From the data they had received, they found there was an average twelve-second delay from the time of mass reconversion to the time the Kinemet re-reacted. Just enough time for an astronaut to discharge the Kinemet fuel bays manually.
But this was not what Michael Sanderson had been worried about. He was confident that Alex Manez, if the matter-energy conversion had not killed him—which was a possibility, but then they would have word, wouldn’t they?—would be able to flick that switch and keep The Quanta from exploding. What he was worried about was something he had read in Alex Manez’s file three years after the young man had began his journey. And that something might be an even more significant factor in the success or failure of this project—but Sanderson would only know for certain once he found out if the signal coming in was an explosion, or a message from Alex.
Sanderson sighed and looked out the window of the car. He watched the landscape whip by him for a time before flicking his eyes heavenward.
“Hurry driver!” he ordered the private. The driver nodded sympathetically and pushed his foot down on the accelerator, getting the Director to the Space Center in record time.
*
White knuckles was the contagion as Center officials, video-paper reporters, and Michael Sanderson all waited for the message to be relayed from Pluto and be decoded.
Sanderson didn’t even notice as a rather slight figure sidled up to him. “Sure is a whole whack of people here waiting for word from our young Mr. Manez!”
Sanderson turned his head to see Captain Justine Turner give him a big smile. She wore sunglasses, even though they were indoors, and in her slender hands she held a white cane.
He replied: “I didn’t know if you would make it.”
Justine let out a throaty laugh. “I need to be here. Nothing could have kept me away.”
Michael nodded his head, and then, because she wouldn’t be able to see the action, said, “I know how you feel.”
The two of them had kept in contact over the past eight years, as colleagues, and as the only remaining surrogate parents of Alex Manez. They both had a vested interest in today’s outcome.
After returning to Earth, Justine had had to hang up her pilot’s wings, but instead of retiring from NASA, she had taken up an instructor’s position.
“Once I got the message, I hopped a hypersonic with a student. I think we broke Mach 10.” She laughed. “We’ll have to call Guinness on that one.”
“What’s with the cane?” he asked. With the advent of the second-generation thoughtlink technology, Justine had a very limited ability to see. Sensors in her glasses measured space between her and objects around her, and translated the information directly into her brain as impulses. It was primitive, but Justine was able to navigate a crowded corridor without assistance.
“I don’t know. I got so used to it those first few years; it’s like a safety blanket now.”
Michael was about to reply, when a klaxon rang.
“Message incoming. We are decoding it now,” the female voice of the communications officer sounded over the intercom.
“I never thought—” Michael could barely form a sentence, the anticipation was so high.
All the voices hushed as the result of eighteen-billion dollars and almost fifteen years of work and waiting came to a head.
The communications officer’s voice was recalcitrant, and everyone’s eyes and ears were unwilling to believe the words she spoke.
“Confirmed: The Quanta exploded twelve and a half seconds after reestablishing mass and orbit around Alpha Centauri.”
Statistics began scrolling up the screen detailing, in numerical figures, what had happened.
A thousand voices rose in astonishment and dread, but one penetrated above the multitude: “Then why did it take so long for us to get word? We should have received this information months ago!” Michael called out in a demanding voice. A dozen people began pouring over the computer data trying to find the answer to that question.
His grief and sense of loss was not of The Quanta but of Alex, who had died nearly six years ago. The realization just came home to him. It was as if Alex had died the moment the words were spoken over that impersonal intercom.
“I’ll be in my office!” he informed them. Without waiting for a reply, he turned about and stormed away. He did not notice Justine following until he was already in his office with the door closed.
“What are you doing?” he demanded, losing all sense of civility.
The former astronaut shrugged and gave Michael a wide smile, as if she were completely unaffected by the tragedy.
“A lot of time has passed,” she began, inviting herself into a chair on the other side of the Director’s desk. “I had plenty to think about over the past few years. The world is different from when I stood out there on the end of the solar system, looking across the miles of space to watch Alex Manez and The Quanta pass me. I never had a child of my own, and I probably never will. Alex is the closest thing I will ever have to a son.” she said, then fell silent for a time.
Michael strode over to a water cooler and poured two cups. He gave her one which she took automatically and sipped.
She said, “At one point in my life all I cared about was being a pilot, or an astronaut, or the first person on Pluto, or a dozen other milestones that people would kill to list on their resume. But since that day when Alex became Earth’s first interstellar traveler, my entire perpective on life shifted. My world shifted polarities.”
“I’m sorry about what happened to you.”
“I’m not. I may be blind, but for the first time in my life, I can finally see. Achievements are not what are important. What is important are the people in our lives, and how we are remembered by those we love. Alex may be dead, but I will always remember him as that unique individual who stole a spaceship, and as the brave little boy who so completely changed my life.”
Sanderson opened his mouth to speak, to console, to say he finally understood, but the phone on his desk rang. Annoyed, he picked it up, leaving the general to his own thoughts.
After a few seconds, Sanderson burst out: “What?”
Finding himself standing, the Director fumbled back to his seat as he hung up. He stared at Justine for a few seconds before saying: “I think you should hear this also.”
With that he pressed a button on his office intercom.
A hauntingly familiar voice crackled through…
__________
Copan :
Honduras :
Central American Conglomeration :
My grandson stands by me, tall and proud. It is his eighteenth birthday, and he is trying to act like a man, stoic and wise and focused.
But his eyes betray him. I can see how he glances over to Artek’s granddaughter and tries to hide his blush. Romance blossoms. Thus the world works, thus my line will be continued. It is the same everywhere. And it is good, so I say nothing.
I am getting old. Too old, some say. I know sometimes my grandson thinks so, but I also know that sometimes, like now, he is rethinking his opinions, especially when the big white men in blue and gray suits fly from their important cities in America just to visit an old man like me.
I am too old to go to them, so they come to me; this, my grandson respects. He is finding his wisdom slowly, but it is there, and I am happy to see that he will make a fine leader of our people when I am gone.
The entire village has come out to the council courtyard to see the white men and their special visitor arrive in our humble community. I see a few faces as old and familiar as mine; most are new, some I do not even recognize. They must have traveled from other villages to see also. That is good. Perhaps Copan will one day return to its splendor of a millennium ago.
Perhaps that is just the wishful thinking of an old man.
My grandson hears the roar of the white men’s cars long before my old ears pick up the rattle of engines and pings of rocks from our gravel roads.
Turni
ng my head, I see their rented vehicles. Ten of them, all filled with white men in suites.
All but one.
I disregard the white men. They think they are important, but in the greater skein of life, they are no more important than anyone else.
The only important one slowly exits the middle car.
He is short compared to the men from NASA, with jet black hair, and a deeply tanned, round face. He appears young, even younger than my grandson, though he bears himself like a council elder.
To honor the village, he is wearing the ceremonial dress of a Maya priest, which is right and good.
As he approaches, I reach out for my grandson to help me out of my chair and to the ground, where I kneel before the visitor.
The white men gathered round shuffle uncomfortably. They think I am just an old man who knows nothing.
It is they who do not know anything, and their confusion only increases when I pay my respects to the visitor.
I speak in both Mayan and Spanish, so that the villagers can also understand me. One of the white men translates for his fellows.
“He said: Greetings Colop U Uichkin, welcome to our humble village. Your mercy is our salvation.’
“—I think this Colop,” the man whispers, though loud enough for me to hear, “is their god of the sky.”
I laugh deep in my throat at their poor translation. Colop means Sky Traveler in our language.
Colop ignores them. Their purpose was only in bringing him back to us, and that has been served.
Smiling, Colop beckons me back to my chair.
“Please, Grandfather,” the Sky Traveler says respectfully as the white man translates, “rest your old bones. Do not kneel on my account.” It is so with the kindest of men.
Colop and my grandson helps me back to my seat. My knees crack and pop, but I manage to find the chair and fall into it.
“Everything will be all right now,” Colop tells me, “I am here, and your job is complete, Grandfather. Our People on this world are well prepared for the return of the People of the Stars. Your Cousins will have many stories to tell you when they arrive. They look forward to meeting you.”
It is then that my grandson speaks out of turn. Alas, I have not taught him as well as I should have. It is obvious that he now believes in my stories; but he is still young, and has doubts.
My grandson looks down on this visitor from the stars who looks like a boy, and says: “Colop. You must answer me a question. When our People were taken to the stars, why were us few left behind? Did our ancestors displease them?”
“No, cousin. The People who were left here were chosen because of their loyalty and intelligence. The ones who were taken needed to be shown the mysteries of the universe so that they could understand their role in the great skein.
“One day, they would have to return to the world, and their coming would require guides to bridge the gap between the fourth world—the white man’s world—and the People’s culture. That will be your role in the new, fifth, world of this earth, cousin. You will serve as an ambassador between the People of the Earth and the People of the Sky.”
“I am sorry for my impertinence, great Colop. Forgive me.” Thus my grandson makes me proud.
“And now,” I say, “we must feast and celebrate your coming, Colop.”
The Sky Traveler turns to the white men who brought him here, and dismisses them, telling them to return tomorrow when he will discuss the future.
The white men grumble and argue, and they glance at me with suspicion, the mean while reassessing my worth and value in their political minds. It will serve me to keep the peace between our cultures, but for now, it is time for them to go.
“NASA men,” I say to them. “A great change will come upon us in our future. There will be hundred-fold benefits for all the peoples of the world. You need time to think about how you would like that future to be shaped. Perhaps if you went back to your hotels and talked with each other, you could develop a plan and bring it to us, so that both our peoples can talk this over together.”
The white men are fond of talking, and making plans. Almost eagerly, they bustle into their cars and drive away.
Colop, the man in a boy’s body who the white men call Alex Manez, remains with us. He must tell out about his time with the People of the Sky, what he has learned from them, and what they expect from us.
“For a millennium, you and your ancestors have protected the ancient scrolls,” he says to me. “It is in those scrolls where we will find what we need in order for the People of the Stars to accept us into their cosmic tribe. You are the only one who can read those scrolls, grandfather. It is you who must lead us into the next age.”
My grandson looks at me with newfound respect.
I may be an old man, but now, with renewed purpose, I feel young once more.
THE BEGINNING
__________
About the Author :
In true nomadic spirit, Valmore Daniels has lived on the coasts of the Atlantic, Pacific, and Arctic Oceans, and dozens of points in between.
An insatiable thirst for new experiences has led him to work in several fields, including legal research, elderly care, oil & gas administration, web design, government service, human resources, and retail business management.
His enthusiasm for travel is only surpassed by his passion for telling tall tales.
Visit the author at ValmoreDaniels.com
Forbidden The Stars Page 24
