Herculanium (9 page)

“Don’t shoot,” he screamed with a half-smile. “I’m a science teacher.”

He kept his gun hand pointed up. There was now more than urine and tears coating his body. He could taste the distinct flavor of iron on his tongue.

“Lower your weapon,” he could hear God saying. “Lower your weapon or we will open fire.” And Allan knew the Almighty never lied.

It was so cold standing on those steps, and he barely had time to enjoy the view of the rolling lawns or the balmy Bay breeze blowing across his hair. The woman’s screaming had stopped, and he laughed when he realized it was coming from him.

“Lower your weapon,” the divine voice repeated.

Allan Henderson dropped both his hands with a slap. He continuously blinked his eyes to regain his focus, but that didn’t help. They fell into a half-droop, with everything in front of him swirling into a blur. He knew he wasn’t drunk anymore, otherwise, he wouldn’t be feeling so much pain. He tilted his head to one side and smiled.

“Every action has an equal and opposite reaction,” he said to himself. He was a scientist, after all. Now he was going to experience first-hand how it would feel like to be shot and killed. He always imagined himself to go out in a blaze of glory, to attack the enemy in defiance and take as many of the bastards as he could with him.

Except this was not a movie, and he was a coward.

He quietly gave himself a countdown from ten. He was a man of science, so he didn’t believe in faith or prayer. Tears dripped like syrup from his eyes.

Allan Henderson swung himself around in a pirouette and aimed his revolver at the balcony. His finger barely touched the trigger when his vision, sensation, and life went to black, drowned in the middle of popping firecrackers.

* * *

Micky approached the balcony, walking slowly behind the policemen. Clay followed closely, gently rubbing his swollen knuckles and nursing a shallow cut above his left eye. The once-raucous crowd had all but fallen silent. A rag doll lay twisted on the steps, and what was to be a night of promise had turned into a dream of nightmares.

Max gleefully greeted the police as they reached the top of the steps, relieved that the ordeal was over. Preston seemed none the worse for wear, brushing himself off as he stood himself up. The police chopper slowly circled above the building, a metal dove signaling the storm was over.

Max looked over the balcony and scanned the dispersing crowd. He caught sight of Micky as she approached with Clay, and he just stared. He could tell she was a reporter; her demeanor and movement were unique, cautiously observant like the police ahead of her. But unlike the other reporters that quickly swarmed the balcony, this woman looked at the body with concern and remorse. She made no attempt to report the story, but was more content to have just survived it.

Their gaze finally met, and both stared quietly at each other for a few seconds. Max smiled, and she returned his greeting with a wide smile of her own, something she hadn’t done all evening.

“Look out,”
Max whispered, barely audible in the crowd around them. He didn’t blink the whole time he was staring into her dark, beautiful eyes.

Micky nodded her head. “Look out,” she repeated back with a smile.

Max looked at the floor in contemplation, then turned around to see Preston. Preston nodded and smiled back in return. Max puckered his lips and made a ticking sound inside his right cheek, one of his curious habits when making an important decision.

“Miss,” he told her with his hand extended in invitation, “come with me, please.”

“This is Colleen O’Reilly reporting live from the University of St. Thomas Aquinas, where the much-anticipated press conference for the Olympus Project had just gotten underway. Despite the promise of a new future, this endeavor is not without its controversy. An equal amount of opposition has joined fans and supporters, turning this joyful question-and-answer forum into a potential battleground of ideologies. Regardless of the fanfare outside the university’s auditorium, inside sit a handful of men and women eager to move forward. It seems the divisions on our humble little planet will now be continued above it.”

Peryson inserted a finger over his collar and loosened his tie. Flanked by his colleagues, he sat proudly in his designer suit. In conjunction with several televised specials, this conference was the official introduction of the Olympus project to the public. He was tired of the secrecy, and he clearly showed his relief with his enthusiasm for the crowd. Several hundred people packed the normally cavernous auditorium, with several dozen microphones and cameras scattered strategically on the stage. In his opinion, no amount of media coverage was enough to fully encompass the significance of their project.

“…and it is not with exaggeration that I tell you that this is the most significant step Humanity has taken since the discovery of fire,” said Peryson to the audience, gesturing continuously with his hands.

“Imagine a time and place where we can actually point to the sky and say, ‘I’m going up there for a vacation. Would you like to come along?’ Ladies and gentlemen, that time has come, that time is now. Help us with our dream, with
your
dreams. Support the Olympus project and help usher in the new future.”

Applause roared from the crowd. A hand quickly raised up from the press table.

“Could you please explain how exactly you will be transporting civilians to the space station?”

“Thank you for your question,” said Peryson to the reporter. “First of all, the term ‘civilian’ is incorrect. ‘Passenger’ is more appropriate. This is not a military venture, it’s commercial. Traditionally, we’ve transported passengers to the older stations by having them sit vertically in a space shuttle while being piggy-backed on a larger rocket. Let’s face it, ladies and gentlemen,” he said with a shrug, “I honestly can’t see hundreds of people, paying good, hard-earned money, sitting comfortably like that to go on vacation. We’ve developed new technology that will make orbital travel more mundane. I’ll let my colleague, Dr. Jillian Gracie, explain.”

“Thank you, Dick,” said the scientist as she stood up beside him. A murmur of snickers came from the crowd.

Jillian Gracie was an aeronautics engineer working with NASA through an independent contractor. Peryson didn’t know her personally; she was just another lab coat working on the project from behind the scenes. She had, however, high-clearance knowledge of the transportation mechanics of the project, and acted as its occasional speaker. She was a far better choice to explain the general principles of Olympus travel than Peryson, who would have probably given all the classified secrets away in his first sentence. Gracie was part of a new generation of young scientists eager to prove themselves to the old guard, and he hated her self-confidence.

“Our main goal is to make transporting passengers to and from earth’s orbit as comfortable as possible. Like my colleague has said, we’re doing away with sending people off to space sitting on their backs. Now, people can touch the stars by riding in a plane.”

She adjusted her glasses and loosened her hair down her shoulders. She made sure to close the flaps of her lab coat as she left her chair and walked across the stage. A large projector screen descended from the ceiling with a faint whir. Standing at a lectern to the side of the stage, she lifted a hand-held remote control and began her presentation.

“Lights please,” she said with authority. Different images flashed across the screen, bordering on the silhouette heads of her colleagues still seated at the table.

“Passengers will be riding comfortably in a new Isis-class space shuttle. These shuttles are much larger than those of the past, more of a first-class airplane than those hideous matchboxes we call coach seating. This plane is capable of hypersonic speed, easily able to go above the basic Mach standards.”

Static slides, combined with flowing animation, flashed repeatedly across the projector screen. A subtle audio soundtrack of sound effects and music whispered from the auditorium speakers.

“In order to conserve fuel, we will be piggy-backing the shuttle on a 747 Jumbo Jet. No, it will not be a vertical ascent. The jet will follow a rising horizontal trajectory until it reaches a nominal high altitude. At the proper height and speed, the shuttle will fire its own rockets, separating from the plane and then docking with the Olympus Station at the edge of space. Part of our fuel will come from the atmosphere itself, with sophisticated converters simultaneously absorbing and releasing fuel that will aid in its velocity.

“The passengers will have to wear light jumpsuits to compensate for the changes in atmospheric pressure, and not those ridiculously bulky turtle shells astronauts used to wear when frolicking on the lunar surface.

“Safety is of utmost importance. Regardless of the shuttle’s velocity, should an emergency arise either going to or returning from the space station, the cockpit and the passenger section of the fuselage can detach and parachute down to the ocean. That is another first in airline technology, which will soon be adopted by all earthbound flights. As fantastic as all this sounds, this is just old technology reinvented to its full potential.”

Jillian Gracie adjusted her glasses on her nose. “Lights, please.”

Another roar of applause came from the audience as the auditorium lights faded back to life. She placed the remote control on the lectern and sat back in her chair.

“Thank you, Jillian. Fantastic show,” said Peryson while clapping his hands. Jillian looked away, indifferent to his compliment.

“I know there are plenty of questions out there, so we will take them one at a time. Please state your name and the organization you represent.” Peryson scanned the rows of hands from the Press tables in front of him, all desperately trying to get his attention.

“You there, third-row middle with the bow tie. Can someone get a microphone to him, please?” An intern quickly ran through the tables and handed him a floating microphone.

“Thank you, miss,” said Peryson. “What is your question, sir?”

“Bruce Mattson, Aquinas Herald,” said the bespectacled young man with a prepubescent squeak. “How are you going to respond to all the criticism this project is getting? As we speak, a dozen groups are picketing outside this building, trying to halt the project. What do you want to say to them?”

Another reporter interjected, speaking loudly into his table microphone.

“I think what my colleague is referring to are the different complaints this project has incurred. You have several Native American groups protesting our very presence in space, laying their religious claim to it. You have a coalition of former NASA scientists boycotting the project, because they feel their years of dedication merits them to go up first. The Environmental Protection Agency is also up in arms regarding the potential pollution this space station is going to generate. For heaven’s sake, you even have the Ku Klux Klan picketing because they want a white man to be the spokesperson.”

“Like I said before I was rudely interrupted,” asserted Bruce, taking back the floor, “how would you respond to these allegations?”

The room was dead silent. Peryson rubbed his temples, smiling with amusement and irritation.

“Friends, all great endeavors require risk. We’re in America. All these groups have every right to protest what they might feel is injustice. We can’t please everybody, obviously, and to be honest, that’s not why we’re here. This project is not without its flaws and shortcomings. But I feel that its potential is worth more than all its criticisms put together. All we ask is that people give it a chance to succeed. This station, this very concept, represents change. Most people are uncomfortable with change. Change is change; how difficult it is depends on the people adapting to it. Once it gets fully operational, I am confident they will eventually see our wisdom in this endeavor.”

Peryson adjusted his microphone’s height and sat back on his chair, exhausted in his pulpit. “Next question, please. Again, please state your name and the paper or company your represent.”

“Simina Khan, South Asian Globe,” whispered a striking woman into the wandering microphone. “How is this orbiting tourist belt going to be any different than the ones we have on earth? Beyond the novelty of flying into space, which will now apparently become routine, what will it offer the average consumer?”

“Why indeed go to Olympus, Ms. Khan,” said Peryson with a scholarly tone. “Tell me, why do people buy expensive cars? Or eat caviar? They want to experience the finer things in life. Olympus offers the consumer one thing: an unforgettable experience. This is not like climbing a mountain or scuba diving in a deep ocean. This ‘package’ offers the consumer the formerly unattainable. Space travel has never been available to the general public—until now. We’ve made it simpler, more efficient, and very much possible. Perhaps the Olympus project’s only virtue is that it has never been tried before. Perhaps it’s the only reason why people would be interested in going; because it’s
there
.”

A stagehand approached the speakers’ tables from behind and handed Peryson a stapled pile of paper. Peryson quickly flipped through the pages, then leaned forward again to his microphone.

“You bring up a good point, Ms. Khan. I’ve just been handed a list of items that we are currently considering to add to the station. Keep in mind that nothing is set in stone, but like the station itself, we are daring to dream.”

Peryson quietly read through the items with his lips, vigorously flipping through the pages front and back.

“Besides the standard fare of exclusive retail shops and restaurants, which will be selling merchandise and food made exclusively in zero gravity, we’ve also decided to include local amenities to make the station feel like home. Under construction is a chapel near the station’s observation deck, so parishioners can truly feel close to God. We’ve also completed an art lab in another section, where visual, performing, and literary artists can develop their crafts in a new environment. Can you imagine what masterpieces will be created? It staggers the mind.

“We’re also discussing building a small university on the station, and yes, several fraternities and sororities have already expressed interest in establishing their chapters on Olympus.”

More laughter and catcalls came from the audience, mixed with chants of “party” and “bottoms up.” Peryson laughed along with them.

“Emilio Velasquez, Manila Free Press. Are there any truths to the rumor that several workers have been killed on Olympus while it was under construction? And that the station is now haunted by their apparitions?”

“Baloney, Mr. Velasquez,” said Peryson. “My staff and I would’ve known about any deaths during its construction. Another baseless rumor started for negative publicity. And for the record, Olympus does not have a rat or ant problem. All of our subjects, strictly for minor scientific testing, are safely contained, and none have ever broken out.”

Peryson raised his hand and checked his watch. “In the interest of time, we will now proceed with questions regarding our celebrity spokesperson. This gentleman obviously needs no introduction, but for the record, I give you...Preston Jones.”

The auditorium exploded into a cacophony of cheers, whistles and high-fives, turning into a five-minute standing ovation. The entire building seemed to tremble down to its very foundation, with the walls and light fixtures vibrating as if in the middle of an earthquake. The familiar volley of flash explosions rippled through the press and crowd in erratic patterns, and the campus security carefully monitored the crowd for would-be fanatics attempting to storm the stage.

Preston Jones stood up from his chair and waved his hand, then slowly sat down, clearly amused by the reception. He was used to this type of response, beginning as early as his high school glory days. But he never failed to smile and tilt his head endearingly in mock humility. The women especially loved his dimples.

“St. Aquinas, make some noooooise!” yelled Preston into the microphone. “How y’all doing today? Are you all feeling good?”

Peryson and his panel of scientists quickly cupped their ears as the forum briefly turned into a monstrous pep rally. They had never experienced such a deafening and senses-shattering response, a wall of energy just crackling the air like tactile static. The scientists looked at each other in awe and disgust, equating the event as more of a carnival freak show than an academic forum. The media and press representatives just sat back and laughed in their chairs, just waiting for the noise to die down.

“Is this thing on? Just kidding.” Preston smiled and waved in all directions. “First of all, I really have to thank McGinnis Promotions for giving me this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Mr. Richard Peryson, my agent Max Lee, my wife Erica; I honestly don’t have the words to say thanks to these wonderful people for their support. Of course, none of this would’ve been possible if it weren’t for the Lord above.”

Preston looked up at the ceiling and pointed up, giving his props to the divine.

“And then,” he whispered to the microphone, intentionally making his voice deeper and resonant, “there are
you
fans.”

Again, another explosion of cheers and whistles. Preston knew how to incite a crowd.

“I’m thanking each and every one of you for believing in my dreams. My first slam dunk in space will be dedicated to all of you here on earth.”

Max shook his head as he watched from the press area of tables. “Pres sure knows how to lay it on thick,” he thought.

“Mister Jones?” inquired a teenager holding a clipboard, her voice stuttering with excitement. “Erin Jones, William Land High School. How will promoting the Olympus Space Station affect your basketball career?”