“Damn,” she says. “Why can’t you be smart
all
the time?”
The jack fights against the weight, but it’s going nowhere, and Madison is only getting more frustrated. Whatever she wants from me, I’m drawing a blank. But then, staring at the jack, I have another vision.
The craft is raised on the jack. Not in reality—in my mind. The image is perfectly clear. I’m standing beside Madison, dirt is sliding off the hull, and sunlight leaks through gaps between the craft and undergrowth.
“That’s better,” she says, and snaps me back to reality.
As I watch the jack, it takes on new life, thrusting the heavy load upward. It continues to strain and moan, but fights through its work nonetheless, and the sagging corner slowly rises. Dave stops banging on the broken strut and glances over at our progress. Matt flips up his mask and looks at the rising craft, then slaps it down and gets back to welding. A few moments pass, and the craft is fully elevated.
That strange thing hits me again—the vision from only moments before. Here it is, perfectly duplicated. But something is even stranger. There is the craft, now raised on the jack, and Madison standing there, but . . .
That’s
me
next to Madison.
But it can’t be. How can I see myself this way? I feel displaced, out of control, fumbling for a hold. Something’s not right, but the sensation is interesting, like floating free. But without weight, there is nothing to float, or float on. And my body, it looks blank, like I’m not there. I’m not—I’m over here.
“It’s okay,” Madison says. “Just relax.”
She speaks to my body, not me. Am I invisible?
Dave joins her and asks my body, “How are you doing?”
He deserves a reply, so I intend one and it seems to work.
“I’m not sure,” my body says. “What’s happening?”
Hearing myself speak while outside the body is strange. I don’t sound like me.
“It’s no big deal,” Madison says. “Just another way to look at things.”
Dave says, “Don’t be alarmed, Adam. It’s a choice. You can exist inside or out, whichever’s more comfortable.”
I wouldn’t call this exactly comfortable, more like I might step on my own toes, or bump into something since I can’t see straight. I might be able to kick my own ass now, except it feels like I’m going to fall over. There’s nothing to hang on to, or anything to hang on with. I would choose . . .
I’m whooshed back inside my head.
“What the hell was that?” I ask, the words reverberating inside my skull with the familiar tone I’ve always known.
“Out of body,” Madison says. “All better now?”
“I guess, but that was weird. Like falling from the sky, no control.”
“Yeah,” Dave says, “it can be disorienting when you haven’t done it for a while, especially if you’re not ready for it.”
Disorienting? Too much like being dead. My little adventure fades and the others show little concern, as though this out-of-body thing is an everyday experience. Perhaps for them, which raises another question—are they not in their bodies? I might ask, but they all get back to their chores and ignore me. Besides, exploring the topic could lead to another unexpected excursion, which is frightful. What happens if I can’t get back inside my head?
* * *
Dave drags the severed strut to the hull, and together we wrestle it into position. Matt arrives with his arc welder and sections of reinforcing steel. He flips his mask down and gets to work while the rest of us shun the bright sparks. After several welds, Matt switches off his equipment and steps back.
“Now,” Dave says, “the moment of truth. Will it hold?”
Matt slaps his mask up. “Hey, of course it will. That’s quality workmanship by an experienced professional.”
Dave ignores the cocky little twerp, and says to Madison. “Let it down, easy.”
She works her remote, and the craft settles until supported by the strut. A few creaks and groans, then quiet.
“Told you so,” Matt says, and beams a proud grin.
Madison pats him on the back. “Nice work, Matt.”
Dave takes hold of the strut and rattles it good. “This will do. All right, you did okay—this time.”
Matt goes sour, glaring at Dave.
Dave doesn’t even notice. He walks away, better things to do, and starts picking through the scattered mess of equipment that accumulated during repairs—wrenches and spare parts, the jack and Matt’s welding gear, her shovel and various electronic gadgets, the purpose of which I couldn’t begin to guess. Dave takes charge, calling out to the rest of us, what to take, where to put it, and together we begin hoisting items back into the craft.
While gathering another load, Dave says, “So, Matt, everything else good to go?”
Burdened by a pile of tools, Matt stops halfway up the steps. “Yep, I waved that magic wand like always. Good thing you got me around, Dave, or we’d be stuck here for sure.”
“Hey!” Madison cries. “I helped too, you know.”
Matt chuckles. “Yeah, not bad, for a
girl.
”
She ignites with scorn, drops the jack and shovel and more, flames may shoot from her eyes next. “Come back here, you little wiener. You’re getting your ass kicked.”
“Yeah, like if you could.” He springs up the steps into the craft, leaving behind a trail of laughter.
Dave and I follow after them, and halfway up the steps, a loud crash sounds like tools hitting the floor. When we reach the top, the scattered pile includes two bickering contestants tangled up wrestling. She wasn’t kidding about kicking his ass. Madison has him face down, one arm behind his back, and his neck pinned by her knee.
“Say you’re sorry!” she howls. “Say you didn’t mean it, or I’ll show you how not-bad-for-a-girl this girl can be.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he says, though not too hurt, he is still laughing. “I didn’t mean it, just teasing. Come on, lighten up.”
She releases his spindly arm and straightens up, hands at her hips. “That’s better, but you’re still a little wiener.”
“Enough fooling around!” Dave snaps. “Time to go, before more trouble shows up.”
Outside, dark clouds brew along the horizon. Night will fall soon and Dave is right—danger could be as near as the next breath. Everyone agrees, and quarrels among ourselves will have to wait. A few more trips down the steps, we work as a team and gather the remaining tools until everything is put away. Dave and Matt head for the cockpit while Madison secures the hatch, and once again I am alone with her. However, this time she ignores the opportunity and starts toward the cockpit.
I reach out to her. “Madison, tell me something.”
She pauses to listen.
“You and Matt,” I say. “What’s all that about?”
“What do you mean?”
“You two fight an awful lot. How come?”
She smiles. “You don’t remember.”
On that note, she deems our conversation complete and moves along.
* * *
Back to the cockpit, I plop down in the copilot seat. I’d help fly this thing if I could remember how, but even so, I don’t expect to be doing much other than getting some rest. I’m wasted.
The engines start with a low roar and rise in pitch until nearly silent, all but for a faint whine. The craft lifts off and weaves through the woods, then hovers just above the treetops. Dave punches the throttle and we’re sucked into our seats—hard. Beyond the side viewport, the ground blasts away and scattered clouds whip past.
As we soar higher, my thoughts retrace all that happened, in reverse. Crashing into the forest, tumbling helplessly, back to the explosion where it all began. Everything happened so fast. I don’t understand where the idea came from, or why any of them even followed my crazy instructions. But they did, like it was business as usual.
Madison asks, “Care for something to drink?”
Apparently she doubles as a stewardess, though I’d best refrain from any comment, or else find myself pinned to the floor with her knee crushing my neck.
Dave says, “Tea for me.”
“And you, Adam?”
“Sure, I’ll have some too.”
She looks at Matt and awaits his choice.
“
Tea?
” he says. “What do I look like?”
Madison smirks. “Do you really want to know?”
He draws a swift breath, preparing for the joust, but reconsiders. “Nothing for me.” He swings around to face his console, and Madison exits to the rear compartment.
Once she is gone, Dave laughs. “You’re such a weenie, Matt. There’s nothing wrong with tea.”
“Oh? The big tough warriors drink tea?”
“Yeah, we do. So what do little wiener-heads drink?”
Dave and I laugh.
Matt spins around in his seat. “Real men drink beer!” He puts fists at his hips and tries to puff up his scrawny little chest.
I point out, “Must be why you ain’t drinking one.”
Dave roars with laughter.
Matt is not so amused. “Hey! I’m working here.”
“Yeah, Adam,” Dave says. “Beer’s not a good idea in our line of work. At least—
while you’re working!
” He howls like it’s hilarious, then acts out a drunken stupor, swerving the craft across the sky. Good thing we’re up so high. He laughs so hard he snorts and whoops, cracking himself up real good. Dork. Bad enough laughing at your own jokes, worse when they’re not even funny.
“And just what is our line of work?” I ask.
He sees that I’m not laughing and returns to level flight. “I hate to keep telling you how things are. It’s like I’m filling your head with my own ideas.”
“At least give me a hint.”
Arms outstretched, he says, “Just look around. Hints are everywhere.”
Following his advice, I scan the cockpit. Okay, so it’s a cockpit. This is an assault craft. We have weapons, tactical displays, shields.
“We are military,” I suggest.
“You’re on to it.”
But where are the uniforms? These characters dress like they’re on vacation. But of course—uniforms are part of the conformist ideal, with which we do not agree. We are not a mindless force of regimented drones, walking the same, talking the same, even dressing alike. We are individuals, each with personal ideas, though united toward a common goal—freedom from the Association. Even without a specific memory to confirm it, the passion is clear, a fierce notion deep down that drives me to preserve individuality for all. Apparently with such fervor that I am willing to fight. However, I would rather not, and more so, gladly forget that I ever had in any past. I hate war. In dreams, memory, or real life.
Madison returns and hands me a sealed container with built-in straw. “Here you go,” she says. “I added a little something extra to help you sleep.”
While sipping the tea, my attention roams, then I catch a glimpse out the side viewport. The sky has split into halves, darker above and glowing purple below, gently curving where they meet. We have reached a tremendous altitude. The tea is delicious and soon my eyelids grow heavy. Beyond the cockpit windows, all light fades. Night is coming, and with it, the call to sleep.
My thoughts wander, reviewing recent events. The abandoned warehouse, fighting the Bobs, escaping the furnace and taking down the scout craft. Deeds of a soldier, with combat skills born of experience. I’ve waged war before, against the Association. Was I? The bleary memories float across my mind, but soon they scatter, focus dissolving, thoughts fading. Reality slips from view and I begin to drift off, approaching a pleasant slumber.
* * *
Something smacks me in the face and I’m instantly awake. All I can see is smooth metal, point-blank, chilly against my nose. What is this, a steel coffin?
I thrash to one side and thrust against the panel, struggling to break free of this trap. My body careens away and spins like a top. What the hell is this? As the dizzy scene races past, I catch a glimpse of Dave and Matt above, looking down. I mean, below, looking up. What?
Matt hollers, “Hey, flyboy! You’re supposed to strap in.”
Dave and Matt are laughing. I can hear them clearly, but each time around they’re just a blur. A hand smacks into mine and stops my spinning. Madison holds tight and keeps me steady. Her pigtails are sticking straight out each side.
“Quit jerking around,” she says. “Be gentle.”
We’re floating free, surrounded by the cockpit, suspended high above where Dave and Matt are seated . . . on the wall? The forward view seems to be on the floor. I turn to look, and Madison counteracts my twisting motion with a shove of her hand against mine.
“Adam! What did I just tell you? Don’t push off like that. There’s nothing to stop your inertia.”
Out the viewport is utter blackness, a void lacking all detail other than a purple disk about the size of the moon. But that’s no moon. A planet?
We’re in space.
“What are we doing in outer space?”
With a mild tug, Madison draws me into her arms. She holds tight, smiling as we gently spin, face to face.
“We’re going home, Adam. Home.”
Chapter 4
The wind is strong. Gusts so violent, the slaps threaten to knock me from this perch. A brilliant sun hangs in the soft pink sky, bringing light and warmth to this marvelous day. Not a single cloud interferes.
I am standing atop a tall building, a good fifty floors or more. The view is spectacular, stretching from the mountains to the sea, and all the land in between, populated by a sprawling metropolis. Down below, people crowd the sidewalks, and vehicles fill a maze of congested avenues. They all look so small, like tiny insects.
Nearby, a woman is standing at the roof’s edge, enjoying the view as well. She turns to look at me. A crisp breeze tosses rusty strands around her face. She clears her scattered mane and smiles, staring at me from eyes the lightest blue, nearly clear, like sparkling crystal.
“In love,” she says, “one may fall.”
She turns on her heels, facing away from the precipice. Arms outstretched, she leans back.
“
No!
” I race to save her but it’s too late. Completely of her own will, she falls away and vanishes over the edge.
It’s never too late—I’m going after her. I leap off the building and sail down, the stream of air tearing at my face—frightening—but at the same time, refreshing. The woman, where did she go? City streets race up to greet me, and oddly, I welcome it. I have no fear. One quick twist and I gently touch down.
I’m lost in a bustling crowd moving along the sidewalk. Consumed with their busy existence, they are oblivious of my presence. Vehicles speed through the street, a cacophony of engines, horns, and people hollering obscenities as they jockey for position.
The woman has vanished in the crowd, yet I sense her voice in my thoughts. “Two may fall to become one, or fall further, to become fewer.”
In an instant, I’m atop the building again.
What happened? Perhaps I only dreamt that she was here. A strange intuition emerges from my confusion—I must go down to the street and find her. But not by falling, that was the wrong choice.
Behind me is a doorway which I enter, then down a few steps into a hallway. The plush carpeting squishes between my bare toes. Farther along the corridor is an elevator with polished steel doors. I press the down button and wait. A few moments pass, a bell sounds, and the doors slide open.
Inside the elevator is an old lady with white hair and a black fur coat, the short kind only down to the waist. She wears jewelry—earrings, bracelet and necklace, all bright diamonds. And she looks to have spent millions more on makeup.
Her face contorts with disgust.
I study myself. I have no clothes. Where did they go?
Aghast, the old lady rushes out of the elevator, mumbling words I can’t understand. Okay, be offended, your choice. I step in, the doors slide shut, and the elevator shoots down, but so fast that I become weightless. The floor and ceiling vault away, the walls contract, and the elevator becomes a long tube with me soaring through so fast that any sense of up or down vanish. The space closes in and the speed increases to the point of terror, to be restricted in all directions but one and propelled so swiftly, like a bullet hurling to the barrel’s end, destined to crash and splatter. No—this is just another experience. There is nothing to fear.
Next I’m standing on a sidewalk. No one is present, no busy people, no traffic in the street. The sidewalk borders the edge of a park, and a connecting sidewalk leads to an area with a few fiberglass lunch tables. I’m overly fascinated by papers circling the tables, carried aloft on a calm breeze. Pieces of trash, sections of newspaper, floating about and faintly slapping as they collide. Their swirling motion is absolutely captivating.
The sidewalk is more interesting. The sections of concrete are aligned with exquisite precision, making them fit together exactly, with lines between the slabs perfectly straight. I am irresistibly drawn to this otherwise meaningless characteristic of the pavement. It seems important, but I have no idea why.
Beyond the park is a factory, an ominous edifice of dark red bricks. Tall chimneys eject thick plumes of black smoke that blend with the cloudy sky. This is a bad place. Dread urges me to run away, but it doesn’t work. I want to run, I’m trying to run, but an unseen force has taken hold, and each stride results in a minuscule distance gained. Frustration mounts as every effort to escape only increases the restraining force. Determined, I lean forward and slip ahead a fraction. Leaning further, I make progress, and once my body is at a steep incline, each stride begins to cover a distance I would expect. Inclined, I can get away. But I must keep barreling forward, for if I do not, I may fall flat on my face. My speed increases until I’m moving rapidly, which pleases me. Then I elongate into a thin dart and shoot up into the clouds.
I’m somewhere else, another park, grass beneath my feet. I have shoes again, along with the rest of my clothes, all black. Other people dressed in black are gathered around one spot. This isn’t a park, it’s a cemetery.
Carefully, I ease closer to the mourning crowd, but keep enough distance to remain unnoticed. An old man is lying in a casket suspended over a fresh grave. He seems familiar, but I couldn’t say why. Then, his lifeless body crawls out of the casket, and he pushes through the crowd. They don’t seem to notice him, or me, the mourners just keep sobbing. The old man emerges from the crowd and approaches.
“Don’t let them bury me,” he says.
Despite an incredible urge to speak, I cannot make a sound.
“Please, don’t bury me. I’ll have to stay here while the insects eat my body, until it’s gone. Don’t let them do that to me, that’s horrible. Please, take the body away and burn it.”
I feel sorry for the old man. He may be related to me, and asking for help, but I don’t know what to do. No one else has noticed our conversation. The mourners remain gathered around the casket while a man reads from a book. I can see the old man lying in the casket, clearly dead, yet the same old man is standing before me, pleading for my help.
He comes closer, and reaches out to my face.
I flinch.
He caresses my cheek. “Please . . .”
What the hell is this?
“Please . . .”
Soft fingertips brush against my face. This old man, especially a dead old man, could not possibly have a touch so soft.
A distant sound grows louder—a rhythmic thumping of deep bass, accompanied by an electrified twang, contained in a playful melody. A guitar, an electric guitar, weeping as its strings are manipulated into the sound of . . . music?
The old man strokes my cheek, and the scene fades to black.
“Please, Adam. Wake up.”
* * *
Madison gazes at me while stroking fingertips across my cheek.
“Did you sleep well?” she asks.
“I don’t know. Maybe, before that crazy dream.”
“Anything good?”
“I wouldn’t call any of it good. A bunch of nonsense like always.”
The darkened compartment gives few details. Together we’re wrapped in a doublewide sleeping bag hanging from the ceiling. Or is it the wall? Where did
up
go?
Her grin is sly. “You know, it’s not always nonsense.”
“Maybe not for you.”
“We’re talking about your dreams, not mine.”
“How about I lend you a few, and you tell me what it all means.”
“You know we can’t do that.”
“At this point, what I know, or think I know, I have to wonder if any of it’s even true.”
She ponders that a moment. “Well, you know what they say—what you think is true is proved wrong by what you don’t think.” She winks.
“Now you’re giving me a headache.”
“Stop it, Adam. Your mind is trying to tell you something.”
“Maybe it should speak more clearly.”
“Or
you
should listen better.”
Of course, all my fault. I shouldn’t even be dreaming. “So the dreams are supposed to mean something.”
She fiddles with a mesh netting that holds us in the bag. “That’s for you to decide, not me. All I can say is pay attention, and at least try to figure out what your mind is telling you.”
“Okay. Falling should be scary and dead relatives ought to be burned. The rest is complete nonsense, and even those two are a stretch.”
“For now, but later, once you think about what you’re not, the rest might end up making more sense than you realize.” She loosens the mesh and wiggles out of the bag—naked.
She hears my gasp and twists around. “What’s the big deal?”
Oh my. She floats like an angel, slowly drifting away. Her dark hair spreads out in all directions, an odd sight, like she’s underwater. She reaches up to collect the wandering strands and secures a pair of pigtails. Exposed from head to toe, her silky skin is golden brown, except her nipples, much darker like chocolate. She has the ultimate female body, every feature curving smoothly, well-defined hips, tight tummy and petite breasts, limbs that suggest athletic potential. Her thighs could crush me, an experience I may not mind.
Near a wall, she pushes off and glides back. She reaches past me for a handhold, then brings a palm under my chin and coaxes it up, closing my mouth, which apparently has been hanging wide open.
“You’re gawking,” she says. “You act like you’ve never seen a naked woman before, and I’m pretty sure you have.”
She is close. I can smell her, and nearly taste her skin.
A familiar sound captures my attention—an electric guitar moaning sweetly, relaxed and easy, in time with mellow bass delivering a cyclic pattern of soft tremors. Wonderful. I haven’t heard music like that since . . . when? Music, the other lost treasure, forbidden in their utopian society. There ought to be music wherever you go, a symphony of sounds at all locations.
Madison is naked. And she was in this blanket, sack, whatever it is, in here with me. I study myself.
I’m naked.
Well, one part of the dream wasn’t complete nonsense.
“Madison, we didn’t . . .”
“What?”
“You know.” I rattle the baggy blanket thing, suggesting how the same might have moved earlier.
“Oh, Adam, not while you’re snoring.” Then her eyes light up. “But now that you’re awake . . .” She reaches past my shoulder and pulls herself near, until her nose is brushing against mine.
I tense up. “Ah, that’s not such a good idea, is it?”
What am I saying? It’s a great idea. I’ve been lusting after her every minute since we met. Her gaze is unwavering. Her eyes say it all—she wants me. But surely, someone may disapprove. So what, let them disapprove. This moment is mine. However, I wonder . . .
“Can we do it without gravity?”
Her grin turns wicked. “We can do it any way you like.” She shifts to the side, and her lips begin exploring my neck, where she plants a tender kiss, then roams further, up to my ear, her tongue tickling. More sweet kisses as she nuzzles my neck, then she slips one hand into the sleeping bag and slides her fingers across my chest, wandering along my belly and farther down.
We’re startled by a sudden exhaust of air pressure, then a sharp clank as a latch snaps open. Light streams in through a hatchway and brightens the compartment. A silhouette hangs in the entry.
“Hey guys, we’re almost—” Matt floats in through the hatchway. “Maddie! Get off him!”
She withdraws her venturing hand. “Get off him?” She pushes off and floats away. “Or get him off?” She giggles.
“You make me sick. Get dressed.” Matt slips out the hatchway and propels himself along the connecting passage, back to wherever it was he came from. I wish he would’ve stayed there in the first place.
* * *
Madison can’t stop giggling, amused by our being caught, as if she enjoys it. She wrestles into a tight bodysuit, shiny black. A treat itself, watching as she wiggles and squirms. She zips up and seals herself in, then pulls more clothes from a locker.
“Wear these,” she says, and tosses the items. “You’ll like them better.”
Faded blue jeans, white pullover, and a black leather vest.
“I need a shower first. I’m filthy.”
She grins. “A dirty old man, though I doubt any shower will ever fix that.”
“Ha-ha, real funny. I’m talking about my
skin.
”
She glides close and pulls me from the sleeping bag, naked as the day I was born. Without the aid of gravity, my dangling member slaps like a wet noodle. Not a very impressive first impression. But then, she’s probably seen me naked before, I just don’t remember. Regardless, this is embarrassing.
Past the grime coating my skin, she seems to find a pleasant sight, increasing the width of her grin. She pulls me into a narrow passage and points to a small hatch.
Before I go, there is something I must say. “Madison, thank you, for everything. I’m so glad you found me, and saved me. Really, I am. I was so lost, and would’ve been even more lost by now. I really mean it, Madison. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now wash that dirt off, you slime-ball.” Her open palm smacks my bare ass. The sting is unpleasant, but knowing it came from her, I almost enjoy it.
She leaves me to my bathing. I was hoping she might assist.
* * *
Beyond the hatchway is a small compartment for bathing and relieving oneself. A good idea, I’m overdue. In what resembles a urinal, a narrow funnel hangs from the end of a tube. They can’t be serious. Well, better than spraying all over the wall. But really, it would probably end up all over me. I plug into the strange apparatus and let it flow. A vicious sucking ignites, whooshing away the waste product well before I’m done. I try getting loose but the damn thing is tenacious. Actually, if I relax, this could be exciting.
No!
It’s just a hunk of cold plastic. Relieved—physically and of filthy thoughts—I pull free of the potentially pleasing energetic vacuum.
Next to the urinal is a tall cylinder with a glass door. As I glide near, the door slides open to reveal a narrow tube constructed of stainless steel. Maybe this isn’t the shower, seeing how it lacks a spout or drain. When I slip in, the door snaps shut in a whoosh and the portal seals tight. I try to escape but the door won’t budge. An ominous noise begins—growling. A mist of hot steam fills the tube, then the growling escalates to a piercing whine, and a gale-force wind churns the moistened air. This shower is weird, more like getting dry-cleaned. Seconds later, the mist evacuates followed by a brief storm of heated air. The cyclone ends, the latch clicks, and the door slides open. Yeah, I knew that.