Boy Gone Page 2

  “Is that you, Larry? Hey, boy. Yeah … I missed you too.” His words came out slurred—he wasn’t accustomed to talking while embodied in a physical form. How unexpected! No way was Larry part of the plan. Although an added complication, for sure, he was a most welcome one. Moving somewhat erratically, he put his arms around the dog’s thick furry neck, pulling him closer. “It’s okay, boy … ”

  Evidently, Larry had also awakened here on the beach—totally unaware that so much time had passed. Sixteen years. Pushing the dog away, he said, “Okay … let me get up, boy.”

  The man was becoming more and more conscious of his body’s reaction to the chilled environment—uncontrollable shivering set in. What a strange sensation. Pondering the cause of such a thing occurring, he instantly knew it was a reflex reaction—one triggered to maintain homeostasis. His Human skeletal muscles had begun to exhibit the telltale jittery movements.

  As his other sensory faculties began to reanimate, he felt his breathing begin to slow, his heart rate settle down into what would be considered normal for a typical Human subject. He mentally chastised himself, I should have spent more time in this physical form.

  Best I get started. There was an objective with a limited timeframe. He dreaded what lay ahead. Knowing these people as he uniquely did, it just might be impossible. Earth was not nearly ready for this … not ready for him.

  He lifted his head and concentrated. Earlier he’d heard murmurs—a woman and a man talking in hushed tones, not so far away. He now turned his head to better listen. Another recognizable sound was coming back to him from years past—the soft, not so distant, padding of feet walking across a sandy beach. Good … perhaps someone’s come to help me. The dog began barking again—louder than before. The man felt a familiar, albeit slightly uncomfortable, tingling sensation. It was akin to a small electrical charge, taking place within the interior of his right forearm. It was his Orand-Pall: An implanted, living organism, which was imbedded in there. One that he’d relied upon for his very survival more times than he cared to remember. It was his one connection to the others—and, of course, to the spaceship. Instinctively, he ran his fingertips over the half-dollar-sized protrusion, wondering how long they’d been trying to reach him? Hell, how long had he been unconscious—lying there in only his birthday suit on the sandy beach? He’d give it a moment before answering their call—let his motor skills return some …

  Chapter 4

  Keeping a wary eye on the dog he said, “Mister, my name is Officer Donald Platt … can you hear me?”

  The prone individual said something back unintelligible.

  “Look, buddy … you’re already in a whole lot of trouble. Best you listen up and do exactly what I tell you to do. To start, I want you to place your hands behind your head and intertwine your fingers. Do it now!” Platt watched as the man slowly raised one hand then the other. He didn’t seem to have the right coordination to bring them together, let alone intertwine his fingers. A drunken asshole—a 10-56.

  Officer Platt wasn’t averse to having the occasional drink, preferably something amber, on tap, but he found it hard to tolerate a man who couldn’t handle his liquor. Only a pussy got himself into this kind of predicament. He ran the beam of his flashlight up and down the man’s body. Lying on his back, he looked to be in his mid-twenties. Longish blonde hair covered half his face. He seemed to be in fairly good shape; no tats—at least none that he could see.

  The dog, rising to his feet, was growling now. Platt, in no mood to put up with both a homeless naked fool, and a vicious dog, decided this was the kind of situation mace was intended for. He fumbled at his belt until he had the slender canister clutched within his thick fingers. Directing the spray nozzle away from himself, holding it out in his outstretched arm, he moved purposely forward. The dog’s growls intensified, then the barking resumed. The man lying on the beach shifted about, seemed to be getting agitated. Platt, approaching the dog, yelled, “Get back! Back, mutt!” The animal nervously skittered backward.

  Still trying to move around him, Platt blocked the dog’s way as he skirted left then right, trying to get back to the nude man, lying on the beach. Platt depressed the spray valve atop the mace canister, while simultaneously closing his eyes. This shit, he knew, stung to high heaven—no way was he going to inflict that kind of pain on himself. Apparently, his aim was true, because the dog yelped in apparent agony. Smiling, Platt opened his eyes, just in time to see the dog, tail tucked between his legs, running off into the dunes—into the near-total darkness. He heard a scream behind him.

  Swinging back around to face the naked man—the drunken fool—it was evident he would be in no condition to cause much of a ruckus. Platt cast one last glance toward the dunes before kneeling down beside him. Shining the flashlight’s beam into the man’s face, he ordered, “Get yourself up … we’re going for a little ride.”

  “Larry … where’s Larry?”

  “Yeah … Larry’s not here, whoever that is.”

  The man grumbled something else. Eyes fluttering open, he made three attempts to rise, finally getting onto his elbows. It was then he flailed out with his right arm, all spastic-like, knocking Platt’s Streamlight PolyStinger flashlight from his hand. Blinking several times, the flashlight turned off then came back on. Platt stared down at the long, black, cylindrical object as if it had personally insulted him. And, in a way, perhaps it had. Leaving it where it now lay, the big cop slapped the man’s face—slapped it hard. Platt was well aware there wasn’t anything much more humiliating for a full-grown man than to be bitch slapped—even better when it can be done in public. “Now you get yourself up onto your feet. You hear me, mister?”

  The prone man shook his head, abruptly inhaling a deep breath. Once again, he tried to rise but his limbs just didn’t seem to be working properly. Momentarily, Platt wondered if the guy wasn’t so much drunk but maybe a cripple.

  “Don’t … hit me … asshole.” The words had come out somewhat slurred.

  Platt stared at the man, hardly believing what he’d just heard. “That’s the wrong thing to say to an officer of the law … ” Now, reaching a meaty hand down and wrapping it around the man’s neck, Platt tightened his grip. In a move surprisingly athletic for such a robust man, Platt manhandled the man up to his feet. Now, in the dim light of his half-buried flashlight, he stared at him face-to-face—was looking into the man’s unfocused blue eyes. “Stay on your feet or I’ll really fuck you up … hear me?” When he let go of him, he stood back and watched as the man teetered and swayed about unsteadily. As quickly as he could, Platt bent over to retrieve his flashlight then straightened up. That was when the motherfucker spewed vomit onto his face and into his open mouth.

  Gagging, spitting, and swearing—and clearly unable to contain his now out-of-control rage—Officer Platt first used his sleeve to wipe the dripping mess from his cheeks and chin. Then he swung his three-and-a-half-pound Streamlight PolyStinger flashlight hard against the back of the man’s head. He watched the man’s eyes go vacant before he toppled to the ground. Then Platt bent over and, putting his substantial weight behind it, whacked him again—then whacked him one more time for good measure.

  * * *

  Oh God it hurt. Slumped against the cruiser’s bloodied and smeared inside window, he silently cursed the all too inHumane Human race. He blinked and even that brought forth further excruciating pain. Visually, everything was a blur—the landscape rushing by outside; the interior of the vehicle, with its cage-like partition; and the monumentally large head and shoulders, there, protruding above the front seat.

  His thoughts were all a-jumble. He knew he had only just begun the acclimation process—one required after a projected transport. It all began as he was informed it would. Several hours would be needed for the entire reintroduction process to be complete. A process where his memories would become fully jelled, lost recollections would be properly restored, and his bodily functions would acclimatate within the new environme
nt. None of that had happened. Not completely. He tried to think through the fog—the pain. No. The re-acclimation process, he now feared, had been irreversibly circumvented.

  I’m going to live the rest of my life like this: brain-damage, a simpleton. I know there’s something important that I’m here to do, to accomplish. What is that? Why am I here?

  His mind flashed back to what had just happened. At the time, he remembered enough to say something to the police officer. Told him to stop. Stop hitting me, asshole. But who’s me? Who am I?

  Trying to move his arms, he was quickly reminded he’d been restrained. They’re called handcuffs. So I’m a badly beaten, brain-damaged simpleton, and I’m being transported to … ?

  “Hey … you still alive back there, mister?”

  He didn’t answer him.

  “The morgue’s the same distance as to the station, either way. Makes no difference to me.”

  The policeman shot a quick glance back at him over his shoulder. “Nah … I can see … you’re still breathing.”

  He felt that familiar tingling on his inside forearm. That means something … I’m supposed to do something.

  Perhaps it was the constant drone of the engine, or the gentle back-and-forth swaying motion while sitting within the confines of the cruiser that seemed to help somewhat. His eyes closed as sleep enveloped him.

  Chapter 5

  At that moment, passing overhead some two-hundred-forty miles straight up, the International Space Station was traveling at approximately 17,150 miles an hour, or roughly five miles per second, while orbiting around and around planet Earth below.

  Typically housing a crew of five or six, or even seven, this was one of those rare occasions when only three crewmembers were actually manning the ISS. A serious flu strain had invaded the close-quarters space station just three weeks prior. Two men and two women had become deathly ill. A mission specialist that had recently arrived for a short timeframe had been the culprit. He was gone now, but had left a lingering virus behind within the ISS. With only one of the two toilets operational, the situation had become quite serious. Serious to the point a Russian Soyuz rocket had to be launched ahead of schedule to retrieve the sick astronauts/cosmonauts to get them the medical attention they sorely needed. Rampant diarrhea in space shouldn’t be a laughing matter, but to US astronauts Commander Jack Landon and Lt. Greg Fischer, and Russian cosmonaut Peter Mirkin, a bit of adolescent humor helped them pass the time and had kept this undermanned mission a bit more light-hearted.

  All three men would be going home soon on the arrival of the next Space X Crew Dragon capsule. At that point, a full international transfer crew, one that included two Americans, two Russians, one Indian, and one Japanese, would replace them. Both of the Americans, Commander Landon and Lieutenant Fischer, were ready to get back down onto solid ground after completing six months in space. Initially, their relationship was tenuous. Both alpha males, they were far too similar to feel comfortable around one another. But that was months in the past. Now they were the best of friends—ones that made plans to go big game hunting together in Colorado, where Landon had a rickety old cabin, in the mountainous terrain of Grand County.

  Typically, with each new influx of fresh ISS crewmembers, an accompanying assignment for zero gravity science experiments came with them. Some continued ongoing research, while other tests required mere days, or just hours, to complete. But with the abrupt departure of the two unwell premier NASA scientists, who’d headed up those endeavors, that left only Landon and Fischer—doing double duty—to at least partially complete several of those already initiated, time-sensitive, tasks. Between Mission Control and Commander Landon, they had divvied up the responsibility pretty much down the middle. Landon would resume work on experiments started by Peggy Whitson, PhD. that had to do with identifying internal station microbes, while Lieutenant Fischer would complete the work started by Dr. M. Drango that had to do with tadpoles existing in a microgravity environment. Their intervention allowed the Russian cosmonaut Mirkin time to complete some necessary mechanical upgrades and make needed repairs to the ISS.

  Commander Landon ran a hand over his thinning, salt-and-pepper buzz-cut, frustrated with his results of Peggy Whitson’s ongoing experiments, especially those having to do with identifying, then sampling, DNA/genes in real-time while stationed onboard the ISS without having to send the samples back down to Earth for analysis. The ability to do that successfully would be a game changer and had far-reaching implications.

  The muscularly built, broad faced, Slavic-looking Cosmonaut Mirkin, on the other hand, was happy—now freed from the confined, close quarters environment aboard ISS. Having less of a science background, his education primarily one of engineering, he was assigned several out-of-station duties. One had to do with adding a new experimental solar panel to one of the large array units. The new panel, with its hundreds of individual solar cells, had the potential capability to nearly double the conversion of light to electricity, a process called photovoltaics. It would require no fewer than three separate spacewalks to complete the task. Mirkin, completing the first spacewalk the previous day, was now halfway through his second, four-hour, assembly process.

  Currently, both Commander Landon—inside the MLM module lab—and Mirkin, now strapped outside to the portside solar array arm, were pretty much in constant contact with Mission Control, as well as with each other.

  Landon was specifically conversing with a recovering Peggy Whitson, now down on Earth, at NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center, in Huntsville, Alabama, within the Payload Operations and Integration Center, typically called POIC. Here, experiments, and the various science projects pertaining to the ISS, were all coordinated. Peggy Whitson, plus a revolving door of other prominent scientists working in related fields, directed experiments in Combustion, Human Life Sciences, Physical Sciences, Biological Sciences, Space Product Development, Fluid Physics, and Educational Payloads. These scientists were the primary interface to ISS crewmembers and their associated onboard experiments.

  Having screwed up his latest gene-splice experiment, he needed a little expert advice on how not to make the same damn mistake twice. It was then Commander Landon heard something in Peter Mirkin’s typically cool, calm, and collected—yet heavily Russian-accented—voice.

  “This is Houston Mission Control, … can you repeat the last transmission, over?”

  “Roger that, Houston. Need telemetry coordinates on possible sighting. Um … . I have a visual on a solar reflection … approximately thirty degrees over the MBS.”

  “This is Houston, roger that, Peter. Know that external cameras are working nominally. Hang tight … telemetry verification may take several minutes.”

  “Roger that, Houston,” Mirkin said.

  Listening, Commander Landon stopped what he was doing. Pushing off from the lab table before him, he floated out through a connecting hatchway and into the recently added new NASA module, the Galaxy-1. With more workable space within the module, it was chock-full of vertical racks, holding high-speed computers on one side. No less than five mounted flat-screen monitors, along with numerous shelves—containing soft storage containers—were accessible on the other side. A myriad of stretched-taut blue bungee cords crisscrossed from deck to ceiling. Galaxy-1 also had several sets of thick-glassed, triangular portholes inset into both bulkheads. Peter Mirkin’s bright-white spacesuit, visible to him even at forty yards away, was positioned halfway up the portside solar array support arm. Landon repositioned his line of sight and his angle of view in an attempt to discover what Mirkin was referring to. He then spotted it—a bright pinpoint of light. A pinpoint of light, growing brighter by the second. Whatever it was, it was definitely coming closer.

  “Houston, I can verify that sighting, over,” Landon said, knowing Mission Control always knew who it was speaking and where they were positioned—whether within, or outside of, the ISS.

  “This is Houston Mission Control. Roger that, Commander. Please sta
nd by.”

  Landon heard Greg Fischer, working on the other side of the ISS, within the Zvezda Service Module, join the conversation. “Houston, make that three sets of eyes confirming that same sighting, over.”

  “This is Houston Mission Control; roger that, Lieutenant Fischer. Still awaiting input from multiple sources. Give us a minute. Over.”

  Landon didn’t like hearing that. For Houston not to see what they were viewing seemed, well, impossible. Every satellite, every errant, manmade space artifact—along with every sizable chunk of orbiting space debris—was already being meticulously tracked. And what the three astronauts were witnessing now certainly wasn’t small. What the hell was their problem, anyway, not tracking—

  The audio feed cracked to life, “This is Houston Mission Control; we have an update on the probable sighting, over.”

  “Roger that. Go ahead, Houston,” Landon said.

  “No detection. Repeat, no detection. Consider the sighting to be a visual anomaly. Both satellite and ground detection sources come up negative. Over.”

  Landon stared out the porthole, not believing what he was seeing. “Houston, that visual anomaly just changed course, over. And, clearly, it is an object of significant size. Repeat, Houston … it is an object of significant size. Over.”

  “This is Houston … Commander, we’re in the process of reorienting two external ISS cameras. Will attempt getting a visual on the object.”

  Commander Landon continued to stare out the porthole window. “Peter—I want you back inside the ISS immediately!”

  “This is Houston, Commander. The lieutenant still has another good hour of … ”