The Stranded Ones

by Jay B. Gaskill

  “Sam…” Hugh said, immediately drawn to this woman. Her green, candid eyes glowed with amused interest, a characteristic that seemed to reflect her basic sense of life. Then her expression abruptly grew more serious.

  “I overheard Ruth talking to Finnegan before you arrived. Your ‘consulting’ business is suddenly under investigation. Search warrants, the whole thing. Your partner, Springer, is a wanted man for…um…information acquisition.”

  “Burglary. We don’t do euphemisms.”

  “Of course: Burglary.” Sam smiled. “Is he okay?”

  “He’s a bundle of stitches.”

  “Blimey, I may be stitched up, but I’m not deaf,” Springer shouted.

  Hugh grinned. “Well, get back in here then Lew,” he shouted back.

  “Reportedly, the warehouse you ‘visited’ was torched immediately,” Sam added. “I guess they figured out that you can’t get data from ashes.”

  “Am I charged with arson?” Springer’s voice was closer.

  “They don’t have any real evidence, yet,” Sam said. “The police just want to talk to you.”

  “Well they can’t talk to me,” Springer said reentering the den. “And Ruth is too busy to give me any answers. Meanwhile, Finnegan Gael seems to be hiding somewhere in this labyrinthine place that even I can’t find. So where is this mug of mine, Hugh?”

  Hugh picked it Springer’s coffee and handed it him. “Dr. Delaney,” Springer said, nodding.

  Sam winked. “I am…and pleased to meet you. She dropped to her knees in front of the big cat and began rubbing his neck. “Ruth said you’re fond of large dogs.”

  “I think Hugh still is,” Springer said. He moved next to the fireplace, cradling his mug in both hands. “But I’ve cooled on the subject. I don’t think I would prefer large cats, either,” he said, looking down at the Cheetah. “…A lot of bacteria in the bite. No offense, ma’am.”

  “None taken,” Sam said, smiling. Hugh was rubbing the cheetah under the neck and Schrödinger was purring loudly. “Schröd can be pretty formidable,” Sam said, “when he’s not with friends.”

  “I hope you briefed him before today,” Springer said.

  “That’s right. I told him that Hugh McCahan and Lew Springer are friendlies. No eating the retired Australian PM either.”

  “Thank you,” Hugh said.

  “Did I just hear talk about political cannibalism?” Ruth had returned, seeming more at ease. She smiled.

  “Is it cannibalism if a large cat does the eating?” Hugh asked with a wink.

  “It is, if the cat is Schrödinger,” Sam said. “He thinks he’s a person. Don’t you Schröd?” She chucked the large cat lightly under the chin.

  “We have another guest,” Ruth said, turning.

  “That would be me.” The three turned to face an elderly woman with an imposing glower.

  “Former Australian Prime Minister Elizabeth Hoopes is with us at last,” Springer said. “Hello Mother Liz.”

  “Why Lewis Thornton Springer, what happened to that magnificent mustache?” Liz Hoopes’ glower turned into a radiant smile.

  “I am re-growing it as we speak, ma’am. This is Dr. Samantha Delaney and my partner in crime, Hugh McCahan.”

  Mother Liz nodded. “I so admire risk-takers.”

  “All life is risk.” The voice was Finnegan Gael’s brassy baritone, from the hallway. “Or so Jack Falstaff keeps reminding me.”

  At first glance, Gael looked like a man in his late 40’s. He was ruddy and tanned, sturdy of build, almost completely bald, with arctic blue eyes that closely matched Ruth’s. With his close cut white hair over each ear, Hugh thought of Finnegan Gael as a buff, overgrown elf.

  “Mother Liz,” he said, kissing the PM on the cheek.

  As a couple, Gael and Rosenbaum were almost the same height, although Finnegan Gael’s carriage projected that of a taller man. In conversation, Gael exuded warmth and humor and a pleasant playfulness emerged. Even in his seventies, Finnegan Gael exuded the energy of a teenager.

  “Hugh, I see you’ve finally met Samantha…I take it, you probably already asked her for a date. She has no time for romance now that she is working for us, you know.”

  “Hey, I’m working for ‘us’ too,” Hugh said. Ruth smiled. “Actually, Dr. Delaney and I were just discussing custody of the cat.”

  “And you, Finnegan, are a shameless and brazen…rake,” Samantha added.

  “We’d all agree on that,” Ruth said.

  “And you, Lew Springer.” Finnegan paused. “Damned good to see you again, my friend…and intact in spite of all.” Gael slapped Springer on the right shoulder.

  “I’m so grateful you picked his right shoulder,” Hugh said laughing. “Lew is difficult enough to travel with as it is.”

  “The right shoulder? Wasn’t that the one the stitches are in?”

  “This is why the man enjoys such a long life,” Springer said.

  “Because he’s uninformed?” Hugh asked.

  “Because he’s so blimey lucky,” Springer said, chuckling.

  “I knew the man was a sadist, right from the start.” It was a robust low voice from just off stage. Jack Falstaff had entered the room. He was a towering bony man, with a pleasant, homely face, and piercing, intelligent, unnaturally gray eyes.

  “Finally he arrives,” Ruth said. “Is our taxi ready, Jack?”

  “Ready as a bloodhound with the fox in sight. I locked the launch sequence at three minutes.”

  Finnegan gave him a nod, as if to say, “good work.” “Jack was readying the “‘family taxi,’” he said. “Just as a precaution.”

  Jack Falstaff then shook Prime Minister Hoopes’ hand, smiling warmly. “Mother Liz, I’m so glad you made it safely.” Liz beamed at Jack’s attention. Then he turned to McCahan. “Hugh, good to see you again.” Falstaff held out an oversized hand to McCahan, who returned a friendly pressure. There was a flash of eye contact. Hugh felt he had instantly been subject to a searching appraisal…as he was. “And I am very pleased to hear how you turned out.” Smoothly he caught Dr. Delaney’s eye. “Hello Samantha, are you settled in?” Sam nodded. Then Jack faced Springer, grinning widely. “Lew, you old swaddy - still in the game…and at your advanced age!”

  As Springer and Jack Falstaff exchanged handshakes, Springer feigned outrage.

  “I’ve been demoted from bloke to an old swaddy?”

  Jack chuckled. “Gentlemen, we are looking forward to our discussions after dinner. With Dr. Delaney’s help Finnegan and I have arranged a special presentation based on your recent acquisition.”

  “Why not now?” Hugh asked.

  “Better for coffee and dessert,” Gael interjected, “because our dinner is now ready in the kitchen.”

  Ruth turned to Sam. “Wheels has provided something special for Schrödinger on the back porch.”

  Then Gael issued a jovial “Come on gang” and led the way to the dining room.

  Sam held back, considering whether to check on Schrödinger. As Jack strode after Gael, Hugh hesitated too. He found himself enjoying his proximity to Dr. Delaney.

  “I think I’ll check on Schröd first,” Sam said.

  “Mind if I tag along?” Hugh asked.

  “I insist,” she replied.

  “We’ll be right there!” Hugh had shouted over his shoulder; his full attention was on Samantha.

  The back “porch” was a commodious room with windows on all sides and a tiled floor. A full blizzard was still in progress outside, and the room was distinctly chillier than the rest of the lodge. Sam and Hugh managed to stand close to each other as Sam inspected her cat’s meal, which appeared to be dead by as many as five minutes.

  “Too rich for him,” Sam said disapprovingly, looking at the fist sized chunks.

  “Anybody we know?” Hugh asked.

  “Probably Ruth’s dog…”

  “Fat chance: more likely Finnegan Gael’s cat.”

  “Too big for a cat, Hugh, unless it
’s another Cheetah. But enough of this rough and ready humor, Mr. McCahan; I’m famished myself.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - THE UNINVITED

  After dinner, coffee, tea and cakes were waiting in the den on a serving table. Seven chairs had been arranged in a semi-circle, facing the serving table and an overhead video display hub, holding three screens suspended from ceiling drop cables. Finnegan served the hot drinks himself, then pointed up at one of the screens. On cue, all three lit up. “Okay,” he said. “Here it is in a nutshell. Much of the mystery surrounding that Antarctic incident years ago, never forgotten, has now been cleared up, only to be replaced by another layer of mystery. What we knew until just a few hours ago was simple enough. Then, a National Geographic videographer named Phil O’Neal, long sought by the authorities, turned up in Chicago and told Hugh McCahan essentially the same story General Blackmore reported to Prime Minister Hoopes seven years ago. Of course Blackmore later saw Mother Liz, after her enforced retirement, told her a bit more and gave her a data decryption stick for safekeeping.”

  Finnegan glanced at Mother Liz and she smiled back. “Go on Finnegan”, she said.

  “We now can confirm that the Antarctic incident could not possibly have been a natural phenomenon like an asteroid impact because, following the impact and explosion, ten self propelled pods were seen escaping from the ice crater.

  “McCahan learned from the late Mr. O’Neal of a top secret data pack hidden in a New Jersey warehouse operated by an obscure division of the ‘Agriculture Department’ – an obvious cover, as it turns out, for none other than the Commission run by our nemesis, Marius Torque. The data pack was retrieved by Lew Springer, here, at some considerable risk, inconvenience, and injury.” Springer nodded, smiling. “Most of the data were encrypted, but some of were not. As I mentioned, we now have the decryption key courtesy of the former Australian PM, Mother Liz. And we have the insights of a particularly well qualified expert, Dr. Samantha Delaney, a physician with a second doctorate in the study of exotic animal metabolisms. She was good enough to help interpret the recovered data, working late into the night here at Toad Hall.” Finnegan took his coffee and sat in the vacant chair next to Ruth. “Sam?”

  Samantha spoke from her seat. “I first noticed that the data pack contained some archival numbers that clearly referred to the date and time of the Antarctic incident seven years ago. Then I became interested in a short section, catalogued under ‘Recovery Protocol.’ It turned out to be a jackpot of sorts. The protocol seemed to be instructions for the resuscitation of a very exotic animal or animals. These critters breathed oxygen at a lower partial pressure than sea level, say about six thousand feet equivalent; were very sensitive to CO2 toxicity; and required a very high UV exposure approximately every twenty hours. There were exotic nutritional requirements: protein and metal combinations, for example, that just don’t occur naturally. But then I ran onto the kicker, the data set that proved they weren’t just talking about some odd shrub or high desert tortoise.” Sam paused, nodding to Falstaff.

  The screens lit up with three sets of images. Each screen showed brilliantly colored creatures from a slightly different perspective. The creatures were odd and familiar at the same time, displaying an anatomical blend of features associated with an octopus, a crab, and a desert scorpion. One of the creatures was being fitted with electronic gear. “On screen three, we are watching what I first took to be a training manual. I’ve shortened this part, but I noted detailed instructions about connecting the communications equipment…” She paused, letting that sink in.

  “ETs,” Falstaff said definitively.

  “I agree,” Sam said. “Then I got to the video segments from which I learned that these creatures came from a pod of five, found at sea, that all died shortly after impact. I found much more along these lines, but the unmistakable evidence is that we’re dealing with intelligent aliens.”

  Finnegan Gael stood. “The second jackpot came in after Sam wrote her early analysis. That’s when the results of the decryption key supplied by Mother Liz arrived.”

  Liz didn’t stand, but everyone turned to her as she started speaking in a soft cultivated voice. “I left office somewhat involuntarily a few weeks after the Antarctic incident. As Finnegan related, one afternoon before his own retirement, my old friend, the late General Blackmore, delivered me a data encryption key. Really it was no larger than a tube of lipstick. He told me to hide it well and advised me that that it could secure my safety, only if I was careful. So I put it in a bank vault in Quebec City. When Finnegan called, it was easy to lead him to it. Jack Falstaff was kind enough to offer me his protection. I’m here, frankly, because I’m dying of curiosity.”

  “Thank you, Mother Liz,” Finnegan said. “Why don’t we see what this key opened up?”

  Falstaff touched a remote control. Each screen lit with a computer simulation of an object slowly entering the earth’s atmosphere and vectoring downward to Antarctica. “Here are just some of the video files Dr. Delaney referred to. We believe this is a real-time simulation, composed from the composite images and telemetry available to the American National Security Agency,” Gael said. Then the screens displayed an overhead image of the impact point from a virtual altitude of only ten kilometers. “We’re looking at an enhanced satellite picture,” he said. A cursor pointed to the impact point and circled the ice crater. Then ten distinct, tiny silver objects emerged, each tracked on the screens with separate red cursors. “There they go,” Gale said solemnly, “…the escape pods.” The screen blanked with an explosion.

  Instantly, in a more distant view the screens showed separate groupings of paths, as all ten pods arced away from the epicenter. Seconds later, one by one, five of the tracks ended in high altitude mini-explosions. “Those pods didn’t make it. Of the remaining five, three ended in the ocean. Of the remaining two pods, one landed somewhere in southern Argentina, and the other in New Zealand, on the South Island. Each impact was marked with time, latitude and longitude digit strings.

  “Freeze that,” Gael said. “Mother Liz, have you ever seen this footage?”

  “Hardly,” she said. “…a landing next door to my own country? I wonder if even General Blackmore knew.”

  “Now we’ll never know, Liz,” Finnegan said, “since he died so soon after your retirement.” Gael walked over to the nearest screen. “So five pods blew up, three lost at sea, presumably with no survivors. That leaves two pods. One in the Patagonia Alpine region, probably in Argentina, and one on South Island, New Zealand. Dr. Delaney points out that both landing areas were over 6,000 feet in elevation. The written narrative that accompanies these files claims that one of the five pods that got away without blowing up was recovered intact in the ocean. That would be the one containing the ETs depicted in the pictures we just saw, hence the next scene. A recently surfaced American submarine was shown with a pewter colored pod on its deck. “Next?”

  A close up: Water was dripping from the pod’s seamless side. “Next?” In a new scene, the pod was suspended in a hangar, surrounded by banks of floodlights. On the floor, the bodies were spread out like a catch of fish; or, as Gael thought, like the casualties from an airplane crash. There were five lifeless, many-limbed forms, glinting in coruscating reds, shimmering grays, and greens. “Colorful, aren’t they,” Finnegan said.

  “Dead ETs, then…” Hugh had muttered the comment to himself.

  “No doubt about it,” Finnegan said. “Agreed, Dr. Delaney?”

  “Without question,” Sam said.

  “Casualties of the crash, except that…” Finnegan paused. “With a complement of five per pod, there are at least ten individuals unaccounted for.”

  Hugh looked at Sam. She was nodding. “Could you freeze that, Jack?” she said. “Take a closer look, everyone. This is really amazing.”

  Everyone except Falstaff approached the screens, peering closely at the alien bodies. “They are really beautiful,” Finnegan said, “if you can abstract yourselves from the
circumstances.”

  “I believe that is the brain case,” Sam said, pointing to the shiny gray, flattened ball shape at the center of a spray of fine appendages on one of the creatures. “It is about the same capacity as a human skull.” Gael peered next to her screen and nodded.

  “Where are the bodies now?” Hugh asked.

  “They torched the warehouse,” Springer interjected, “and…”

  “You don’t think…” Sam said.

  “It’s a good guess that Warehouse 25 was not the body storage facility,” Gael said. “But who knows?”

  “What about the two pods that made actual landings?” Hugh asked. “You might expect unusual activity over the last few years, particularly in our industry.”

  “I had the same thought, Hugh,” Finnegan said. “Intelligent aliens would be a technology gold mine. So we did a review of our transaction database. We looked at every high tech offer over the last six years by category, noting the source of origin where known. This morning I checked for cross links with New Zealand and Argentina.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing unusual…except…” Finnegan paused. “…for a certain drug baron in Patagonia.”

  “Dealing in technology…not narcotics…” Falstaff said.

  “Yes, not drugs, but our form of contraband…” Gael, paused to let that sink in, then continued. “It seems that Diablo, the drug baron, has diversified. In checking back, Donald Wu discovered that our own GFE staff rejected a proposed technology sale from Diablo as recently as late last year because of a warning flag from Robertson. Any sale by Diablo is probably a front for his drug operations. But now it seems that Diablo’s high-tech brokerage operation is for real. He recently made a large sale of some ultra high-tech process to Japanese brokers. They reportedly accepted delivery of a very high-tech materials processing system. The rumors in our industry were hot: this was very advanced stuff.”

  “Diablo is a thug and an idiot” Falstaff said. “This sale was well out of Diablo’s league. He just didn’t have any high tech contacts…” Falstaff added, pausing for effect, “…unless…”