Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1 (28 page)

As the engine whines, I feel a slight flutter. Intuition has matched the gadget. Now let’s delve deeper, and exchange thoughts on why.

“Bring thirty-six up a notch.”

He tweaks the remote. The rotating shaft is not a solid piece, rather many rings stacked together, each aligned with its corresponding track. At position thirty-six, a segment projects outward, and that ball spins faster.

The flutter changes frequency. My conversation with the engine has begun.

“Now slow it down.”

The segment retracts more than the rest, and the ball goes around slower.

I close my eyes and listen through touch, easing my hand across the track’s exterior, searching for the slightest difference in vibration. Reaching lower, my fingers detect a rumble, not audible, and extremely faint. I’m moving the right direction. Lower still, I arrive at the track mounts. A vision overtakes all perception—Matt with his wrench, and a small part in his other hand.

Matt interrupts the dreamy vision. “What are you doing?”

“Finding the cause.”

“What do you call this technique? Hands on?”

Smart-ass.

“Turn it off. I want to look at something.”

The engine winds down and the balls settle at the bottom of each track. I remove a lower access panel near the track mounts.

“Well here’s the problem, Matt. I’m surprised you hadn’t noticed yourself. Look, the nut’s cracked.”

He strains to see the tiny flaw, a defect so minor, only the most intent inspection would reveal it.

“I’ll be damned,” he says. “That never happened before.”

Probably why he didn’t think to check. What has happened before is a great place to start, but when it fails to yield a cause, you must look further—there is always a reason. Always. And finding it can be as simple as looking in the obvious places, as well as those not so obvious. You must question everything, and entertain all possibilities.

He roots through a box of spare parts and finds a suitable replacement, then puts his wrench to work—doing what it was meant for. He cinches the nut tight and starts the engine. He studies the readout, then looks to me.

“Adam, you’re magic.”

Magic? I don’t know about that.

* * *

How is it that one day goes all wrong, while another, everything works out perfectly? Some call it luck, magic, the stars are in alignment or other nonsense, all too often concluded as the explanation for success. Or take the example of different individuals struggling with the same problem. One fails miserably, while another under identical conditions, handles everything brilliantly. Magic? I think not. It’s called genius—looking, thinking, and acting, based solely on clues from the environment, without influence from any preconceived notion.

Doesn’t mean it’s easy. Genius is hard work, just like everything else, even when it appears effortless. Physical strain is obvious, a mind exerting itself is not. And at times, the mind is burdened far beyond anything the body could bear.

Unfortunately, the mind is seldom rewarded for its efforts. The result of its conclusions, favorable or not, are quickly attributed to magic or luck, good and bad, and this invalidation of the true source only weakens the fine instrument. The being as well, whose intent commands the mind. When intentions are denied, you’re eroding the ability to project intention, the means by which we mold existence. Deny intentions—for example,
I didn’t mean it
—and a dwindling spiral begins, the universe becoming whatever it is, rather than all we intend for it to be.

Further damage exists outside the being, body and mind—the opinion of others. This keeps the mind at bay, and souls unsure of whether to cast their intentions. To express pride, or announce how splendidly the mind performs, rather than calling it magic or a stroke of luck, can be considered arrogant, which at times, makes others uncomfortable.

I’d explain all this to Matt, but he’d only think of me as cocky, if not worse. Better left unsaid. For now, I’ll let Matt believe it was magic.

* * *

Space travel has got to be the most boring activity ever. Once underway, the calm ride is monotonous, like we’re not even moving. We could be stuck in one spot while the universe passes by. I know that sensation means something.

Being stuck in a spacecraft with two guys doesn’t help. At least when Madison was aboard, a few nearly exciting situations developed, and her pleasant, at times aggressive, personality kept my mind busy. But now my mind wrestles with an uncertain future, and determination must battle apprehension to breed confidence. Which I hope, fuels prudent judgment and intelligent planning. A long list of virtues that continue eluding me. The lack of planning could spell our end, but I have to keep telling myself—better to act with no planning than to plan endlessly with no action. A perfect justification to throw myself and others into a dark unknown. The only virtue driving this crazy idea is my impatience to find her.

Dave suggests that we get into our costumes and become the Bobs we hope to deceive. In our berthing compartments, we change, then return to the cockpit. We have done well, the hair, the jackets, every detail, but something’s not right.

As Dave and I study each other, he seems to share the same conclusion, taking in the sum of my disguise and straining to pinpoint why it doesn’t add up.

“What’s missing?” I ask.

Busy in the pilot seat, Matt twists around to look us over. “It’s your face.”

“What’s wrong with my face?”

If we’re going to talk about someone’s face, let’s start with his.

“You look like a little boy,” he says. “Playing spy.”

Dave smirks. “Maybe because he is.”

“No,” Matt says, “not what I mean. It’s just, your expression. You look curious.”

“Well, I am. What am I supposed to do about that?”

“Look, Adam, if you’re going to fool them, you have to do more than dress up in a costume. You have to act the same.”

I try a scowl.

Dave laughs.

“And you,” Matt says to Dave. “You can’t laugh all the time. They don’t laugh.”

“How do you know? Maybe they do.”

“Think about it,” I say. “What would guys like that have to laugh about?”

Dave considers it. “Okay, so how’s this?” He scrunches his face.

“No,” Matt says. “You got it all wrong. They don’t laugh, and they don’t smile, but that doesn’t mean they’re pissed off all the time. Look emotionless, with that stupid wide-eyed stare they have, like you’re dumbfounded.”

Given the uncertainty we face, that expression won’t take much acting.

“Is this better?” Dave aims a blank stare at nothing.

He’s got it—he looks like a goon. Then he glares at me.

“What?” I ask.

“I look like a penis, I know it.”

Matt says, “Just make sure it’s an emotionless penis.”

“A limp dick?” Dave says.

Matt snickers. “If the shoe fits . . .”

Dave rockets at him, fills a fist with Matt’s shirt, and nearly rips him from the pilot seat.

“Knock it off.” I pull them apart. “Both of you, this is serious. Dave, you had it perfect. Try again.”

He duplicates the empty expression.

“Just like that,” I say. “Keep that face and we’ll be fine.”

“Maybe. Let’s see your best face.”

I give it a try, staring mindlessly at nothing.

“Better,” Matt says. “But keep working on it—a lot—and hope you get it right before we get there.”

Dave says, “And what is the rest of your brilliant plan? Land on the roof and hope no one notices?”

“Obviously not. We’ll have to drop off further out, and make our way in on foot.”

“We have to walk?”

“A little walking won’t hurt you.”

“Sure, but what if we run into someone? What are we supposed to say? Don’t mind us, just out for an evening stroll. Yeah, agents do that all the time when they’re not laughing.”

“You could at least try to make this work, instead of making a joke of everything.”

“I’m serious here. You ever see them walking anywhere? The goons have transport, they don’t
walk.
”

“He’s right,” Matt says. “You’ll look totally out of place.”

Unless there’s a perfectly logical explanation for our lack of transport.

“We could be pilots,” I say.

“What good does that do?” Dave asks.

“The surviving crew of the scout craft we destroyed. We can say we were shot down and captured, and escaped after being tortured.”

“Aren’t you being a little dramatic?”

“Whatever makes a good story. And whatever the story is, we need the same story, or we’re busted.”

“All right, so we’ll be shot down, tortured pilots. You expect anyone to believe that?”

I’d reply with honesty, but I require his confidence, the lack of which now has me wondering if any of this will even work.

“Someone will believe, trust me.”

* * *

The passage of time is agonizing, not knowing the challenges that await. I can only imagine, and wish something else occupied my mind so it would stop entertaining the worst possible outcome. In a few days I’ll be Carl again, wondering if life is even worth living. Or long past that miserable experience and speeding toward the next, someplace even more unpleasant, wherever that may be. But then, I wouldn’t know the difference, without a memory of anything better.

All of time outside this moment holds infinite possibilities. Horrible ends and triumphs, in a past we can recall, and as many in all moments yet to come. I tried to convince Madison of this sensation of time, when I’ve hardly convinced myself. I know it’s true, the past and future are incredibly similar, while a universe apart from every new moment, but clinging to the fanciful idea is useless. There is nothing I can do with it. Knowing this aspect of time only makes me feel helpless, lacking any clear method that puts the idea to practical use. If only there was, perhaps I could remember the future, and see the mistakes I’m about to make.

In time we do arrive, the purple globe slowly growing larger as the distance closes. Craft of immense size orbit the enemy planet, standing guard. The massive battle cruisers sprout guns from stern to aft, and we’re gliding into their sights. One alone could make our puny ride a smudge hanging in the void of space.

However, when we cruise past, the giant craft take no action. Then we skim the atmosphere, whipping up flames across the nose. Someone must notice that. We plunge into a thick overcast and the flames cease. Murky clumps of vapor stream past, then we burst from the clouds over a darkened landscape, and near the horizon, a glistening metropolis brightens the night sky.

“How do you do it?” I ask.

Busy piloting, Matt glances over his shoulder. “Do what?”

“How come they can’t see us?”

He grins. “Holograms, and a few other tricks. We don’t look like we really do. Like you guys.” He waves across our outfits and hair.

“Oh, I see.”

Dave says, “And they
don’t.
”

The engines roar as Matt brings the craft to a hover. Dave and I head for the rear compartment, he snaps the latch, and the exterior door swings open. The engines howl as the craft hovers above darkness.

Dave shouts over the noise, “This is it. After you.” He extends a gracious hand toward the black unknown.

I peer out. No telling if there’s even ground below. Landing on the roof might have been a better idea after all.

“Sometime this week?” he says.

Out the hatchway, I follow my feet and brace for impact. One after the other we crash and tumble across a grassy clearing surrounded by forest. On my back, the grass doesn’t tickle and the sky is dark, other than light streaming from the hatchway we left behind, surrounded by a wavering mirage that resembles starry night. The craft, disguised. So that’s how he does it. The hatch closes and the wiggling mass of starlight-dotted-blackness shoots away, growing less distinct until it’s just another patch of night blending with the rest.

Dave and I are without transport, a recourse, or any lifeline. Our quest is confirmed—there is no turning back.

* * *

Lost in the woods, the distance from anything familiar warps all sense of time. What seems an hour is probably much less, spent hiking the forest in darkness, before we discover a two-lane highway and begin a trek toward civilization. While better than landing on the rooftop, this choice is ripe with its own disadvantages—I’m worn out already. The thin air doesn’t help, or rather it being thick with toxins that displace the oxygen, the real reason for this poor atmosphere, which only now I recall, after returning here with far more memory intact than when I last departed. Back to the enemy planet, I’m back to the laborious task of inhaling frequently, as we walk the shoulder of a road that stretches out endlessly.

Dave asks, “Are you afraid?”

“In a way.”

“Doesn’t sound like you are.”

“I am, it’s just not on my mind as much as other things.”

“Christina?”

“And the others. But yeah, I really miss Christina.”

“I know,” he says. “You two are tight, more than anybody else I’ve ever known, almost like you’re the same person. Sorry we didn’t find her. Really, I tried.”

“Don’t worry about it, you did great. You got me out, and I love you for that. We’ll find her and everybody else, then we’ll stop this bullshit once and for all. We can do it.”

“No, Adam,
you
can do it. I couldn’t do any of this myself. It’s only possible because you’re leading the way.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dave, there’s nothing I have that you don’t. Actually, you’re probably better off than me, considering what I went through.”

“No, Adam, it’s not that way. You’re different.”

“What do you mean by different?”

Much of our tastes differ, and we look different most of the time—though not at the moment, for good reason—but deep down we have the same passion for freedom, we’ve fought the same battles, and we share the same love of life. We’re not so different from each other.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” he says. “You just know more, or feel more, or something. I don’t know what it is. And you make things happen just by thinking about it. You’ve always been that way.”