March Forth (The Woodford Chronicles Book 1) (3 page)

Steven

Ensign Steven Drisbane was enjoying his assignment in Woodford.  It certainly wasn’t what he had expected when he enlisted in the United States Navy, seven long years ago.

He had been nineteen at the time, and had no idea at all what he wanted to do with his life.  He knew he didn’t want to work some dead-end, minimum wage job, nor did he feel any interest in any kind of career involving physical labor.  He figured he should go to college, but didn’t have a strong enough interest in any particular subject to get him truly motivated toward going that route.  Thus, when his little sister said she was going to join the navy after she finished high school, he decided he would do the same.  They could learn the ropes together.

When his sister turned eighteen, she changed her mind about joining the navy.  It was too late, though; Steven had already enlisted.

He didn’t really mind.  Boot camp was obviously no picnic, and he would have liked a little more time to relax, but the Navy made him feel as if he were actually doing something with his life.  He had no intention of making a career out of it, at first.  He figured he would just put in his four years and get college paid for, end of story.

In his third year in the Navy, he had been working as a meteorologist in Virginia.  Basically, he looked at a computer screen all day, identifying weather patterns that might affect ships at sea.  It was a mellow assignment with relatively easy work, which suited him fine. 

One day, though, he noticed something odd.  The Doppler Lidar, which measured the frequency of backscattered light from a laser in order to measure temperature and wind speed, was giving some very strange readings in a certain section of the Pacific Ocean.  He checked all of the other available equipment readings for that area, and found nothing odd. 
Something
was interfering with the Lidar, though; he had never before seen readings like that.  He reported it to his commanding officer, who told him he’d get the equipment checked.

Not long after that, Steven received notice that he was being reassigned.  There were no further details given; he was simply given an official letter that said to report to an office that he had never before been to the following morning.  He had never heard of such a quick and mysterious reassignment, but he had learned not to question orders rather early on in his military career.  Also, he figured even if he hated the new assignment, he had less than a year left in the navy.  It would go by quickly.

So, he reported to that mysterious office not far from where he had been doing his meteorology work, and he waited.  He waited for the better part of an hour, alone, until two men – they looked like Captains to him, though the insignias they wore were somehow slightly different than any he had seen before – entered the office through a previously unnoticed back door.  There were no formal introductions, nor did the men offer any further explanation.   The officer on the right instructed Steven to sit at the only desk in the room, gave him a written test, and told him he had an hour to complete it.  After that, there was another test; after that, another.

The tests themselves shed no light on his situation.  The first seemed like a combination of an IQ test and a psychological exam.  The second (which the officer on the left gave him, with an allotted time of one hour to complete) was a test of his meteorological knowledge, but some of the questions were almost nonsensical.  They seemed to focus largely on light refraction and sound waves, which was fine, but they asked about possibilities that did not exist, readings that could not exist.  He remembered the strange lidar readings, and answered to the best of his ability, thinking all the while that he was being set up for something unpleasant.  Anxiety began to permeate the very core of his being; try as he might, he could not still his twitching limbs.  He tried to focus on the tests themselves without worrying about the reasons behind them or the consequences they could bring him.

The third test, however, was simply laughable.  The officer on the right (whom Steven had begun to think of as Captain Righty, as opposed to his partner, Captain Lefty) gave him the test and said, “forty minutes.”  He flipped it open.

The first section showed pictures of strange symbols, the likes of which he had never seen, and asked him to describe what they might mean.  In the second section, he was asked to solve equations which featured more completely alien symbols.  After staring at each question in disbelief, Steven would write down a number, or even another equation; these answers were pure guesses, jotted down more because he thought they looked nice there than for any logical reason.  Once or twice, he just copied the symbol from one equation as the answer to another.

He started to think this was all some elaborate practical joke; however, the two officers who stood nearby never cracked a smile or, for that matter, spoke a word while he took his tests.  They would simply give him each test and tell him how much time he had to take it, and then stand silently.  Silently and, he thought, rather menacingly. 

Finally, in the third section, he was asked to describe any “unexplainable and unusual experiences” he had had both in the Navy and in his civilian life before enlisting.

For lack of a better answer, he described the odd lidar readings as his “unexplainable” Navy experience, though he felt like writing a detailed account of the test he was currently taking.  It seemed a far more “unexplainable and unusual experience.”

He considered whether he had had any such experiences in his civilian life, and drew a blank.  Just as he was about to throw in the towel, he remembered something: 

He was ten years old, visiting an aunt in Pennsylvania with his mother.  He was outside playing, and he heard a loud motorcycle engine coming down the usually quiet road.  He watched it go past; a shiny, gleaming black and silver machine that made him wish he was old enough to have one.  It stopped suddenly, made a quick U-turn, and drew to a stop right in front of Steven, maybe five feet away.  The driver removed his helmet and stared silently but intently at him for several seconds.  The biker was a small but muscular man who looked to be in his early fifties, with dark skin and a few grey hairs.  He was dressed all in black.    Steven wished his mom or aunt would come out of the house; this man’s dark eyes scared him.  Even at ten years old, Steven knew when he looked into the biker’s eyes that something was very wrong in the man’s mind.  Steven did not speak.  He was made mute by terror, wondering what the man would do next.  He thought he might be kidnapped or worse.  Then, with no explanation, the biker said, “That’s not how you treat the Lady, friend.”  Then, he put his helmet back on and drove away, just as suddenly as he had appeared.

Steven remembered this, and wrote a brief synopsis of the experience on the last page of the test.  He had no idea if it was the kind of answer they were looking for, but it was the only thing that had come to mind.

The officers took all three of his tests and instructed him to wait where he was.  He sat at the desk, worried and waiting, for another hour.  He began to feel he would never see the light of day again.

Then, the officers returned.   Captain Righty said, “We’ve reviewed your tests.  Pack your belongings and meet us here at 0600 tomorrow.  You will be relocated.”

Steven did as he was told.  He didn’t have much to pack; it only took him an hour or so.  He did not (could not) sleep that night.

The next morning, he returned to the office, carrying all of his belongings.  The two officers met him outside and loaded his things into a black SUV, then told him to get in the backseat.  The two of them got in front.  Lefty drove.  No one spoke.  Steven made a few attempts at lighthearted conversation about the weather and such, but neither Righty nor Lefty responded to anything he said with any more than a perfunctory nod.

The drive went on for hours.  At some point, Steven fell asleep.  When he awoke, he was still in the backseat of the silent vehicle.  He felt horribly disoriented.  Only by looking out the window and studying the signs did he figure out that they were in Connecticut.  The car showed no signs of stopping.  More time passed; between the silence in the car and not knowing where their destination was, it felt like an eternity.

Finally, about two hours after they passed a “Welcome to Maine” sign, the SUV left the highway and turned down a series of exponentially more rural side roads.  The last road onto which they turned was neither paved nor even gravel, simply a long stretch of dirt and grass with vague indications of tire marks.  After about half a mile, they reached a large clearing in which there stood three rather nondescript, brick-faced buildings. They looked small warehouses or large offices; Steven could not decide which.

The SUV parked by the door of the middle building.  Other vehicles of similar make and model were parked around all three buildings.  However, there were no signs of life, no indications of who might drive those vehicles.

Lefty and Righty got out of the car first.  Steven followed them awkwardly.  His legs and back were sore from sitting in the cramped backseat for so long, and he did not know what was expected of him.  “Should I bring my things?” he asked.

“Not yet,” Righty responded, a tad curtly.

Lefty swiped some kind of identification card to enter the building.  Inside, a short hallway brought them to a second door; this time, Righty swiped a card to get in.  They walked through a drab hallway lined with closed doors.  At a seemingly arbitrary door, they stopped.  Lefty extracted a key from his pocket, opened the door, and told Steven, “Wait in there for the General.”

Steven blinked, confused.  “General” was not a rank used in the Navy.  It was an Army rank, he believed; the Navy equivalent would be an Admiral.  He opened his mouth to voice his confusion, but Righty put a hand on his back and pushed him, gently but firmly, into the room.  The door closed behind him; he knew even before he tried the handle that it would be locked from the outside.  He was not wrong.

The room in which he was now essentially imprisoned was about 8’ by 10’, and entirely done in a very dark grey.  The walls, the carpeting, the two uncomfortable-looking chairs and the small, round table between them – all that same shade of dark, almost charcoal grey.  There were two panels of fluorescent lights in the tiled ceiling (the tiles were also grey); all of the dark grey coloring seemed to absorb the light. There were no windows.  Steven prowled around the small room like a caged animal.

“Righty and Lefty’s uniforms were wrong,” he thought. “I couldn’t even tell for sure what their rank was.  And now I’m waiting for a “general”?  Have I been kidnapped?  Is this all some elaborate hoax?  What is going on?” His thoughts chased each other around his head, sending panic waves throughout his body.  His heart was beating too fast, his head was pounding.  He realized he was having an anxiety attack.  The realization did not make him feel any better.

By the time he heard the door handle turning, Steven was near hyperventilation and clammy with cold sweat.  He stood at attention as the door opened, more because he didn’t know what else to do than out of any sense of duty.  A short, stocky man with grey hair and wire-rimmed glasses entered the room and closed the door behind him.  With a vague wave of the clipboard in his hand, the man said, “No need for all that, Drisbane.  Sit.”  Steven did so.

The older man looked down at Steven, and was apparently startled by what he saw.  “Good heavens, man.  Are you alright?  Here, drink this.”  He handed Steven a bottle of water that he had been carrying, which was received gratefully.  As Steven sipped the water and tried to focus on breathing normally, the other man sat in the chair opposite him.  They looked at each other across the small, round table, sizing each other up.

The older man was not wearing any kind of uniform Steven had ever seen.  He wore all black.  Black boots, black pants, black button-down shirt, black pea coat with strange, matte black insignias on the lapel.  His face was not unfriendly, and his blue eyes glittered with a kind of jovial intensity that made him look like he was thinking of a really funny joke that he was simply too busy to share at the moment.  After a small eternity (to Steven…in actuality, about sixty seconds passed), the man spoke.

“So, Steven Drisbane.  I’m General Larsen.  I’m sure you have plenty of questions for me, but first I have a few for you.  First off, have you ever had any experiences with magic?”

Steven made an unsuccessful attempt to choke back the surprised laughter that bubbled up.  It came out as a snort, followed by a high-pitched giggle.  Larsen waited patiently for an answer without any change in facial expression.

“Have I ever…what
?
” The last syllable came out about seven octaves higher than Steven’s normal speaking voice.

“Have you ever had any experiences with magic?” Larsen repeated, with a tone that seemed to suggest it was the most logical question in the world.  Steven actually guffawed.  He had previously only read about people guffawing in books, but there was no other way to describe the sound that escaped his lips.  Larsen continued staring at him with a serious, though not unfriendly, expression.  The man was not joking.  Steven tried to think of an answer that would not involve cursing the other man out or laughing hysterically.

“I mean…. I’ve read the Harry Potter books.  Watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy many times.  But outside of the world of fiction, no, I can’t say I have ever had any experiences with magic.”

“That’s because all of the energy described as ‘magic’ has been contained,” Larsen stated.  “It is contained, controlled, and has been studied for a number of years.  Quite a useful tool, though a bit unpredictable.”