Authors: Mark G Brewer
"Could it be space junk?"
"Rod . . . this is Hilary," She abruptly came on line and he smiled; as if there could be any doubt about who it was. The slightly cultured English voice had become more Kiwified over the past months but it still sounded incongruous out here in space.
She continued, "I haven't been able to pick up communications but I did track a Russian liftoff from Piesetsk Cosmodrome two hours ago, it's probably a warrior shuttle. If you saw a flash it's a long way from upper atmosphere so it's not out here to service the Russian Station."
"Let's take a look Rod," Ham suggested, "I'll ride with you."
"EFDF A Flight, fall in with me," Rod called to the flight, "we're going for a ride hunting Russkies."
The ten craft curled away from the station and accelerated away toward distant upper atmosphere and the Hillary Step.
They had no need to check in with the Step, Hilary as orbital AI also now monitored and provided central communication for all orbital traffic and only the Russians refused the service. Consequently, anyone who needed to know would be well informed about the incoming squadron. Flashing past they fanned out scanning the distance for whatever Rod had seen.
"I have it on sensors Rod," Ham's frustration was obvious, "It's not junk and it's moving fast, running for atmosphere I'd guess. They have a big leap on us; I don't think we'll get a look before they're into the cloud base."
"Well, let's see how fast this thing can go then, we may have to try it some time anyway." He made the call. "Touch screens for coordinate's people, maximum speed on my mark . . . Three . . . Two . . . One . . . and they appeared to disappear in a blink.
It was exhilarating, too fast to truly appreciate in real time but an adrenalin buzz like no other; to be in one place one moment, then in upper atmosphere the next. Rod quickly scanned the distance, still unable to pick up their quarry.
"I have visual Rod." Minjee's navigator buzzed through. "And . . . it's gone, down through the cloud."
The heavy cloud base, product of a massive bad weather system over Europe, made following probably fruitless and certainly foolhardy.
"A Flight, we're backing off, touch screens for coordinates; we'll cruise back now on piglet power, good work guys. Minjee, flick those visuals through please."
"I'm already looking at them Rod." Ham sounded troubled.
Rod's heads up display switched to the fuzzy distant visual and saw a silver blur disappearing into the clouds.
"Is that what I think it is?" He asked, shocked.
"I think it is Rod, I think it is . . ." Ham's voice trailed off into nothing
-
thoughtful.
It was impossible to pick the size but the shape was unmistakable.
It looked like an ADF.
* * *
The afternoon meeting with Hilary and Ham was proving a delight.
Regan already knew Hilary was a good listener but their discussion had proved a nice surprise. She had remembered some past casual conversation, long forgotten by Regan but stored away by Hilary for just such a moment as this. Her chosen meeting venue was the old Pah Homestead in Auckland and a chance to view the Wallace Art Collection.
They cyber strolled around the old homestead gardens enjoying the sun and chatting like the friends they had become. For the moment business, betrayal, Beria, all the worrying B's were banished from mind as Regan soaked up the joy of remembering happy times. As she had when she was five years old she ran to each of the huge Moreton Bay fig trees, stroking the magnificent root structures and hugging trunks. She didn't consider herself a tree hugger but it was hard not to feel you could somehow draw strength from these magnificent mature examples.
Hilary appeared gracious as always in a long flowing white dress, her hair done up high and a delightful parasol in one hand. She strolled on ahead, eager to tour the art collection in the homestead proper. Ham, the beautiful man, walked with Regan, as attentive as ever, patiently waiting and offering his arm as they took the steps up onto the veranda and in through the rear doors.
It seems such an indulgence, to have this whole place to ourselves
.
As she strolled from artwork to artwork on the second floor, cycling back to the stairwell and drinking in the environment, the atmosphere, the ambience, Regan rued that this was, after all, only a cyber construction
-
and yet it seems so real.
Just below her Ham stopped and looked back.
[What makes you think like that Regan? It
is
real,] and suddenly he paused, his eyes drawn to a huge picture above them, a depiction of Christ in black and white. It towered over them as they descended the magnificent Pah staircase.
She passed him, taking a few more steps, and then looked back, noting something had caught his attention. Surprised by the troubled look on his face, the appearance of deep contemplation, she stopped.
[Is it really real, all this?] She asked, looking around and opening her arms wide in an all encompassing gesture.
He didn't look down at her, his eyes still locked on the crucified Christ, huge on the wall above them.
Ham answered without shifting his gaze. [Well . . . it's as real as any experience can be.] He hesitated there for just a second longer, taking a last mournful look, and then joined her in a slow motion step, step, and step as they plodded to the bottom before turning right toward the cafe.
Taking her arm he guided her through the door and they selected a quiet table in the corner, one with a view out over the porch that was still catching the afternoon sun. With a wave of her hand Regan summoned a latté for her and for Ham, his latest affectation, Irish tea, both still steaming. She lifted the glass mug, drawing in the steamy bouquet, and savoring the fragrance before sipping gently to satisfy her craving. She waited patiently for him to speak, it was clear something was on his mind.
[Do
you
ever feel the need for confession?] He asked, still distant with his eyes unfocused as he gazed through the glass. And then he dropped his chin to his chest, like the Christ figure in the stairwell, less the thorny crown, and at the same time he raised his arms theatrically.
[What's troubling you my friend?] She placed one hand on his arm and gently squeezed it in support.
[I've just been thinking, about the need for confession . . . people still do it you know.]
She thought about him, his hobbies, his 'super power' and the terrorist ledger he kept. They hadn't discussed his personal crusade for some time, with Ham left to his own devices eliminating the carrion of society before they rob the innocent of precious life.
She pulled her chair around to face him, taking both his hands in hers.
[It can't be easy facing the things you do. You shouldn't have to face that burden alone, certainly not feel guilt; would it help to share some of it with me?]
He looked at her in surprise. [Oh
-
no, no, no, you misunderstand me; I don't feel
any
sadness or guilt about it, that's what I've been wondering about.]
[Sorry?] She sat up, surprised.
[Well, do you think I should . . . you know, feel bad about it, because truly I don't. I feel nothing.] He sat back suddenly. [You don't think I'm a psychopath do you?]
She pulled back now, smiling. [I don't think so
-
and anyway, you do feel something about it; I've heard you singing happily while you work.]
[Hmm,] He looked off again, thinking about what she'd said, [You're right, I'm not without emotion . . .] and at the thought he perked up considerably. [This is why I talk to you Regan; you make me feel so much better about things, I'm almost eager to get back into it.] He did seem much happier.
Sitting where she was, her back to the window now, she caught sight of movement over Ham's shoulder and shifted slightly to better see what caught her eye. Goosebumps broke out on her arms and a flash of chill alarm shot down her spine.
Leaning, one shoulder against the wall and just inside the door, was a rather dapper man with mustard stove pipe trousers and winkle picker shoes. He seemed posed there, one hand to the chin; thumb propping the jaw and forefinger resting up over his lips. His weight was on one foot, with the other leg bent and crossed at the ankle, resting on the winkle picker toe. He was looking at her intently.
She couldn't help herself, Regan's eyes gaped and her eyebrows rose in astonishment. They made eye contact and he pushed off the wall to stand tall, preparing to come over. Ham, with his back to the man still seemed oblivious to the drama unfolding behind him.
It was at that point Regan noticed the tip of what looked like a blue aluminum bat waggling, only just in sight in the hallway, as if someone was testing its weight. As the strange visitor tentatively stepped forward the familiar tall gracious woman, hair in a bun with long white dress trailing, stepped out behind him and filled the doorway. It took only a second; from behind her back the woman drew the blue baseball bat, raising it in one motion above her head to grasp it with both hands. At the top of its travel she grimaced, tensing, summoning the strength for what clearly was going to be a powerful downward swing.
Regan saw the man was smiling at her warmly in greeting and desperately she pushed up from the table, one hand on the surface, the other rising in protest as she screamed with all her might "
Hilaryyyyyyy!
"
Startled, Hilary hesitated in mid swing; bat still high, her eyes now locked on Regan. The visitor turned, spied her and crouched in horror, then in one fluid movement darted in to punch the gracious lady hard in the stomach. In a pixilated blur Hilary seemed to dissolve for a moment then reappeared on the floor by the door.
In a flash Ham was on him, forcing the man to the floor, and wrestling him onto his back. They struggled together as Regan pushed out from behind the table, wincing as she saw Ham using his elbows to pin the man's arms and scrambling to dig his thumbs into his eyes.
She grimaced, "Ham, stop, he wasn't trying to hurt us."
"Like fuck," Ham yelled as he dug his thumbs in harder, the man squealing in pain and clawing at his hands, "He . . . hit . . . Hilary!"
Regan hauled at Ham's shoulders toppling him off the man who rolled into a ball rubbing at his eyes with blood appearing to dribble out from between his fingers.
This is too weird for words!
The dapper man pushed himself back across the floor, shuffling on his backside, putting distance between himself and Ham until he was brought to a stop by the cafe counter. Ham glared at him, poising to pounce again but Regan placed herself between them, crouching to check on the visitor.
"Who are you?" She said, recoiling at the blood.
The man seemed to calm, and drew his hands outward over the eyes as if wiping them clean. The redness seemed to clear, the blood also disappearing and he brought the hands back, rubbing furiously for a few seconds. Then, ignoring Regan in front of him he leant to the side, peering around her to glare at Ham. "What is wrong with you? That
really
hurt!"
Ham glared back. "What's wrong with me? You hit Hilary!"
"Well she was going to clock me! What was I supposed to do?"
"Take it like a maaaan!" Ham drew the word out in disgust.
"Boys, boys, let's leave it shall we, a misunderstanding, nothing more
-
are you ok Hilary?" Regan asked as she extended a hand to the dapper man.
Hilary pushed herself up from the floor and straightened her dress.
"I'm all right, just my pride is a little dented," and she patted her hair into place. "I was put off when you called out, otherwise I would have dispatched him, and quick smart believe you me. I would Ham, you saw me."