At lunchtime the next day, Grayer found himself in the sunny office of the Secretary of Defense.

  “Good morning, Mr. Secretary.”

  “Sit down, Frank, please.”

  Grayer eased into a dusty green-buttoned leather wingback chair, and waited with his hands folded in his lap.

  “A busy few days I hear.”

  “Yes, Mr. Secretary. Busy, and a failure, I’m afraid.”

  “Care to tell me what happened?”

  Grayer recounted his near brush with death.

  “Did you ID anyone?”

  “Only Wixon.”

  “Damn!”

  “They were waiting. They were tipped off. We have a security leak in this department.”

  The Secretary of Defense didn’t acknowledge the comment one way or the other. “Frank, I can’t give you Watchers any more. You should lay low for a while, don’t you think?”

  “We can’t just let Wixon walk away scot free. He’s the one you should put away, not me.”

  “I’ve discussed the matter with H and he is insistent that Wixon remain free to work within NMJIC.”

  “Mr. Secretary. You have to contain this man and his crew. They’ve infiltrated the government.”

  “We have. Wixon is under constant surveillance, Frank. The next time he slips up, we’ll be there to nail him. Leave this to me.”

  “I have to find his crew, Mr. Secretary. I can’t overstate the threat to your security.”

  “I understand that, but you seem to be confused about who is the hunter and who is the quarry. It seems to me that the tables have turned. We can’t afford to have them kill you, son. You’re the most precious human on this planet. If they got to you, then where would we be? We’d be defenseless against an alien enemy of unknown strength. That’s just not acceptable.”

  “I understand your concern. You make a good point.” Grayer studied the man for clues as to where the conversation was headed.

  “I have made arrangements for you to disappear for a period of time. We have to let your trail go cold.”

  “Who will my contact be?”

  “Me.”

  “And who else?”

  “Just me. You will have a new ID. Under that ID, you will continue to have high-level access codes to DNS, DoD, and other departments. You will be issued a partitioned electronic file where I can leave you secure messages, and you can leave me secure messages on the same file.”

  “Mr. Secretary, give me a few more weeks, I can nail them all.”

  “Sorry. Love to, but no. This matter has been discussed at the highest level. You are a national asset – even though nobody knows about you. You cannot put yourself in extreme danger without endangering us all.”

  “The matter is closed?”

  “Closed.”

  “How long do I have to get ready?”

  “You don’t, son.” He winked at Grayer as if to say, I know you, boy. “These men will help you pack.” He nodded to the door. Two military policemen in pristine whites stood quietly at ease, blocking the doorway. “We don’t want you doing anything impulsive. Know what I mean?”

  Grayer flushed momentarily in anger. He rose. “I hardly think that this is necessary.”

  “I apologize, Frank. We have got to tighten down this op.”

  The Secretary emerged swiftly from behind the desk and put his hand on Grayer’s shoulder. “Can’t let anything happen to you. Let Internal figure out the IDs and whereabouts of the remaining crew. Then we can round them up and things will return to normal around here.” He laughed. “Whatever normal is.”

  As Grayer was escorted from the building, he thought about what the Secretary had said, and he worried about the safety of his sons. Better to disappear, he thought. Go into deep cover. Make sure he was near the boys.

  Millions of miles away in space, streaking toward Earth, the three galactic cruisers neared a stationary beacon.

  The white beacon was about three feet in diameter. Five two-foot spi
kes protruded from it as radio antennas.

  Stell’s transmission from Alpha II had successfully reached the beacon in time. The signal was received by all three cruisers, but Stell’s file was specially encrypted to enable only Gamma III’s computer to decode the data.

  The file from Alpha II contained a series of commands to be executed in sequence. The first event was the activation of a Service Bot. The Bot was a wispy thing, a strange creation from the Tech Age. It was a synthetic biological creature, created to resemble an insect – more like a rakishly thin slug with six tentacle limbs.

  It was an eerie scene. The corridors were a faintly luminescent pale green, with barely enough light for human vision. There was no sound. The galactic cruiser was in an energy-saving mode for the long journey.

  The Bot whisked along the ship’s corridors until it hovered outside the annex off the control room. Inside the annex was a secure crypt that held the orb containing Amonda’s data. The Bot entered the room and approached the orb. Its tentacle hand touched a section of the wall and the crypt opened. The Bot gently removed the orb and held it close to its body.

  Inside the annex was a Transition Chamber. The Bot secured the orb inside a mechanical device attached to the stall-like chamber. Satisfied, the Bot spun around and left the annex, heading toward the cryogenic crypt that housed Amonda’s body.

  Her body was stored at some distance from her mind because the Being tended to drift when a human died. It was safer, the people of Sargon knew, for the Being to travel with the mind rather than with the body, in order to prevent the Being from drifting aimlessly about the craft – or worse, into outer space – once the body died. It was joyful to be tethered to the mind, even to a digitally stored mind. It was less joyful to be tethered to a cold organic body.

  Within minutes, the Bot had successfully retrieved the crypt of Amonda’s body and ferried it back to the annex. The Bot inserted the crypt upright into the Transition Chamber. The stall immediately began to fill with a viscous green gel. Once filled, the crypt housing slid open sideways, exposing Amonda’s naked body to the gel. It had to have direct contact with the flesh. The highly oxygenated, life-giving liquid swirled around her inert body.