Guardian Ship

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  “Hey come on. No need for that. Name-calling. It hurts my feelings. Anyway, that’s redundant. I’m either a guinea or a wop, but not both.”

  There were four of them, all looking highly accustomed to violence: all were white, and spoke with heavy accents, undoubtedly Bratva mob. Probably ran with the Shulaya, New York’s premier Russian crew. They were all big and standing shoulder-to-shoulder, a four-peaked mountain range. The biggest and ugliest of the quartet had torn the shirtsleeves away at the shoulders to expose his football-sized biceps. The solid blue of jailhouse tats on both arms depicted a hell of a lot of time spent behind bars. When he spoke, I recognized his rich baritone as the same voice I’d heard from the other side of the wall.

  “You know that you’re going to die, right? That you can’t just stomp down a man’s front door like that and expect to walk out of here still breathing.”

  “She’s pretty badly hurt,” I said. “My guess, a few broken ribs, the obvious broken nose . . . good chance she’s got a concussion. Let me call an ambulance.”

  The shortest of the four Russians spoke. “You think they’re going to like, rush right over here? To a tenement in Tremont?”

  The other men snickered.

  I evaluated my odds of surviving beyond the next few minutes. I could take two, maybe three of them. But four—that would be pushing it.

  As if reading my mind, baritone-voice said, “No, we’re not going to fight you.” He looked to his left. “Give me your piece, Petri.”

  “Why mine?”

  “Just give it to me!”

  The man reached a hand back and pulled a Glock 19 out from his waistband. He handed it to baritone-voice, who partially pulled back the slide and checked the chamber. The man looked back to the gun’s owner. “You walk around with your fucking gun loaded like this? You’re going to shoot your dumbass balls off one day, Petri.” He turned his attention back to me. He smiled, raised the muzzle of the gun, and pulled the trigger.

  It was as if I’d been plowed into by a truck. My chest blazed in white-hot pain. I tasted blood. Lightheaded, I felt myself teetering on wobbly legs.

  “Catch the motherfucker before he falls. We’ll toss his ass in the dumpster out back.”

  I felt strong hands taking hold of my arms and legs, and then the room around me went horizontal.

  “Christ, this son of a bitch never missed a fucking meal.”

  I almost smiled through the pain. Then I thought about that rust-colored stain on the carpet next door and if the dumpster might already be occupied by another. Then I thought about beautiful Anna. She’d probably be at work right now. And my little Valentina. As always during the week, Anna’s mother would be watching over her. Tears filled my eyes. I thought I was going to have more time to fix things. More time to become the person Anna wanted me to be. That Val needed me to be. Sure, I could blame it on the war. I could say that so much death and loss had robbed me of the most basic, elemental human attributes that contributed toward being a husband. A father. But I could have gotten help. I could have tried harder. And now, it was too late.

  Everything went black.

  Chapter 6

  Anna Moretti

  Something’s happened to him. Anna sat on the living room couch with her legs tucked beneath her. She heard cartoon music coming from down the hall. Why’s Val awake so early? Soon, the sun would be up—Anna hadn’t slept a wink. But she was glad she’d had this time alone, sitting here in the pre-dawn dark. Her mother would be awake in the next hour, and a new day would begin.

  It had only been a day, but this was out of character for Dommy. He was a lot of things, but blowing off a chance to see his daughter last night, a prearranged daddy-daughter dinner, was not typical of any of them. She checked her iPhone for the twentieth time. She scrolled through the endless text messages she’d sent him—not one reply. He’d better be dead, she thought, immediately regretting it.

  Her emotions were all over the place. One minute she was paralyzed with worry for Dom’s wellbeing, the next she was angry enough to spit. But wasn’t that the reason she’d left him? Or at least part of the reason? The constant worry. Not long after high school, she’d gotten pregnant with Valentina, and she and Dom hadn’t thought twice about getting married. Sure, they’d talked about it before that, but it was something they’d do off in the future. Anna had wanted to go to community college. She’d always been good in school. She wanted to become a paralegal; Dommy wanted to be a cop.

  And then he started hanging around with the wrong boys. Those Elizabeth Street crew shits. Dommy was big, strong, and smart. It was no secret the mob had had their eye on him since he’d been a kid. But he’d managed to avoid all that up to and through high school. That was mostly thanks to Officer Tedesco’s influence. But the Little Italy beat cop had gotten transferred, moving up in the ranks. Not long after that, Dommy had got himself arrested. He’d been lucky to get that deal set up, but after he joined the Marines, she and Val had hardly seen him.

  For four years, she’d waited. She’d never once been tempted to break her vows. And for four years she had worried he’d get himself killed over there—wherever “over there” was. But having him back over this past year had been good. They were building a life together. There was normalcy—they were a family again. Anna shook her head. She realized her hands had balled into tight fists. Fucking Gordo! He’d been the one who’d introduced Dom to that sports-betting bullshit. Sure, in the beginning, it was win win win, the money pouring in. Dommy was riding high, a real big shot. She’d told him to stop while he was ahead. How many times did I warn him?

  Anna listened as one TV channel was swapped for another—Tom and Jerry replaced by Roadrunner.

  Then Dommy started to lose, and lose big. The debts were piling up. He’d been forced to take out a loan from Tito Caputo, and that had been the last straw. She and Val would not have any part of that kind of life. She’d packed up and moved in with her mother here in Queens.

  She wiped a tear from her cheek. I guess I should do something. Get the coffee going. Her phone vibrated with a new text message. She narrowed her eyes. Fucking Gordo. He’d been one of the many she’d reached out to last night.

  Gordo: No. He’s not returning my texts either.

  Anna quickly tapped a reply.

  Anna: When was the last time you heard from him?

  Gordo: Couple of nights ago. Sposed to meet. Guess he blew it off.

  Anna: Can you help me find him? This isn’t like him?

  It was a long minute before Gordo replied.

  Gordo: Sure. Get back to you later today.

  Gordo: Don’t worry. He’ll turn up sooner or later.

  A crease formed between her brows. He’ll turn up? That’s his way of consoling me? Fucking Gordo!

  Anna tilted her head and listened. A news bulletin had interrupted Val’s cartoons. She got to her feet and padded her way to hers and Val’s bedroom.

  “Hi Mommy,” Val said, a coloring book laid out on the floor in front of her. Her mismatched socks reminded Anna she needed to do some laundry.

  “Hi baby.” She came in and sat down on the edge of the bed. Something big was apparently happening, something having to do with NASA. There was a bright red banner with the words: Alien Sighting Confirmed!

  “What’s confirmed mean, Mommy?” Val asked, glancing back over her shoulder.

  Anna continued to stare at the TV. A control room, big displays up on the walls, men and a few women in shirtsleeves at their consoles. The video feed changed to a man with short grey hair and multiple microphones being thrust in front of his mouth. The banner below him read:

  SETI Institute Senior Astronomer, Stuart Church

  “Oh, it’s definitely a spacecraft of some sort. And it’s a big one. Early estimates approximate its length to be close to a mile.”

  “Where exactly is this spaceship now?”

  “In high orbit around Enceladus. One of Saturn’s moons.”

  “Any indicat
ion if they’re friendly?” one of the reporters asked.

  But before the senior astronomer could answer, someone else asked, “Have we made contact yet? Have we reached out to them?”

  He nodded. “Yes. We have initiated contact using various means. And no, we have not received anything back.”

  “Do you think we have anything to worry about? Do you think they’re friendly?”

  The senior astronomer didn’t answer right away. His smile faltered. “I certainly hope so.”

  “Time to get ready for school sweetie,” Anna said. “Let’s turn that off, okay?”

  “Aliens, Mom. Don’t you want to watch this?”

  “Yes, it’s very exciting and I’ll watch it later. But first, let’s get you into the shower.”

  The TV clicked to black, and Val headed off toward the bathroom. Anna continued to stare at the darkened screen. This day, this moment, would change history: the day humankind discovered they weren’t alone in the universe. But right now, all she cared about was finding Dommy. Her phone buzzed again. She’d forgotten she was still clutching it in one hand. It was Dom’s boss. Anna had reached out to her last night too.

  Georgina: Hi Anna. Sorry for the delay.

  Anna: No word from him either?

  Georgina: No. Yesterday morning was last contact.

  Anna: To do an appraisal?

  Georgina: Yes. Out to Tremont.

  Anna’s back straightened.

  Anna: You sent him to Tremont? You’re just telling me this now?!

  Georgina: Anna, Already contacted the police. I’m on my way over to see you.

  Anna felt her heart skip a beat. The police? She was almost too scared to ask what Georgina knew or suspected.

  Anna: OK.

  Georgina: May take me a while. Streets crazy. Have you seen the news?

  Right now she didn’t care about aliens or anything else. Just Dommy. She heard three hard knocks at the door.

  “I’ll get it,” her mother said from the kitchen. Anna could smell coffee brewing.

  That couldn’t be Georgina, Anna thought, not yet anyway. She entered the small living room and found a young policewoman being invited inside by her mother. Anna thought she looked familiar. She bit her lip, trying to quell her racing mind. The police showing up here like this could only mean one thing. They’d found Dommy—surely he was dead.

  The policewoman took off her hat and nodded to Anna and her mother. She had blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Pretty, in a way. On her left breast, engraved on the brass plate, was the name L. Tedesco.

  “Ma’ams, I’m Officer Lori Tedesco—”

  “You’re Ken’s daughter,” Anna interrupted.

  “Yes. That’s right. Dom’s boss called in a missing persons report yesterday. For your husband, Ma’am.”

  “I thought we had to wait like forty-eight hours for that?”

  Lori shook her head. “You watch too much TV. If we made everyone wait 48 hours, we’d never find anyone.”

  Anna thought the officer was being a bit harsh but held her tongue.

  “Look, I’m sorry, but I only have a minute . . . you know, with all that’s going on. Everything that’s happening with the news. People overreacting to crazy, unsubstantiated, speculation.” She both looked and gestured upward, referring to space. “Um, would it be alright to sit? So we can talk?”

  “He’s dead, isn’t he? That’s why you’re here.” Anna’s breath held in her chest.

  “No, my father sent me over here. Helps having people in high places, I guess. He wanted to help.”

  At some point, Anna’s mother had left and returned with a cup of coffee, and she handed it to Lori. The three of them sat.

  “We followed up, sent a car on over to 1226 Belmont, in Tremont, Dom’s building appraisal yesterday.”

  “Did he show up for it?” Anna asked.

  Lori nodded. “According to the super, he did. Right on time. Super gave him a set of keys, and that was the last he saw of him.”

  “So what happened?”

  Lori looked to be considering her next words. “Ma’am, no one is talking specifics. It’s the culture. Talking to the cops is something that could get you hurt or killed. Blood has been discovered in two of the units—one of the units Dominic would have had keys to. I don’t want you to read too much into this—”

  “Oh my God. Oh my God. No.” Anna buried her face in her hands, unable to hold back the tears.

  Chapter 7

  Hannig

  He watched the four men, each grasping ahold of a limb, carry the human named Dom down three flights of stairs and then down a long hallway. Hannig, at the controls of his Watcher Craft, hovered right alongside the procession unseen, moving through walls and furniture, even through other humans, all while keeping his attention focused on Dom. He glanced over to the near-constant flow of diagnostic readouts on the adjacent console.

  “System . . . have enough, yet?”

  “Yes. Physiology fully acquired.”

  A detailed 3D avatar of Dom’s torso region hovered and slowly rotated at the center of the forward compartment. Hannig glanced back to the four men. Having exited out the back door now, two of them were dragging Dom by his legs. Hannig considered the avatar more closely. He’d been shot once in the heart—it wasn’t so much beating now, more like fluttering.

  “Your prognosis?” Hannig asked.

  “The projectile entered the human’s chest and passed through the heart’s right atrium, nicking the tricuspid valve in the process. The projectile then exited out through the human’s back. Blood loss has been extensive. Total loss of life is imminent.”

  Hannig watched as the four humans once again each took hold of a limb. Swinging Dom’s body back and forth, back and forth, they released their respective holds and the huge man sailed up and over the top edge of the dumpster. The largest of the humans, the man with torn-away sleeves, said, “Get some shit to cover him up. Don’t want him discovered. Once he’s at the city dump, he’ll never be found.”

  “Can he be repaired? Saved?” Hannig asked the AI system.

  “Uncertain. The heart would not be salvageable,” the AI system replied with emotionless efficiency.

  Hannig continued to stare at the dented blue dumpster outside. “Easy enough, we’ll make him a new one.” He stood and headed astern.

  Four individual compartments comprised the interior of Hannig’s Watcher Craft. The forward Control Center and the aft Living Quarters were approximately the same dimensions, about nine feet wide by twelve feet long, with the ceiling a roomy seven feet, six inches. In between the two main compartments ran a narrow passageway—flanked by a bathroom on one side and a small kitchenette on the other. Two fusion power plants were integrated into the starboard and portside lateral wings, one on each side. Multiple large observation ports allowed for nearly unobstructed views in every direction. The vessel’s smooth metallic outer skin looked solid enough, but it was actually an amalgamation of pre-programmed smart-artifacts. A combination of thixotropic hydrogen bonds, protein-based accelerometers, and spin-transfer nano-oscillators kept the individual artifacts aware of their respective neighbors and locked into precise location and orientation. In other words, both the ship’s skin shape and size had been programmed to this ultimate form.

  Transporting Dom’s not-so-insubstantial body from its present location within the dumpster should be relatively easy, Hannig figured. He had already made the necessary conversion to the compartment, altering the living quarters into a fully functional medical bay. An elevated MedBed sat ready for use at the center of the compartment.

  Standard issue with every Watcher Craft was a multi-legged utility bot, commonly referred to as an LOP. Basically spider-like in design, each was comprised of a six-inch-diameter central sphere—the brains of the LOP—which controlled six thin, mechanical appendages. Each appendage had a ten-finger phalange claw at its end. When the LOP’s appendages were fully extended sideways, the LOP had a total reach of
eight feet. Since each appendage had twenty-three individual and fully rotatable bend joints, the LOP was capable of retracting itself into a small cube of symmetrical, ten-inch sides. Although the LOP was fully integrated with the vessel’s AI system, it could also operate autonomously when necessary.

  Hannig watched from the control center’s largest portal. The idle LOP was waiting some thirty feet away, hidden between two of the dumpsters, poised atop the brittle and cracked pavement. Hannig first ensured no one else was in the vicinity before telling the LOP to proceed: “Go on . . . bring me the injured human.”

  The LOP scurried up the side of the dumpster, its fast-moving appendages reaching outward while its small, articulating, multi-fingered claws found purchase wherever they could. The device skittered up and over the dumpster’s top, then disappeared inside.

  Hannig knew he was taking a course of action far outside that of his purview. Non-interference with life forms—those being scrutinized with the eventual adjudication of worthiness—was essential. Impartiality was something that had been instilled in him, instilled in all Observers, from day one of their training. So, why proceed? Was it because this human, this Dominic Moretti, had exhibited the one thing he’d been hoping to find here on Earth? He had risked his own life to save another, to save an alien.

  Ten seconds later, Hannig saw the top of Dom’s head rising up out of the dumpster, as if the unconscious human were actually standing on his own feet and now purposely peering over the side. As the body rose higher up into the air, Hannig could see that Dom was being supported by three of the LOP’s extended appendages, grasping him by the neck and the lower back, and clutching his two ankles together. Climbing up and over the top of the dumpster, transporting its elevated load into a quasi-horizontal orientation, the LOP scurried down the side. Hannig couldn’t help but marvel again at this mechanical wonder’s incredible strength relative to its compact size.

  Movement caught Hannig’s attention. Two humans were coming around the corner of the building, one walking backward and the other forward, carrying a sofa between them. It was stacked high with an assortment of junk—a broken chair, an end table, and what looked like part of a lamp.