I spin around.
Matt stands frozen, eyes tight contorting his face, bracing for the inevitable failure. Beyond him, the craft shudders. The landing strut snaps, and the hull crashes down.
Once the booming echo fades, Dave says, “Told me so, eh?”
Matt looks ready to tear off another strut and wrap it around Dave’s neck. “Yeah, I told you so is right. I said it would hold until we got home. I never said it would last forever.”
The mind is an interesting device, how it must justify all results, whether intended or not. The perfect analytical machine is incapable of error, so when faced with the possibility, it must invent an excuse as ridiculous as calling attention to the precise words spoken. And now, after the fact, it’s almost like Matt expected this to happen. His mind is satisfied, right again. Try computing an excuse that satisfies the rest of us.
Dave gives his opinion of Matt’s mental prowess. “Fine, be all happy with yourself, Mister Never-wrong. Now fix it, right. And the rest. I want her purring like a kitty next time we fly, you got that?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Matt says, walking away. “I’ll take care of it . . .”
“What did you say?” Dave asks.
Matt turns back. “I said I’ll take care of it.”
“No, after that.”
Matt makes a valiant effort at absolute innocence. “I didn’t say anything after that. You’re hearing things.”
Dave tightens his brow. Then he gives it up, walks past, and leaves our injured craft behind.
If my senses serve me well, I’d say Matt mumbled, “Jerk.”
* * *
The landing platform is a long strip of concrete where countless craft are parked facing a similarly long terminal building, a few floors tall, constructed of glass with an aqua sheen supported by a network of struts. From the terminal, maintenance personnel emerge, dressed in gray coveralls. When they see our craft and its awkward droop, they start shaking their heads.
On his way inside, Dave turns back. “Come on, we have other business.”
Madison pulls me along and we follow Dave, leaving Matt to face the repairmen and explain our craft’s condition. His stellar mind will compute excuses enough to justify the damage, none of it Matt’s fault, of course.
Inside the terminal, we enter a wide corridor thrumming with people. They wear every fashion imaginable, some in shorts, loose shirts and sandals ready for the beach, others more spiffy in relaxed business attire, though most dress casual—jeans and pullover, boots or sneakers. Hairstyles vary, females long and loose, brunettes, blondes, even bright pink. A few males have long hair, though most wear shorter styles, some flashy like Dave’s, but none so butchered as mine. There are soldiers as well, roughly an equal number male and female, wearing a variety of military uniforms, either dark coats with stiff collar, tight bodysuits, or camouflaged shirt and pants a mixture of olive drab and tan.
As we push through the crowd, some people glance, and when I fall under their gaze, they brighten up. Many smile, others wave, a few even say, “Hi, Adam.”
Privately, I ask Madison, “Do I know these people?”
She smiles and pats me on the back. “Their favorite hero.”
Have I been here before? I must have, but so much is foreign. Certainly attractive to my tastes, but still, it seems unfamiliar. Emotions clash—this place hints at a life full of meaning and purpose, but at the same time, dread strikes—there is no clear memory of being here. I feel empty, out of place. And what does the emptiness hold? A time of success and accomplishment? Or strife, burdened with too much responsibility? Even to recall misery is better than to be empty.
* * *
On the street side, the terminal faces a multilane boulevard crammed full of vehicles dropping off and picking up passengers, one after another, then moving along. Overhead, elevated walkways connect the terminal with a parking structure across the street. Hanging from one of the spans is a wide banner that reads “Welcome home.”
I ask Madison, “Welcome who? Me?”
Dave chuckles. “Not much trouble remembering his ego.”
“No, silly,” Madison says. “The troops.” She points to soldiers marching toward buses farther along the street, and others joining friends and loved ones parked at the curb.
Dave says, “We’ve repelled another Association offensive, and they’ve backed off for now. The fleet is home to resupply and celebrate victory.”
“Fleet?”
He points to the sky. I must strain to see anything other than scattered clouds.
Madison leans near, her head to mine, and directs my gaze as she points upward. “See, up there.”
High in the sky are tiny specks clumped together, a few reflecting glints of sunlight.
“In outer space?”
“Low orbit,” Dave says. “Too big for surface landings. They’re coming in on shuttles, like that one now.” He points over my shoulder just as a faint whine grows to a deafening roar. A craft passes directly overhead, blocks out the sky, and I nearly leap from my skin. The craft maneuvers behind the terminal and drops to the landing platform.
“The thing’s the size of a city block.”
Dave chuckles. “It’s just a shuttle.” He calls for us to follow, and we proceed along the sidewalk. As more craft zip past, I try to heed his advice and convince myself not to be alarmed by the cantankerous hunks of steel magically floating overhead.
Chasing after Dave, we advance at a hurried stride, and soon my breathing matches the pace. But something is different about the air. Not bad, rather rich and satisfying, but certainly peculiar. Each breath tingles deep inside my lungs, and my head begins to feel light.
“Slow down,” Madison says, walking alongside. “You’ve been gone awhile. You need to adjust.”
I can feel a tight grin pinching my cheeks, and a slight buzz coming on. Feels like I’m walking on mashed potatoes.
She grabs hold and makes me halt. “Your breathing, you ’tard. You’re hyperventilating.”
Oh, that. Against an instinctual urge to do otherwise, I slow my breathing to the point I should be gasping for air, but the concentrated atmosphere contains abundant oxygen. Strange that I could pause so long between breaths and not struggle for more. But not strange—I already knew that.
My gaze wanders to the sky. I do remember this place. Rich atmosphere, pink sky full of puffy white clouds, and bright sun warming my skin.
I have been here before.
* * *
At the curb, Dave waves at the passing cars. What is this about? Greeting his friends? He must be popular. I go to the curb and wave with him.
“What are you doing?” he asks. “I’ll take care of it. We only need one taxi.”
“Oh.” I smile. “Better chance we’ll get one.”
I must look like an idiot. But it’s true, two of us waving is sure to score a ride. What? A lame excuse for acting like an idiot, when I know perfectly well what he was doing. Who’s insisting they’re right here?
A taxi pulls to the curb. Madison opens the door and we climb in back. Dave hops in up front next to the driver, a fellow with dark tan and wavy sun-bleached hair, wearing shorts and sandals, and a bright orange button shirt decorated with parrots and pineapples.
Dave tells the driver, “Two stops . . .” He goes on to describe our destinations, both completely unfamiliar. In an alarming surge, the taxi catapults into traffic. The wide boulevard is heavily congested, slowing our journey, but the driver is quite the maniac, weaving in and out of every nook and cranny, as if one car length would make a difference in the end.
The driver asks, “You looking to surf? The sets are wicked today.”
Surf? Surfing, I remember—stand on a board skimming over the waves and hope you don’t fall off. Something like that.
“Not right now,” I say. “Maybe later.”
The driver peers into the rearview mirror, putting his attention on me instead of traffic. “That’s cool, dude. Wh
en you have some time I’ll show you the killer spots without a bunch of posers riding their inflatable rafts, getting in the way. Ask for cab four-twenty, that’s me.” He scans the road for maybe a microsecond, then back to me in the mirror. “Hey, dude, how about some party action? Looking for a night on the town?”
On the dash is a small certificate with his name and photo.
“Ah, Jeremiah, maybe you should keep an eye on the road.”
“Call me Jerry, that’ll do.”
“Watch out!”
About to smack a vehicle dead ahead, he calmly throws the taxi over one lane. I could use a new pair of shorts after that, but everyone else is calm, no big deal. Seems I have no memory of a typical taxi ride. Easy to understand why.
“There’s a bitchin’ band playing tonight,” Jerry says. “A friend of mine, really good, dude, far out stuff. Loud guitars, and my friend, she sings, and really good. I’m telling you, man, you should check it out, her band is totally boss. Tonight at Rocko’s. Call me later and I’ll get you there.”
Arms wrapped around her knees, Madison leans forward. “How about dancing? Any clubs you’d suggest?”
Jerry peers at her in the rearview mirror. His brow tightens. “What, like that meat market shit? Boomp boomp boomp, that kind of thing?”
Madison scowls. “No, you twit, not that kind of dancing. The naked kind. You know, where I can enjoy a good cocktail and see some sexy women.”
“Oh, that kind of dancing,” Jerry says. “I know just the place, lots of chicks, real tasty, I’m sure you’ll dig it. They got a live band, too, that’s cool for a nudie bar.”
“Good,” Madison says. “I’ll call you later.” She glances at me and gives my thigh a squeeze. “I have plans for Adam.”
All her affection, all her lust, I had thought—
I look to her with profound confusion.
“What?” she asks. “You actually think you’re the only one who turns me on?”
That didn’t answer the question—the one I never asked.
“Madison, what are you saying? Do you like watching, or is it more than that?”
She giggles. “What’s more than that?”
“You know. Do I have to say it?”
“Yes, you do. I want you to say it. Come on, let’s hear it.”
“Well, are you . . . I mean, do you . . .”
“Come on, you can do it. You’re a big boy now.”
“Okay, I’ll say it—do you like sex with women? There, I said it.”
Stroking a finger across her chin, she contemplates the query, her wandering gaze lost in a distant fantasy. “Sex with women,” she muses. “Hmm, I wonder . . .”
Oh stop toying with me, you don’t have to think about it that much. In the meantime, Dave chuckles. He probably has an idea of what’s coming.
Her pretend daydream complete, she gets a mischievous grin and says no more. Come on, just answer the question. Her evasive game having served its purpose—whatever that may be—at last she satisfies my curiosity.
“Well, if you must know . . . yes, I do, just like I enjoy the idea of sex with you. Women give pleasure as well as any man, sometimes even better. I like sex, any kind of sex, and I want it all.”
Dave’s mild chuckles have evolved into hearty laughter. Seems he already knew about this. Actually, I’m not that shocked. I probably knew as well, and simply forgot.
She asks, “Would you like to try it sometime?”
“Try what?”
“You know, sex. With me, and another woman.”
Oh boy, now I’m on the spot. Two naked ladies touching each other? Where do I fit in? In between. A surge of blood changes course and rockets to my crotch.
Madison simply gazes at me, awaiting my response. I should be honest.
“Yeah, I would like that. Actually, I’d dig it a lot.”
Her eyes light up and she draws me into an embrace, her lips close to my ear. “And you will dig it, believe me, I’ll make sure you do.”
She squeezes me tight, which only heightens my arousal, almost too much for public display. I need to save that for the right time and place, not here in this taxi.
Jerry says, “Wow, you’re one lucky dude.” Then he shifts his attention back to the road, where I wish he would keep it.
Dave twists around, and this time he’s not amused. “Maddie, that’s not such a good idea.”
She releases me. “David, don’t be such a busybody.”
His brow tightens. Then he gives it up, turns around and faces forward. Next I catch a glimpse of Jerry in the rearview mirror, studying me.
“Hey, dude,” he says. “There’s one other place you should go.”
“Oh? Where’s that?”
“Another friend of mine, she does hair. Man, someone really butchered your strands. I hope you didn’t pay for that.”
* * *
In a residential neighborhood, Jerry slows the taxi to the curb. Our first stop. I glance at Madison and she seems to understand my question without words. She shakes her head once and puts a hand on my knee to keep me seated.
Dave pops the door open and steps out, then leans toward the open window next to Madison. “I’ll be over later,” he says. “In the meantime, behave yourself. Understood?”
She remains silent, staring straight ahead.
He looks past her, to me, and says, “Can you just trust me on this for now?”
Unsure of what to say, I can only shrug.
He walks away and climbs the steps of a funky bungalow surrounded by an overgrown yard full of dandelions. Perhaps a great pilot, but not much of a gardener. Halfway up the steps, he waves good-bye, and we’re on our way.
A winding street takes us closer to the beach. The road levels out to a straight boulevard running parallel to a stretch of bleached sand, waves breaking on the shore and people basking in the sun, others playing in the water.
I ask Madison, “What’s up with Dave?”
“He’s just jealous, don’t mind him.”
Dave is jealous? Of who? There’s something here I need to remember.
After a short ride, we turn in to an alley, then stop behind a house that faces the beach, nearly on the sand itself.
“Here you go,” Jerry says. “Call me later if you want some action. Remember, cab four-twenty, that’s me.”
“We’ll do that,” Madison says. “Come on, Adam, this is it.”
She starts around the two-story house, light blue with white trim, weathered by the salty wind and sand. The worn siding is adorned by a funky clutter of fishing nets and boat parts. Around to the front, steps lead up to a redwood deck the width of the house.
Madison hurries up the steps and slips inside. I am not so hurried, scaling the steps while indulging in the handrail’s texture, and an odd feeling creeps in. The wood is familiar. I have held it before. I worked it, cut it, and changed its shape. I made this deck, built it with my own hands. I remember doing it as the bright sun warmed my skin, and the ocean breeze cooled it.
On the top step, I turn slowly, taking in the panoramic view of water stretching across the horizon. The wind tickles my skin and pulls a crisp ocean scent under the eaves. I remember this precise view. More of the past is creeping to the surface, a rush of visions, relaxing moments spent here on this very deck.
This is no dream, but the images do appear dreamlike, somewhat hazy and unclear. Despite the quality of the memories, I am certain—they are real.
I was here. But when?
* * *
Madison comes out the front door, armed with canned beverages. The screen door slaps shut behind her. “Care for a cold beer?”
“Yeah, that’d be good.”
She hands one over, which I promptly snap open and guzzle. Ah, cold beer on a warm, sunny day, now that I remember well, and have sorely missed without ever realizing it.
Madison wears sunglasses and holds another pair, which she offers to me. It is bright, some eye protection would be nice. The shades
have dark lenses that wrap around, just the sort I would choose. Then I realize—they are my sunglasses. Just like the clothes—these are my clothes. Why they fit so well.
How very strange to experience something new, when it’s not something new. The rediscovery is wonderful, but at the same time, a grim reminder that so much remains lost. I want it all back.
Madison points to a pair of chaise lounges on the deck. More of the past—I remember making the outdoor furniture using scraps from the deck construction. I painted over the wood to make them white, though I couldn’t say when, but seeing how the paint is cracking, it had to be some time ago. Side by side, we relax with our legs outstretched on the long chairs. My body sinks into the plump cushion, so comfortable I could rest here for days. Silent minutes pass, sipping our beers and soaking up the sun, as beads of sweat tickle my warm skin.
“Madison, tell me how all this happened.”
“All what?” she asks, reclined and sunbathing.
“My memory. How did I lose it?”
She cocks her head my way. “I don’t know, Adam, only you do.”
“But that’s the problem. I don’t.”
“Yes you do,” she insists, and turns back to the sky. “You just have to remember.”
“But I don’t. I can’t.”
“Why do you give up so easy?”
“I’m trying, really, but it’s all blank. I can’t remember anything before the accident.”
“What accident?” she asks.
“I got smacked by a train, maybe, or something. I’m not sure. My first clear memory is waking up in the hospital.”
“Then how do you know there was an accident?”
“That’s what they told me, and besides, there must have been. Why else would I be in the hospital?”
She peers at me over her sunglasses. “Use your imagination a little.”
“Tried that already. All I got was trains.”
One amused giggle. “You’re silly. So what happened before you woke up?”
“How am I supposed to know? I was unconscious.”
Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1 Page 12
