A little something for your weekend.

I wrote In The Root way back in 2010, did some work on it in 2011, and again in 2012. Then it sat on my computer. At 18k words its pretty long, as in novella length. Too long to even bother trying to sell to a paper magazine.

I read a lot of action adventure stuff, mostly military sci-fi, and this is all that. The basic premise came from a friendship that started on an old forum I used to frequent: A liberal who became good friends with a conservative over their common interest in RC airplanes. But that was just about the relationship between the two main male characters. The idea of growing giant tunnels (as opposed to making them), came from an Alan Dean Foster novel I read many years ago called Sentenced To Prism. Everything else comes from places as obscure as the Aeneid (the protagonist’s name is no accident), to as prosaic as Robert Heinlein’s The Roads Must Roll.  So I guess that means this story’s pedigree is 100% mutt.

The story is pure action adventure with ex-military construction workers caught in the middle of a looming war while being shafted by their idiotic company. It features an ignorant war-seeking President, gratuitous sex, and a reasonably high body count. Basically, if you’ve got a political axe to grind, whether liberal or conservative, I put a target in there for you to root against.

Quite a few of my friends ended up making a cameo in this story, unbeknownst to them. If you see your name in here, all I can say is “surprise.”

Plan on taking 25-40 minutes to read it.

 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The dream came back to Virgil seven days into his vacation. The very night he got the urgent email from the company, demanding his return.

The dream always started the same. He was working the line with the crew. Forester was in the lead, Whitby behind him. The crack in the wall was long, maybe 20 meters, and wide enough to stick his fist in. The wall around it looked wrong, diseased. The edges crumbling to the touch, the wood discolored for several meters.

Foundme plants, named for their exceptional ability to find the least bit of sea water, had colonized the crack. Their thick leather like leaves designed for an arid desert were bloated from excess water. Their fat roots wedged themselves into the crack, forcing it wider. A chemist on loan from Harrison was supposed to come by, but his jeep broke down near nodule 5.2. They were on their own.

Virgil grabbed the beat-up ultra sound machine, and ran an image of the wall, while Forester ripped the foundme plants out of the crack with his spike. The depth kept coming up short by about 10 meters, the image murky by the inclusion of seawater in the wall itself. The wall, the living breathing plant that made up the tunnel, and the only thing protecting them from the several thousand tons of ice cold sea water around them, was falling apart. Not good. Not good at all.

Then he heard the sound.

The plants around him were swaying their leaves, like a slow motion video of a man flailing their arms. The more mobile plants were actually moving from the crack; picking up their roots, and undulating away. The combined motion was enough make its own sound, a shooshing and a swhishing sound, not unlike a strong wind in a pine forest. Only there was never wind in the tunnel, save the day long slow inhale and exhale of the Root.

“Hey,” he yelled to his crew. “Everybody stop what you’re doing. I need it quiet here.”

The crew stopped moving, and turned to him, wordlessly. Forester was leaning on his spike, panting. His overalls grimy, his hard hat scratched, and gouged like his boots. Whitby sat behind him, his grey hair dirty as he quietly rechecked the readouts on the ultra-sound. The rest were scattered about, mostly standing. Silent.

“Can you hear that,” Virgil asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The crew looked around, noticing the jungle’s odd behavior. They were all seasoned veterans. Many had taught him how to read the jungle; to pay attention to the plants around them. “The Root knows,” they would say, though often to make fun of their new boss. From the looks on their faces, he could tell they were worried too. This crack was bad. The jungle knew it. They knew it.

“I think its time,” he said over the noise of the plants, “that we got the hell out of here. Like NOW!”

Standard procedure for an imminent breech called for radio warning first, followed by an immediate evacuation. Virgil picked up his radio. “Whisky, whisky two niner. We have a bad situation here. The wall depth is less than 15 meters, and falling. The jungle is acting… its going crazy.” He paused, realizing he sounded panicked. He took a calming breath, and continued, “I believe a breech is imminent. I repeat, I believe a breech is imminent.”

The ground below them shook. The crew looked at each other, dropped their tools, and starting running for the van.

He had just reached the vehicle himself when the wall broke; the crack imploding violently. Water, plants, and pieces of Root — some of them the size of tree trunks — came flying towards the men like an avalanche turned on its side.  Forester was swept up from behind, his hard hat flying ahead of him. Whitby came next, his mouth open, his face a mask or terror.

Virgil had just enough time to grab his resuscitator, and put it in his mouth when the wave engulfed him. In an instant he was under; one second breathing air, the next 20 meters underwater, and all of it ice cold. Dark shapes loomed and swooped around him, tossing him about like the inside of the world’s largest clothes washing machine.

The violent wave front swept passed, suspending them, leaving them floating in a green-grey watery world, like the inside of a snow-globe after it had been violently shaken and then set down. Plants, and broken Root pieces floated by as he slowly drifted with them down to the bottom. He saw the flash of something metal in the murky water — one of his crew, tossed around like a rag doll, his now useless resuscitator still stuck in his back pocket. The larger pieces of Root started to fall, their massive weight made evident only if they settled on you. The snowstorm of jungle and Root, flung about by the breech, was dropping all around him. Burying him in its ceaseless embrace.

The last thing Virgil saw floating in the water was his father. The old admiral’s iconoclastic long grey hair swirling around him; his eyes piercing. He was trying to talk, trying to tell Virgil something. Something urgent. Then a plant covered Virgil’s face, and the old man was lost from his view.

The resuscitator, activated by the pressure of the water, started to squirm and wiggle. Virgil could feel its threads slowly wrap around the back of his neck, covering his face, and squirming their way down his body. Its back end was waving around, seeking one of the EHPS roots which had popped up off the floor like eels on the ocean bottom. The resuscitator slowly forced open his mouth, like a lover spreading his teeth with her tongue. The weight of the detritus pinned him to the floor on his back, one arm stuck uncomfortably under his right hip, the biting cold making him numb; listless. His brain was telling at him to move, to scream, but he was pinned down to the ground, and the relentless cold was sucking his energy. His vision started to grey, turning black at the edges.

He could feel something move in his mouth, something soft, something wet. It was a vine coming from the resuscitator. Just as he was drifting off, he could feel the wet vine drop down into his throat, and start to enter his lungs.

 

He woke up screaming.

Jessie was there already, her warm arms around him, whispering into his ear. As usual the nightmare had left him dripping in sweat, clammy, and shaking. His legs were tied up in the sheets, his hands touching his face, making sure nothing was blocking mouth. He took in several deep breaths, and started to relax. The panic ebbing with each easy breath. In his ear he could here Jessie whisper over and over, “You’re okay you’re okay you’re okay.” She must have been saying this for the last minute, but it was only now that he could hear her.

Jessie smoothed his forehead with her hand, pushing back the longer threads of thinning hair now lightly peppered with grey. She leaned over and kissed him on his brow, her naked breast pressed up against his arm.

“Bad this time?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said with a sigh. “I saw dad. In the water. He was trying to tell me something. Something important. Only…” he shrugged his shoulders.

Jessie made a hum of sympathy, and kissed him gently again. Patient as always. “It’s been a while since the last one,” she said.

“Six months,” he said. “Maybe longer.”

“Do you think,” she asked, “if it has something to do with the funeral?”

He shrugged his shoulders. They had buried the admiral yesterday. Practically the whole base, and half of D.C. had come out to pay their last respects. The funeral was typical of his father; plenty of pomp and show, and almost no time for the family. Even in his coffin, the old man seemed to scowl.

“Do you really have to go back already? Back in there?” she asked, hugging him to take any sting out of her words.

On the very first day of his much needed vacation, the day he had come out of the root, they had received the call from the hospital. By the time they arrived there was nothing anyone could do except hold the old man’s hand, and hope for a response. The next morning he was gone. Typical of the company, it offered Virgil bereavement days, but only if they didn’t coincide with vacation days. Five days later, on the day of his father’s funeral, they sent him an urgent email demanding his return.

Unbidden a scrap of a poem he had memorized in High School came to him:

Trojan, Anchises’ son, the descent of Avernus is easy.
All night long, all day, the doors of Hades stand open.
But to retrace the path, to come up to the sweet air of heaven,
That is labour indeed.

“What did you say?” Jessie asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “just a random thought.” He sat up in bed, and put a hand on her shoulder. “Yes,” he said quietly, “I have to go back. You know I do. I can’t think of why. The damn thing’s so close to done that it might as well be, but you never can tell when the company is involved. They seem to be especially talented at out-fooling anything that is foolproof.”

She snuggled up under his arm. “I know,” she said, “Its just…”

“I know,” he said. “I wish it was over too.”

Jessie was used to being a Navy widow, and prided herself on raising their kids on “spirit and spit,” as she liked to say. But what she did not say in public, or even around close family, was that she needed a break from being the sole parent as much as he needed one from his work. It was only when they were alone, the kids asleep in the other room, that she would say anything. And every time it broke his heart, although they both knew there was nothing either one could do.

“Soon” he said.

“Yes,” she replied with a sigh. “Very soon.”

Then she smiled, and lazily traced a line with a finger from his lips down the skin of his chest, and further – her hand coming to a stop on his inner thigh. “In the mean time,” she said. “Captain Virgil Davis Hammond, is hereby sentenced to comfort his poor wife for waking her up in the middle of the night, like some lowly middy.”

“This sounds serious,” he said as he leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips. “I take it, not just any comfort will do.”

“Oh no,” she said as she leaned into his embrace. “I have a very specific comfort in mind.”

“Are you sure?” he said teasingly, “I can call one of my middies if you like.”

“Oh no,” she whispered in his ear. “This comfort is reserved only for officers.”

“Officer? But madam. I appear to be out of my proper uniform.”

“For what I have in mind,” she whispered in his ear, “out of uniform is the proper uniform.”

 

The next morning Virgil found himself on a crowded train platform hurriedly trying to say goodbye to his family. The kids were already bored, and Jessie was tired from the night before. In the mad rush of the morning packing, nobody noticed his hands starting to shake. He made his goodbyes quickly, and got on the 10:30 train. 30 minutes later, hands digging into the arms on his seat and wishing he could have a drink, he watched the dark blur; the smooth bark of the airless high-speed tunnel zoom past his window at 640 kilometers per hour.

The tunnel, or the “Root” as it was called by the men who worked in it, was the longest construction project ever made by man. It stretched from the tip of New York’s Long Island, all the way to Plymouth in the U.K.. Counting the 34 floating seedpods, themselves the size of a small town, the Root spread some 5500 kilometers; the vast majority of which was built well below the surface of the Atlantic Ocean.

Only not one centimeter of it was built. It was all grown.

The inside of the Root was huge, large enough for several rail lines (including the airless high-speed tunnel Virgil was riding in). It held bike trails, footpaths, campsites, roads, hotels, and even a few massive casinos in three of the pods. The entire length was supposed to be opened to the public next month. By then, it was said, a man could hike or bike in comfort, all the way from the U.S. to England. That is, Virgil thought bitterly, if there was anyone left in the current political situation who wanted to.

What the company brochures rarely mentioned was that the inside of the Root, throughout its entire length, with exception of the inside of the high-speed tunnel, was completely carpeted, from one end to the other, in a lush semi-tropical jungle. All of the plants in the Root, including the Root wall itself, were genetically modified to act as one giant ever adapting highly complex ecosystem. So complex in fact, that no one exactly knew what it was doing at any one time or place. Plants could combine, their DNA replicating, in all kinds of surprising ways, and they often did. It was both a living eden, and a mad hatter’s dream. And the amazing thing was, this is precisely how it was intended to work.

 

After slightly more than 4 hours, the high speed train dropped Virgil off at Pod 16, which was the last completed stretch of the airless track on the American side of the Root. He dropped down to the next level, and caught the cargo train out to Pod 17. The Root connected to the English side of the tunnel was already complete. The last bits of the interior system of tracks and roads on the American side were being installed, the difficult airless high-speed rail being the last. The English had stopped their end at nodule 17.1, just shy of Pod 17, the middle most Seedpod. Ostensibly so the American’s could claim they grew the larger share of the tunnel, even though every one knew Harrison industries was an English company, and the majority of the technology to make the Root systems, including all of the genetically modified plants, were under English copyright law.

When Virgil arrived at the village commissary, he was tired, hungry, and in a foul mood. No one had greeted him at the Pod 17 station, and the light duty electric vehicles were all taken. He had been forced to slog his heavy bag through two miles of mud to the temporary camp where the workers slept and ate. The cool dry air inside the commissary felt great on his skin after his humid hike. By chance he had stepped into the diner line right behind Sibyl, the main secretary for the project. He reached up and gently tapped her on the shoulder. She quickly turned around, her face flashing from neutral to surprise as she recognized his him.

“Hey, Virge,” she said with a smile. “What’s ya doing here?”

Virgil set his bag down with a thump. “Dunno,” he said. “I got an urgent email telling me to catch the next fast train, so I did. I just walked in from the station. Didn’t anyone tell you I’d be coming?”

“Nope,” she said with a frown. “If I’d known I would have sent someone to fetch you. I’m sorry you had to walk, but it sure is nice to have you back.” The last part she said with a smile.

“Thanks,” he said. “I would say its nice to be back…”

“But you’d hate to lie,” Sibyl finished for him. “Yes, we know. How are the kids? Jessica?”

“Good and good.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your father,” she added, putting a hand on his shoulder in support. “That must have been rough.”

“Thanks, Sibyl,” he said gruffly. “It was, but its over now, and I think I have work to do. Do you happen to know where my crew is?”

“Sure,” she said pulling out at her ever present tablet, and manipulating the screen. “It looks like they just finished up the e-hap vine at 17.1, up next to the nodule wall. Right in front of the Brits, or so it looks,” she said as she zoomed in on an image. “Spitting on the enemy do you suppose?”

“Ha. More like swapping out some of that mule piss of ours for some real beer. Besides, you don’t believe all that ‘enemy’ talk to you?”

“Enemy? Hardly,” she said. “You know I did marry me a Brit once.”

“And…”

“And, he’s the best ex husband I ever had.”

They both laughed at this. Sibyl was tough as nails, and sharp as a tack. If half of what she said were true, she also had more ex-husbands than Virgil had dates.

He slung his drop bag over his shoulder and grabbed a food tray. They both loaded up their plates, careful to not slow down the line. They were just getting their drinks from the large refrigerated area further down, when Virgil remember something. “Almost forgot,” he said. “Something’s up with the company network. That, or my tablet. Do you know what that’s about? I can find outside sites no problem, but my tablet won’t pick up anything local.”

“Oh,” she said with a frown. Her first impulse was to reach for her tablet, but between her tray and her drink, her hands were full. “The company redid all the local network passwords yesterday,” she said looking for a place to conveniently set down her tray. “They were all hush-hush about it too. Um, let me see if I can send you yours.”

“That’s okay,” he said. He had just seen Rick Martinez, the man who ran his crew whenever he wasn’t around. “I think I can get it from Rick.”

“Are you sure?” she asked to be polite. She had stopped looking for a place to set down her tray down, and was heading towards her favorite table on the other side of the tent.

“Positive,” he said, walking behind her for a moment. “Hey, how come the password changes? Did they get another hack?”

“Nope,” she said over her shoulder, slowing down as they walked between tables. “There was some big to-do when Rogers showed up. Lots of suits and stuff. Making scary noises after security arrived and looked at our press area.”

“What’d Larry think of that?” he asked. Larry Simmons was their local communications/network expert.

“I don’t know,” Sibyl said. “He’s not here.”

“How about Johnston?” Charlie Johnston was Virgil’s nominal boss, although he tended to leave the captain and his crew to their own devices.

“He’s still on vacation as well,” she said.

“Victor?” Virgil asked, working his way up the company ladder.

“Nope.”

“Cummings?”

“Nope.”

“How about Lakey? He’s always here.”

“Nope. He’s not here either.”

“You mean to tell me, everyone in management is gone?” They had paused in the middle of an intersection of tables, disbelief in his voice. “Who’s in charge then?”

“Me,” she said brightly while stopping to look at him.

“Oh, I knew that,” he said with a smile. “I meant who’s pretending to work while you handle everything.”

She looked around to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard, then stepped closer, lowering her voice. “That would be Rogers. Him and whoever else he brought in from the blue world. Believe it or not, it was Lakey’s idea. He wanted to get the bosses rested up for the ceremony next month, so he put all of you on vacation at the same time. This place runs itself at this point, and he figured it would better for you guys to get your vacation pay before anything happened.”

“Anything?” He asked in a quite voice. “Why do I not like the sound of that?”

“You know a war with England is possible, right?”

He nodded his head.

She continued, “I would even go so far as to say it is likely, if the President has his way.”

“Please,” Virgil said. “Don’t remind me. I got to hear his saber rattling all last week. Funny how 2500 kilometers of tunnel tends to separate one from all that noise.”

“Don’t care for the 24 hour news cycle?” she asked.

“Not when I’m working with the guys the President wants to fight,” he said. “Harrison Industries may be only marginally more efficient then our government, and the limeys do take some time to get used to, but still they’re usually more helpful than our own company when it comes to getting things done. Look how much sooner they finished their end of the tunnel.”

This was a sore spot within the company, and the U.S. government. Harrison Industries had started later, and yet finished months sooner then their American counterpart. The press tried to play up the fact that the American side was longer, and thus took more time, but the crew who actually worked in the Root knew this to be bullshit.

“Now you’re starting to sound like one of those angry Anglophiles,” she teased, as she turned her body.

“Me?” said Virgil. “Not hardly. I just happen to think they brew a better beer. That’s hardly an Anglo trait. In fact I think it’s an Irish one.”

She laughed over her shoulder as she walked away. Virgil turned and headed for Rick, knowing if they weren’t already there, the rest of the crew would soon be.

 

Virgil was just setting his tray down when Rick looked up. “As I live and breathe,” Rick said. “Look what the cat drug in boys.”

There was a chorus of greetings from the crew as Virgil unslung his heavy drop bag, and set it on the empty table.

Hedrick was in the middle of another story, so Virgil ate his diner quietly, enjoying the moment. Dove, Jenkins and the rest of the crew sat in rapt attention, their heads all bent toward Hedrick, their mouths chewing almost in unison. When he finished, they all laughed, and slapped in him the back. Then Jenkins said aloud what most of them were thinking. “So when are you going to share your stories with more then just e-hap?” He asked.

Hedrick suddenly hunkered down, looking more embarrassed than happy.

“I’m serious,” Jenkins continued.

There were several murmurs of assent, then silence. As the quiet grew, the men turned their eyes towards Rick. He in turn looked towards Virgil and raised an eyebrow; clearly an unspoken question. Curious at how Rick would respond, Virgin nodded his head slightly towards Hedrick, as if to say, “go ahead.”

“I think,” said Rick, “that Hedrick will share his stories with the rest of the world, when he is damn good and ready to. And not a moment before.”

Hedrick looked relieved, and the tension at the table died immediately.

Virgil slid his tray aside, and pulled out his tablet. “So,” he said to no one in particular, “How’s the vine going?”

There was an instant chorus of groans and cat-calls. Virgil waited. Jenkins again, was the first to speak what they were all thinking.

“It’s a right dog’s breakfast, that one is,” said the rough spoken Aussie. Several members of the crew nodded their heads.

“So, not the just regular snafu?” Virgil asked.

Jenkins shook his head. “Not by half sir. They got us pulling out the vine, sir. Right after we put the damn thing into the wall.”

Virgil’s eyes must have gone wide as Rick spoke in Jenkin’s defense. “It’s true, Skipper” he said. “They told us to pull out the vine, just after we had finished linking it up. Damnedest thing I ever seen. I double-checked twice, just to be sure it wasn’t some kind of prank. The orders were legit.”

Rick’s voice had been calm, but there was a hint of anger underneath. Something else too, but Virgil couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Rick was usually defensive about their work, and was known to be a real fire-breather when provoked, but right now he seemed calm, almost relaxed. As he was thinking, Virgil noticed the rest of the table was silent; the crew looking at him; expecting. Then it hit him.

“You’re up to something,” he said quietly, pride mingling with fear in his chest. “Aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

The men at the table waited, tense. Rick looked down, and brought his hand to his mouth to cough.

“Uh, well, sir. I figured Brock and Daniels might have themselves a midnight walk tonight,” Rick spoke to the table, not making eye contact with his boss. “It being such a perfect night for a stroll and all.”

Brock was the fastest fitter on the crew. Everyone knew this. He had a casual way with the jungle that the rest of the crew envied. Sending him out made perfect sense. But Daniels, that was an interesting choice. Virgil had always suspected the quiet and dark man had once done field work for some kind of agency, and not the “nice” kind of field work either. He had very careful hands, and eyes that seemed to hold secrets; dark secrets.

Virgil smiled, “Yes,” he said. “I can see that. The perfect night for it in fact.”

He waited a moment, and then continued in a more serious tone, “Did anyone think to inform Dude? We might not want to surprise our friends on the other side of the nodule.”

The looming war had made regular communications between the English and American sides of the Root all but impossible. Like hundreds of men before them, the e-hap crew had created a way around the blockage. Dude was the nickname the crew used for the e-hap specialist on the English side of the Root. They didn’t know his real name, and it was never offered. Dude liked to effect a Californian delivery whenever he talked with the Americans, and liberally peppered his sentences with “dude”, as if this would cover his rather prominent east-end accent. Virgil could care less how the man spoke, as long as the e-hap system was up and running. The thought of so many people working on the Root without an emergency protection system made him shudder in horror. If he had to break a few rules to ensure the safety of those around him, he would do so. Without a qualm.

Dove, the normally quiet communications specialist spoke up. “Um, it’s all taken care of, sir.”

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “Should I ask?”

Dove looked thoughtful for a moment. “Probably not sir,” he said quietly.

Virgil glanced at Rick. His crew chief gave him a nod. That was all he needed. Some things were better for the boss to not know.

That reminded him of something else. Virgil slid his tablet next to his beer. “I have a problem, Dove,” he said to the networking specialist, “I’m hoping you can solve. Ever since I got back, I can’t get into the company network.”

“Ah,” Dove said. “The new security protocol.”

“Good, then you know,” Virgil said. “Can you fix it?”

Dove shrugged. “We all got new passwords yesterday, but you didn’t get one, right?”

Virgil nodded.

“Well, when they arrived, I thought something about mine looked familiar,” he said with growing animation. “So I ran a few tests on it. Turns out the password was just a simple variation on my login name, after turning it into hex, of course, and rounding up the odd integers to the next highest prime.”

“Uh,” Virgil said. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that again. This time in English?”

Dove gave him the same look he gave to all lesser mortals when talking about the more esoteric aspect of his job. “Let me see if I can say this in a way you’ll understand,” he said without any obvious condescension. The rest of the guys at the table rolled their eyes. It was a common phrase. “The company needed to redo their security, only for some reason they needed to do it quickly, globally, and for everybody. With me so far?”

Virgil nodded.

“So rather than replacing each and every password, they made up a simple fix instead. They remade everybody’s password, based on their login name, and – get this – using the same algorithm, every time.”

“So…” said Virgil, not getting Dove’s meaning.

“So,” said Dove. “This is amateur hour 101. A fix like this leaves a pretty obvious trail. Anyone with half a brain could find the pattern, turn it around, and hack our network. I’m surprised it hasn’t happened yet.” He sat back, managing to look both shocked and smug.

“So,” said Virgil carefully. “Does that mean you can help me to login?”

“Oh, that,” said Dove. “I think so, but I don’t know for sure. Here,” he said doing something on his tablet. A new file appeared on Virgil’s tablet named Charon. “Run that. It should generate a password for you. Just copy it to your net. prefs., and hit return.”

Virgil started the file. “Charon?” he asked, thinking all the while that what Dove had just done, transferring a file to an authorized tablet, was technically not possible.

“Don’t ask,” Dove said. He had a habit of giving his files the most obscure of names.

Virgil ran the app, and entered his name. It returned a long string of random looking number and letters. He pasted them into his network preferences, and suddenly he was in.

“Hot damn,” he said. “Looks like it works. Thanks, Dove. You’re a genius.”

“Just doing my job,” Dove replied with a shy smile. “Just doing my job.”

 

 

That night, the nightmare came to Virgil again, only this time more real, more vivid. Like the night before, he saw his father drift by in the murky water. The old Admiral had the same urgent look on his face, the same long grey hair swirling around him. This time, by carefully reading his lips, Virgil could just make out his father’s words, “the top branch. Take the top branch,” before the swirl of plants and debris obscured him.

Virgil woke up alone in his tent, throat raw from screaming and drenched in sweat. Why the admiral, he wondered? Why now? It just didn’t make any sense. And what in the world did “take the top branch” mean? He supposed it would be nice if he could step down into the dark pit of hell where they kept the old bastard, and ask the man himself. The problem was, even if he could go down that path Virgil wasn’t sure he would know what to say when he got there.

He could feel the dark walls of the Root calling him. The old fear always came back with the dark. He swallowed hard, and looked around his tent for something, anything. Then he laughed at himself and rolled out of bed, knowing sleep was no longer an option, at least for that night. On a hunch he checked Rick’s connection. Sure enough he saw a message sent from Daniels with a 3:30 time-stamp. It contained a single word. “Done”.

At least that went well, he thought. Then pulling out his tablet, he began to look though the network, trying to discover what else had been changed in his absence.

 

 

“Morning, Rick,” Virgil said as he handed the man a cup of coffee. Rick’s eyes were just slits, his hair tousled. The younger man had just managed to get his legs over the side of the bed, when Virgil entered his tent.

“Hey boss,” Rick squeezed out as his stretch turned into a yawn. “What’s up?”

Virgil hand him his tablet. It showed a map for the area around Pod 17. “Do you know anything about this,” he asked, his hand pointing to a flashing part on the tablet?

Rick took a sip of hot coffee, and winced at the strength. “Hum,” he said, holding up the tablet. “That doesn’t look right.” He was looking at a grid of all the various communications lines running through the Root.

Because the Root was grown, and not made, a certain amount of redundancy was built into its systems. This included the hardwiring of the communications. Everything from the internet to telephony were passed through any number of various cables that had been grown into the Root. This insured that communication could continue in the event of an unlikely emergency, or that they would continue after an evolutionary change in a local habitat, which was much more likely. Because the e-hap line had its own specific cable, the crew didn’t usually worry about the rest of communications. The e-hap system was designed to protect humans in the case of an emergency. It happened to tie into the regular communications systems, but only at every Pod. This was considered enough redundancy. Virgil had suggested they tie the e-hap cable into the rest of the communications system at every nodule, but the company had refused his request sighting the extra cost. Theoretically, either system could work on any cable, but that was logistically too difficult to implement in practice.

On Virgil’s map, Rick could trace the whole array of cables, both for communications and for e-hap. Most of the them – maybe 50 or 60 it was hard to count with blurry eyes – were colored red, indicating they were not in use. Only a single cable in Pod 17 was glowing the blue of “in use.” Rick absently scrolled the map, tracing the blue line as he sipped his coffee.

The entire Root was divided into 34 floating seedpods, each about 100 kilometers apart. The sections of the Root between each seedpod were again divided into 19 nodules, each approximately 5 kilometers apart. These nodule breaks acted as a protective barrier, a sort of airlock. They were primarily used during the construction of the Root as a safe wall for the workers to sleep behind while the Root was grown. When the Root was completed up to the next nodule, then the crew would grow new dwellings into the wall, and then move all their belongings forward from the last nodule. Thus the Root was completed 5 kilometers at a time. These nodule breaks not only provided a protective barrier, they also were used as storehouses for the various chemicals and nutrients needed to help the Root grow. Since the company never liked to invest in anything without a return, the left over crew housing at each nodule were later converted into hotels, emergency dwellings, or storage.

As Rick scrolled along the map, he could see that 20 or more blue cables were in use from the Long Island terminus all the way up to nodule 16.19, which was the last nodule before Pod 17. After nodule 16.19 there was just a single blue line running from nodule 16.19 through Pod 17, and up to nodule 17.1. More importantly, the e-hap cable, the very system that provided emergency protection to the hundreds of humans living in Pod 17, also was red after 16.19. Someone or some thing had cut it. Perhaps it was intentional.

Rick handed back the tablet. “I don’t know, skipper,” he said. “I’ve never seen that display before, the communications one.”

“Does your tablet have access to the communications cable array,” Virgil asked?

“Not that I know of. I only see the e-hap array.”

“Hum,” said Virgil. “Maybe it’s only available to directors or higher.” Virgil then pointed to the red e-hap cable running through Pod 17. “Do you suppose this has anything to do with Dove’s little fix?”

Rick shrugged his shoulders. “Dunno. I’d have to ask…”

“Ask who,” a woman’s voice interrupted?

Virgil spun around to see who had interrupted. Rick shot up so fast he spilled hot coffee on his chest.

A woman was standing in the tent entrance. She had long dark hair, a pretty smile, and dressed as if she was going on a safari. A safari with stylish high-heels. She was young, but the way she rested her hands on her hips suggested a confidence rare for her age. Her comfortable stare revealed a shrewd intelligence behind sharp eyes. This was a woman used to getting her way.

“What the…” Rick yelled, ineffectively brushing burning coffee off his bare chest.

“Who in the hell…” Virgil said, taking a second to get over his surprise, “are you?”

“Amanda,” the woman said, holding out her hand. “Amanda Waters. Reuters.”

“Oh” said Rick, as if that explained her presence.

Virgil leaned over and took her hand. “Virgil Hammond,” he said. “A bit early for reporters, isn’t it?”

“Late actually,” she said. “I took the last train out.

Virgil looked at her for a moment thinking. There was something about her accent that bothered him. “Pardon me for asking,” he said, “but why the hell are you here?”

“I’ve been asking that myself,” she said. “Ever since I got to the station, and found no car waiting for me.” She pulled out her notebook. The back and sides were covered with stickers, layer upon layer. Many worn down from use.

“I received this,” she said, turning her notebook around to show Virgil an email, “yesterday. Under the circumstances, I thought it was, uh, interesting. When I got to the camp, the main office was closed, so I went looking for your tent. Since you weren’t there either, someone kindly suggested I check here. So here I am.”

Virgil looked at the email. It was an invitation for one Amanda Waters, of Reuters News Agency, to come to Pod 17 and see the work of the e-hap crew. It mentioned Virgil’s name specifically. To his untrained eye, the email looked legitimate. He just wish he knew who had sent it, because it sure as hell didn’t come from him.

He smiled and held up Amanda’s tablet. ”Do you mind if I have a copy of this,” he asked?

“Go right ahead,” Amanda replied. “First time you’ve seen it then?”

“Something like that,” he said as he sent the email to his own tablet. “I believe,” he continued, handing back her tablet, “there’s been some kind of mistake.”

“I usually get that when I arrive,” Amanda said casually as she put her notebook away.

“You do,” said Rick after tugging on a shirt? “That’s a rather curious response.”

She gazed at both of the men levelly. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

Virgil glanced at Rick, who shrugged his shoulders in response. “Should we,” he asked?

“I’m an investigative reporter,” she said. “A good one. I have a reputation for uncovering things. Big things. Remember the little dust up with the P.M. last year. The one with the girl in the pink dress?”

“Oh, I remember that,” said Rick. “Didn’t he lose his job or something.”

“Or something,” she said, the irony obvious in her tone. The scandal had cost the Prime Minister his job, and had broken his coalition. Even in America it had been big news.

“That was your story,” Risk asked in awe?

“It was,” she said.

Rick let out a low whistle. “Wow,” he said!

“But this,” said Virgil indicating her invitation, “looks more like a fluffy PR piece. That doesn’t make sense. Isn’t that a bit low for you?”

She gave him the half smile she normally reserved for idiots, and newspaper editors. “Put it this way,” she said in a conspiratorial tone. “Even reporters need a holiday every once in a while.”

Something about her fierce gaze made Virgil think this was not just a holiday for her. Then it hit him: Her accent. She spoke with a sort of European flair; a flat toned English with a lot of Americanisms thrown on top. But when she said the word “holiday” he realized she was actually English, as in born in England. He looked at her sharply, wondering how much he could trust her. She must be a shark, he thought. But how much of one? Out loud he asked, “You had breakfast yet, Ms. Waters? Or is it Amanda?”

“Amanda is fine,” she said. “And if that’s an invitation, then no I have not broken my fast.”

“Good,” Virgil said, “because we have a long day ahead of us, and I’m starving. Shall we go?”

They stepped outside, waiting long enough for Rick to put on a company issue coverall. Then they walked to the commissary in silence.

 

*

 

After breakfast, Virgil slipped to Dove the anonymous email that had been sent to Amanda. He asked the networking specialist of he could check out the email, and see if he could discover its origin. On a hunch, he also sent Dove the urgent email that had cut short his vacation.

When the rest of the e-hap business had been concluded, Virgil turned to Rick and asked, “Can you please take our guest up to the uniform tent, and get her some clothes?”

Rick nodded his head, but Amanda had a different reaction. “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed,” she asked?

“Nothing,” he said, “if you’re safe and in the middle of a city. This place isn’t a city, and it sure as hell isn’t safe.”

“Excuse me,” she said in an acid tone, “but I’ve covered stories in a war zone with machine guns going right over my head, and in the arctic during a blizzard where the snow fall was measured in feet-per-hour, not inches. So I find myself wondering what can be so dangerous about working on the inside of a tunnel that also happens to be the world’s longest park? Are you one of those idiots who thinks I can’t take care of myself because I’m a woman, or do I need to worry about roving hoards of knife-wielding bambis?”

She stared at Virgil without moving, a faint blush on her cheeks. Virgil stared back calmly. After a moment he said, “I’m a bit busy this morning, Ms. Waters, so I don’t have the time to explain to you the depths of your ignorance. If you are going to work with my crew, you will dress like them. Period. You will especially wear any and all safety equipment that I deem necessary. There are no exceptions.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he stopped her with a hand.

“And while you are considering these conditions, did it occur to you that you might be more successful in your investigation if you are dressed like the rest of the us? That is, if you don’t stick out like an idiot from the blue?”

Before she could answer he turned to Rick and said, “Get the crew looking over the network, as we planed. When you’re done with her, both of you can join me at the stage. I have a feeling that Rogers is there already. Maybe we can get some answers on what the hell is going on around here.”

“Aye, aye, skipper,” Rick said. “We’ll get right on it.”

With that, Virgil put his tray away, and headed out into the pod looking for whoever was supposed to be in charge.

 

*

 

“Is he always like that,” Amanda asked?

“Like what,” said Rick? The two of them were walking up hill towards the back of the haphazard chaos of the tent city, searching for the one that held uniforms and safety equipment. The uniform tent had been moved twice. Each time someone had failed to update its location on the network. Hence the search.

“You know, like a total dictator.” She dropped her tone an octave and grunted an impersonation of Virgil, “You will dress how I say. There are no exceptions.”

Rick laughed at her impression, then his face sobered. “I know he seems like a total dick at times, but the man does have his reasons.”

“Like what,” she said, her voice serious? “Why do I need to dress like one of the crew? I don’t understand. And what can possibly be so damned dangerous inside a stupid tunnel?”

“Really,” said Rick? “Do you want to know, or are you being sarcastic?” They had climbed up high enough along the circular walls of the pod that they now had a nice view of the tent city below, and rest of the pod beyond.

“Really,” she said, making it sound like a challenge. “Educate me.”

“Okay. Lets see here,” he said. “First off, its not a tunnel. Its a root. The Root. Only those living under the blue call it a tunnel.”

“Under the blue,” she asked?

“Ha,” he said with a laugh. “Its a pejorative term. It means someone who lives outside, under the blue sky.”

“As opposed to…”

“Rooties. Those of us who live in the Root. And its in the Root, not on it. Got it?”

“Sure,” she said. “But why the distinction? Why do you care if its called a tunnel or a root?”

“Because a tunnel is made. A root is grown. If you assume that this place was made; manufactured, then you’ll start to get comfortable; complacent.

“For instance,” he continued bending over and grabbing a plant with distinctive long green stalks. “Do you see this plant?”

She nodded her head.

“Do know what kind of plant it is?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I don’t either,” he said inspecting the plant more carefully. “In fact I’ve never seen one like it before.” The Rick grabbed the plant by the base, and in an easy motion, pulled it, roots and all, out of the ground.

Immediately the plant started writhing, its long green stalks swaying back and forth as if caught in a windstorm that no one else could feel. The base of the stalks turned darker in color, and then transformed again to a bright red while leaving the tips still the same distinctive green. Amanda was surprised at it’s reaction. She’d never seen a plant move on its own before.

Rick was still holding the plant up, but was now looking around them. “Take a look at the plants around us. Notice the ones like this one?”

Amanda saw that scattered around them were several plants similar to the one Rick held. “What about them,” she asked?

“Did you notice that they’re getting closer?”

“Huh,” she said. Looking around a second time she suddenly noticed that all the plants with long green stalks were getting closer. “What in the world,” she said as she took an unconscious step nearer to Rick? “They are getting closer.”

Rick tossed the plant in a slow curve that took it to a open spot some 10 feet away. It landed on it’s root, and immediately stopped gyrating. Within a minute its stalks were back to their original green, and the plants around them were moving back to their previous locations.

“Okay,” Amanda said. “That was creepy. Did you know they would do that?”

“Not really,” he said. “We’ve seen plants that look similar. We called them zombie plants. But I haven’t seen one since before Pod 10.”

“Zombie plants? Why do I not like the sound of that?”

“Oh, its nothing like that,” Rick said. “They’ll surround you, but they usually don’t attack anything bigger than a rabbit.”

“Attack,” she asked, surprise in her voice?

“Sure. Its a food source. Plants that move fast need protein. Some more than others. The zombie plant hunts in groups, surrounding their prey and strangling them, but I don’t know what these plants do.”

Amanda could feel a rising tide of horror. She noticed Rick was smiling when he said this, watching the plants with obvious interest. “You like them, don’t you?” It more accusation then question. “Are you a botanist or something?”

“Me,” Rick said? “A botanist? Negative. I’m a sailor. Submarines, or boats as we called them. Nuclear powered. I was a commander hoping to make captain, when they scrapped half the fleet. I had worked under Virgil in the fleet, so when the Navy turned me out, I hooked up with him here.

“You’re a submariner? Why in the world would they hire you in a place like this?”

Rick turned to her, no longer watching the plants. “When they started this damn thing, the suits living under the blue thought us submariners, as you call them, would benefit the project from our years of living in and around high pressure containers.”

“Were they right?”

He shrugged his shoulders “Hard to say. This place is one mother of a pressure container, but that’s just one its many dangers. The company may hire you for your expertise, but then happily ignore that expertise when it suits them.”

“Have they done that before,” she asked?

“Once. Before my time.”

“What happened?”

“A lot of people died, is what happened. We lost a whole section of the Root. Wiped out an entire crew. Set us back three months or more. These walls,” he said stamping his foot for emphasis, “are the only thing between us and several thousand tons per square inch of ice cold sea water. Just like a submarine working at this depth, any flaw in the pressure vessel and Boom, we’re screwed.”

“Oh.”

“Yea, oh”

“So is that why your boss is so uptight about safety.”

“Virgil? I guess you could say that. He lost a lot of friends that day. An accident like that tends to make a man pretty cautious. That or pretty dead. Say what you want, but Virgil’s still not dead. That’s good enough for me.”

Amanda was looking at Rick with new found respect. “Okay,” she said. “I think I see what Virgil meant about the ‘depths of my ignorance’. I take it there’s more that can kill me than a hole in the tunnel, oops root, or a group of predatory plants.”

Rick nodded his head, and then stopped. “I’ll be damned,“ he said, looking off in the distance.

“What?”

“The uniform tent. It’s right over there. Come on.”

Rick started down the hill in the direction he was pointing. Amanda followed, her head still full of questions. “So,” she said. “Why the suit?”

“Oh that’s easy,” he said over his shoulder. “The suit has a special layer that protects you from certain chemicals. It blocks most of the amino acids and such that we use to make the Root grow or change. Some of these things are pretty nasty. Spill them on an unprotected arm, and you’ll have yourself a nice little burn. Or worse.”

“So it’s like a chemical warfare suit?”

“Similar. Not as heavy, because we’re not trying to stop radiation, just carbon compounds.”

“Any thing else?”

“Well it protects you from the jungle, but it also protects the jungle from you.”

“Jungle?”

“That’s what we call the green stuff everywhere in the Root. In the wilds.”

“Okay,” she said. “Jungle. Why does it need protecting from us.”

“You know this whole Root was grown from one plant, right?” He used a hand to indicate the entire Pod and Root.

“Sure.”

“Okay. Well the Root needs to be able to grow without much supervision, otherwise it would be too costly to make. Make sense? But the Root also needs to be easy to modify; to edit if you will. Otherwise we couldn’t add anything to it. With me so far?”

“Sure,” said Amanda. “Grows on it’s own, but also easy to change.”

“Great,” he said as they came up to the uniform tent. He walked inside, grabbed a set of boots, gloves, a coverall in her size, and then added a e-hap stump to the stack. He handed her the stack, and pointed to the changing area. When she had stepped behind the curtain, he asked, “Can you hear me in there?”

“Sure,” she said.

“Okay,” he continued. “So the Root was designed to be sensitive to certain compounds, mostly amino acids, which we use to manipulate it. This sensitivity has a few consequences; uh side effects. For instance, I noticed you’re wearing perfume, right?”

“Well, yes,” Amanda said from behind the curtain as she struggled into her coverall.

“We found out that some perfumes will also effect the Root. Causing it to grow in different ways. Sometimes bad ways. Not just perfumes either. Many antiperspirants and deodorants effect it too.”

“Great,” she said. “So I get to wear an ugly orange outfit, and stink.”

“Well we do have deodorants which don’t effect the Root, so it’s not that bad.”

“I was being sarcastic Rick. I’ve lived with my own stick before. Please ignore me and continue.”

“Um, okay,” he said. “The point is certain chemicals, especially petroleum compounds for some reason, really mess with the Roots structure.”

“Is that why there’s only electric cars around here,” she asked as she came out from behind the curtain? “I thought that was some stupid green thing, or something.”

“Nope,” he said. “Its not about being green, its much more pragmatic than that. Need help with your boots?”

She was lacing up her boots, and was having trouble understanding how they fit with her coverall. He showed her how to lace the boots, and then slip the coverall down over the top of the boots. Two strips of velcro gave the suit a strong seal.

“So,” she said, “the suit protects us from the Root, and the Root from us. Gas and oil makes the walls go wobbly, and half the jungle can eat us if we’re too slow. Did I miss anything?”

“Just this,” Rick said holding up an e-hap stump.

“What’s that do,” she asked?

“If you’re lucky,” he said. “Nothing. If not, then it saves your life.”

She looked at the stump. It looked like a dried out root on a string, somewhat like a small brown carrot with a lot of fringe hanging from the point on it’s bottom. On top of the carrot was a small knob that looked like a brown radish with a tuft of very short hair spiking out the top. “What do I do with it?”

“Simple,” he said. “One, wear it around your neck at all times.” As he said this, he put the string over her head. “And I mean at all times. Two, in case of a breach – if you see a wall of water coming for you – put this knob in your mouth, and keep it there.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he replied.

“So it’s helps you breathe. Like some kind of respirator?”

“Something like that.”

“Something like that,” she said as she held her up to look at it. “It’s pretty disgusting looking isn’t it? You said wear it at all times. Will it go off in the shower?”

“Good question. No. It requires something more than water to activate. Pressure too, I think. I’m not sure. You could take it swimming with you, and nothing would happen, except it’d get wet.”

“Hum,” she said letting it drop. “How’s it work, anyway?”

He looked at her with a level gaze. “You don’t want to know.”

“I don’t?”

“No.”

“Is it that bad,” she asked?

“Worse.”

“Has it ever been tested?”

“In the field? Once.”

“Once. Did the guy using it survive?”

“Something like that,” he said. “You can ask him yourself if you like, but I doubt he’ll tell you more than he told me.”

“So you know this guy,” she asked?

“Sure. It’s Virgil. My boss.”

 

*

 

Rick and Amanda caught up with Virgil at the site for the stage; an area which had been set aside to host the opening ceremonies celebration in a few months. The stage itself was a simple platform, with a semi-circle of bleachers surrounding it. The entire complex as built into a natural amphitheater slightly upslope on the pod wall. Some of the company staff had erected a large white backdrop behind the stage, and projected old movies on it on the weekends. Otherwise the place was usually deserted; not run-down as much as unfinished.

Rick was just explaining this to Amanda when they rounded a slight hill, and the stage came into view. The area below it was littered with electric cars parked every which way, and on the rim of the amphitheater could be seen dozens of workmen. As they approached they saw a steady stream of workers enter in and out of the complex, many carrying lights and other stage equipment. Amanda pointed out several rack mounted electronic devices that were used for online video editing, and broadcasting. The speed at which the men were working made it clear they expected to finish soon.

At the entrance to the bleachers they found Virgil deep in a conversation with two men in suits. One of the men held a phone to his ear, and looked on distractedly, while Virgil spoke to the other. Amanda noticed that neither man was wearing one of the brown, ugly e-hap stumps. Nor were any of the other workers. She pointed this out to Rick as they approached the group wearily.

“What I’m trying to understand,” said Virgil in a calm voice, “is what you are doing here?”

“I already told you,” said the man in the exasperated tone like the one adults use when speaking to slow children, “we’re finishing up the stage for the opening ceremonies.” The man’s face was round, his tone pale. Pink dots of frustration were starting to show on his cheeks.

“I can see that,” Virgil said calmly, “but what I don’t see is a reason to do this now. Or a reason to use outside people for a job the company can handle. Or a reason why none of the workers seems to be wearing a single piece of safety gear.”

“We’ve already been over this,” said the pale man, “We examined all the relevant safety data, and felt the risk was acceptable.”

“Who examined the data,” said Virgil? “How did they come to these conclusions?”

“The company safety experts, that’s who,” said the pale man.

The other man hung up his phone, and turned to the pale man. “Who is this man, Rogers? And why is he here harassing us? We’ve got work to do.”

The pale man, Rogers, turned to the man with the phone. “He’s Hammond. An on-site director. In charge of a small part of the networking structure; the emergency human protection system.”

The man looked at Virgil as if he were an insect. “So what’s he doing here?”

“I don’t know,” said Rogers. “He was supposed to be on vacation, like the others.”

“So get rid of him,” said the man with the phone. “We’re already behind schedule. We don’t have time to do deal with union crap.”

“Its not union crap, sir,” said Virgil showing anger for the first time. “Company employees are explicitly exempted from union rule. It is safety crap. Crap that directly effects all of our safety.”

As he spoke, some workmen passed pushing with a dolly stacked high with 20 liter drums. One of the men asked Rogers were he wanted the load.

“Take it to the back of the stage,” Rogers said impatiently, pointing towards the entrance under the bleachers. “Leave it there.”

Moving casually, so as to not attract attention, Amanda pulled out her camera, and took a photo of the dolly. The other were to busy to notice the labels on the drums. They read: Enamel Paint: White.

Virgil continued, “I’m afraid you gentlemen have left me no other choice. I’m going to have to shut this site down until it meets the minimal safety standards.”

“You can’t do that,” said the man with the phone. “You’re just a director.”

Rogers interrupted, “Actually he can. Sr. Directors on safety systems do have job oversight authority.”

Virgil crossed his arms and smiled. Rogers looks worried.

“But,” Rogers continued, “he needs to have another Senior Director or higher back him up. On his own, he can’t stop us.”

Virgil’s face turned dark. He was hoping Rogers wouldn’t know that last bit.

The other man picked up his phone. “I think I know how to fix this,” he said as he started to dial. “Get me Samuels, in the Company,” he said into his phone. “And hurry.”

The man with the phone separated from the others, and spoke animatedly. Rick approached Virgil, and asked quietly, “who is that joker?”

Virgil shrugged his shoulders. “Some government bureaucrat,” he said. “I don’t know from where.”

Rogers hissed, “He’s not just any bureaucrat, you idiot. Don’t you know who that is?”

Before Virgil could answer Amanda passed her tablet in front of him. He looked down on the screen and saw a photo of the man with the phone. Under the photo was the caption, “Wallace Oscar. Chief of Staff, President Flintridge.”

“Holy shit, skipper,” Rick whispered. “I think you just pissed off the wrong guy.”

Virgil smiled. “Well, its not the first time,” he said in a whisper. “Probably not the last either.”

 

*

 

One hour later the three met up at the bottom of the ersatz parking lot. Virgil had stayed beside Rogers pestering the man while Rick had taken Amanda around the back and looked into things.

“Well,” Virgil asked?

“They’re definitely ramping up for a show,” Rick said. “Amanda thinks the stage might be ready as soon as tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” said Virgil? “Hum. Why the rush?”

“Amanda’s got a theory,” Rick said, “but I’m not convinced.”

Virgil turned to Amanda giving her a look more fitting for the Captain on the bridge of a fast attack nuclear sub, than a Director on a construction project. “Well,” he said?

“Its the govcam network,” she said. “A wireless camera array the government uses for all press conferences. The networks like it because no one has to lug their own camera equipment, and the government likes it because they can control the camera angles. You just tap into the network with your press credentials password, and take the shot directly from their feed.”

“Go on,” said Virgil.

“Well, I saw one of the White House staffers setting up the govcam gear, so I went over for a chat. He was very careful not tell me anything, but while I was talking to him I noticed the input on his tablet was cycling through all the different camera locations. All the cameras were hooked up, as near as I can tell. Baring any lighting snafus, and sound, the system is ready to go.”

“So the camera network is almost up, you say. Is this the normal lead time for a press conference? Say in,” Virgil glanced at his tablet for the time, “14 hours?”

“Oh they could have it up sooner than that sir. The govcam system it largely automatic. I’ve seen them set the full array up for a campaign stop in less than two hours. 14 hours is more than enough time.”

“Hum,” said Rick, stroking his chin. “So we have a working camera network. What are they using it for?”

“Well I noticed something else while I was poking around back there,” Amanda continued. “Several of the workers looked familiar, so I ran an image match. They’re secret service. I’m sure of it.”

Virgil looked at Amanda, then at Rick. “Well,” he said, “that explains Flintridge’s Chief of Staff, doesn’t it. So the old man is going to come here for a press conference, eh? I guess that explains all the machinations by the company.”

“You really think he’s coming,” asked Rick?

“Well it does add up. Except that technically he’ll be broadcasting only six kilometers away from what he considers enemy soil.”

Rick let out a low whistle. “That sounds like a security nightmare, for whoever is in charge,” he said. “I’d hate to have that job right now.”

“That reminds me,” said Virgil. “When I first got back, Sibyl mentioned a security guy who came by last week, looked at out setup, and had kittens. Now we know why.”

“Do you think that’s why they’ve been ripping out the cables at 17.1,” Rick asked?

“That makes a certain kind of sense,” Virgil said.

“Wait a minute,” interrupted Amanda. “They’re ripping out cables?”

“Yes,” said Rick. “Up at nodule 17.1; where the American side of the Root ends…”

“…and the English side begins,” Amanda continued. “I’m aware of the place. What’s this about the cables?”

“Well,” said Rick, “last week we finished laying all but the very end of the e-hap cable; you know, the vine that these things,” he held up hie e-hap root, “connect to. Then the day before Virgil shows up, we get an order telling us to rip our connection out of the ground. To physically disconnect it.”

Virgil pulled out his tablet while Rick was speaking. He handed it to Amanda. “Last night,” he said. “I was up late doing some checking, and ran across this.”

She looked at the map, figuring the connections out right away. “Well, this looks pretty crazy, but it does make some kind of sense. If I was going to park the President here, then I’d probably want to cut off all communication ties with the English as well.”

Amanda studied the map some more. “But there something I don’t get? Why sever e-hap? I can see why the regular network cables might be cut, but why disconnect your safety net?”

Rick and Virgil’s eyes met. “Because the company is cheap,” said Rick.

“Cheap,” Amanda asked?

Virgil rolled his eyes. “The communications cables, really they’re vines, were supposed to be a completely separate system from the e-hap vine. But some idiot under the sky came up with the brilliant idea of using the same protocol on both. It was one of those ideas that looks good on paper, but fails terribly in practice. We had the hardest time keep the signals independent from each other. It didn’t help that the Root itself tended to mix the vines up at every opportunity.”

Rick sighed, “It was a wonderful cluster-fuck,” he said. “Worst still, we got the blame whenever our vines “commingled” with communications. Anyway, we eventually found a work around, but by then it was too late to go back as re-lay the entire vine, which is what we should have done.”

“What this means,” Virgil added, “is that the e-hap system had to be made flexible enough so that it could use any vine it could find.”

“And the communications system,” said Rick, “can do the same.”

“So,” said Amanda, “the e-hap network will work over the communications vine?”

“And vice-versa,” said Rick.

“Oh,” said Amanda. “That’s why they cut the e-hap vine. It wasn’t secure.”

“Exactly,” said Virgil. “They have sacrificed our safety for their security. Well said.”

“So,” Amanda said. “What do we do now?”

“Good question,” said Virgil. “I know what Rick was going to do, and know what I am going to do, but the big question is, what do you want to do Ms. Waters? I thought you were on vacation.”

“Vacation! Don’t be silly. There’s a story here, I can feel it.”

“This just in,” Rick interrupted. “Private company cuts own network to provide security for head of state. Film at 11:00.”

They all shared a laugh.

“Okay,” she admitted, “So it doesn’t look like much of a story. Sometimes that happens.”

“Well you can always do a piece on a mid level manager loosing his job,” said Virgil.

“Naw,” Amanda said. “That’s all too common. Now if you were to loose your job for uncovering some grand conspiracy… now that would be interesting.”

“Great,” Virgil said. “I’ll start looking for a big fat juicy grand conspiracy, just as soon as I get a spare moment. In the mean time,” he continued, “I think it’s time we did a little divide-and-conquer. What do you think Rick? Are you up for a little travel?”

“Sure thing, skipper,” Rick said. “What do you have in mind?”

“Well,” Virgil said, gathering the two around him, “I think we should…”

 

*

 

An hour later Virgil and Amanda were traveling down a winding service road between Pod 17 and nodule 16.19. The brush and grasses all brilliant colored under the harsh artificial sunlight from the center of the Root. Rick was pointing out various plants over the steering wheel, when suddenly he stopped the truck. “What in the world is that,” he said, pointing to a spiky plant near the side of the road?

“Is something wrong,” Amanda asked?

Virgil got out and walked over for a closer look, leaving the truck door open.

The plant looked a bit like a cactus, its narrow leaves long and straight, coming out of the central root like spikes on a porcupine. Near the base, the leaves were a deep green, but that color slowly faded until it became a silvery grey near the tips. The longer leaves near the top were easily a meter and a half, or longer. “That color,” Virgil said.

“What about it,” Amanda asked, automatically taking pictures?

“It doesn’t look right. The tips look more like metal than cellulose. It doesn’t make any sense.”

She brought the view-finder tablet to bare on one of the leaves. Under its magnification it looked a lot like raw iron. The very tips already showing a faint microscopic dusting of a golden red. Was that rust?

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing about it,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“It gives you great wireless reception.”

“Why do you say that,” Virgil asked?

Amanda held up her tablet. “The border,” she said. “Around the screen. See how green it is?”

“Sure.”

“There’s an app I run for plotting wireless reception. Its handy for when I need to find a better signal, but don’t want to look away from what I’m doing.”

“That’s useful?” he asked, sounding unconvinced.

“Sure. When people are shooting at you, and you want to call for help.”

Virgil smiled. “Okay. I can see that. Go on.”

“So watch this,” she said. Holding her notebook so Virgil could see the screen she slowly moved it towards the plant. From a distance, the edge of the screen stayed grey, but as it got close to the plant, it turned green.

“Hum,” he said. “Do you suppose it’s acting like some sort of antenna?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

Virgil took a knife from his pocket, and cleanly cut off one of the long thin leaves near its base. It was stiff, and almost perfectly straight along its length. He gave the leaf a shake and watched it vibrate.  “Try it now,” he said planting the soft end in the ground, “on just this leaf.”

Amanda held up her tablet to the leaf, but the signal didn’t change. Virgil tried placing the end of the leaf up in the air, and back near the base of the plant, but it still did not improve the reception.

“Well, I don’t know what it is, but its not an antenna,” he said sliding the leaf into the back of the truck, “I guess that’s one more thing to ask the Chemist about.”

“The what,” Amanda asked as she slid onto the seat on the passenger side?

“The Chemist,” Virgil said.

“Who’s that?”

“Someone. Don’t worry. You’ll like him,” he said. “He’s English.”

 

*

 

“What’s that,” Amanda asked?

“What’s what,” said Virgil?

“That thing. That wall in front of us?”

For the past 10 minutes they had been driving slowly, focusing on the “antenna plants” as they called them. Virgil had noticed their spacing seemed weird; they were never next to each other, and somehow always about the same distance apart. The rest of the journey had been spent testing his hypothesis.

“Oh,” said Virgil noticing the wall in front of them that completely blocked the entire Root. “That’s nodule 16.19. Our destination.”

From a distance the nodule wall looked smooth and brown, but when they got closer Amanda could see it was rough like a giant tree trunk. There was a narrow tunnel cut through the nodule wall right at the service road. They traveled through it in the dark a good 10 meters before emerging on the other side.

Like the tents in the Pod 17 village, small houses mushroomed from the Root wall at nodule 16.19 in a haphazard fashion. When Amanda asked Virgil why there were no straight streets, or houses in a clean rows, he told her that the little nodule villages were actually designed to offer the maximum view to each dwelling while keeping a a high level of privacy. “Each one is different too,” he told her. “Some are mountainous with little streams running through them, and some are more flat and spare, like a desert.”

“They put that much effort into employee housing,” she asked?

“No. Oh nooo,” he said with some exaggeration. “This is the company we’re talking about,” he continued. “The nice ones were designed to be motels. That they doubled as employee housing was just a lucky perk.”

Near the back of the village they found a beat-up work truck parked to one side of the road. Virgil pulled up beside the old truck. As the two got out they could hear the sounds of cursing and yelling. They searched around until they found the source of the noise on the other side of the old truck. Standing hip deep in a freshly dug hole was a short dark man who was grabbing at the base of a plant, and pulling on it for all of his life. That the plant didn’t budge only made the man more angry. Not hearing the two over the constant stream of his own curses, Virgil and Amanda approached until they were right behind him. The plant he was pulling finally let go with a resounding pop, sending the him sprawling. That was when Amanda noticed several more of the same plant were pilled up beside the hole.

“Having fun, Ahmed,” Virgil asked?

The man spun around, surprised, then gave a loud cheer when he recognized Virgil. “Well if it ain’t the old sea dog himself,” he said. “How fairs it Captain?”

Virgil reached down and clasped his hand. “About as good as usual you damn limey.”

Both men smiled and slapped each others shoulders.

“I take it you know each other,” Amanda said with a smile.

“Ahmed,” Virgil said. “Allow me to introduce you to my conscious. This is Ms. Amanda Waters, of Reuters News.”

Ahmed lifted his hand, and then hesitated when he noticed how dirty it was. Amanda took his hand in hers, and shook it anyway.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Waters. Its good to see Virgil keeping better company.”

“Thank you, ah Ahmed. And its Amanda. Ms. Waters is my mother’s name.”

“I see,” said Ahmed. “So what brings you to the middle of nowhere, if I may ask, Amanda?”

“Well when I got an invitation I thought at first this would be a nice little working vacation, but the more I hear, the more its sounds like a story is about to break.”

“Really,” said Ahmed, looking towards Virgil with a raised eyebrow?

“We’ve got a bit of a problem with the company at the amphitheater,” Virgil said. “Come on up out of that hole, and I’ll tell you about it.”

Virgil reached down and helped pull Ahmed out of the pit. Seeing him next to Virgil made Ahmed look even shorter and darker. Amanda could see bit of gray in his otherwise jet black hair, and then saw a twinkle in his eyes like a look of mischief. His skin was too dark to be black Irish, so she guessed he was Pakistani, but his accent made him as English as the King. Maybe even more so.

Then she noticed the pile of plants over his shoulder, the ones he had been pulling out of the ground. “Say, aren’t those the same antenna plants we saw before,” she asked?

“What,” said Ahmed? “Antenna plants?”

Virgil walked over to them and examined them more carefully. “They sure look the same,” he said.

“Those things,” Ahmed said? “I found them all over the access box here for the communications cables. I noticed the network was down past this point, so I pulled them out figuring they were some sort of parasite like the green meanies we found at 10.12.”

“You said you found them all together,” Virgil asked?

“Yep. In one big clump. They had roots going down right into the cable node.”

“That’s weird. On our drive over we saw many of these, but they were always individual plants, never in groups, and their spacing was pretty unusual.”

“Unusual,” said Ahmed? “In what way?”

Amanda held up her notebook, and looked for the data table. “They were always 78 meters apart,” she said manipulating the table. “Plus or minus about a meter. Yep. No variation over or under 67 centimeters.”

Ahmed looked over to her. “You’re sure about that?”

“Positive,” Virgil answered for her. “We line-of-sight measured a couple, extrapolated some, and then did random checks. Everything we found was remarkably consistent. I’ll bet if we GPS’d them, we’d find they’re all within 20 centimeters, more or less, of exactly 78 meters.”

“Well that is unusual,” said Ahmed. “But I don’t know if that means anything.”

Just then, Amanda interrupted them. “That’s weird,” she said.

Both men turned to look at her. “The network,” she continued, “the wireless is down.”

“Huh,” said Ahmed? “It was up when I got here.”

Virgil pulled out his own notebook and checked. “Yep. It’s down.” He turned to Ahmed pointing at the hole. “You said that is the node for the communications cables,” he asked?

“Yes, somewhere under there. Why?”

He picked up the last plant Ahmed had pulled. Its root waving weekly in the air. Dropping down into the hole, Virgil dug out a spot until he could see the cables in the bare dirt. He then placed the roots of the antenna plant on top of the cables, and gently cover them all with lose soil. Guessing what he was up to, Amanda held her notebook near the tips of the plant, and watched the border of her screen.

“Grey,” she said. “Grey. Oops, light green. Greener. Green. Looks like we have wireless again.”

Virgil took out his own notebook, and laid it on the edge of the pit. Ahmed look confused. “Can someone tell me what is going on,” he asked?

“When we were driving out,” Virgil said while checking the signal on his own notebook. “Amanda noticed that the antenna plants, as we called them, seemed to increase wireless reception. We thought the plants might act as some kind of antenna, hence the name, but when I cut off an individual leaf, it didn’t work like one; it didn’t help reception at all.”

“So you think this plant acts as a booster or something? Amplifying the signal?”

“Something like that,” said Virgil. “It certainly looks like its working as a wireless router for the cable. Perhaps its also passing the wireless signal from plant to plant as well.”

“Are you suggesting this plant is something like a wireless router, and a network booster,” Ahmed asked? “That is… well that is most unusual. Even for this place.”

Virgil looked down at his notebook. “Agreed,” he said. “Say guys you want to check on the network now? I’m getting stuff from the outside, but I’m not getting any signal from the Pod 17 or beyond.”

Ahmed pulled out his notebook, and pulled up a screen. “I’m getting a signal from outside,” he said, “but nothing past here.”

“Can you pull up the cable diagram,” Virgil asked? “The one that shows which one is in use?”

“Like this?” Ahmed dropped down to one knee so Virgil could see his tablet. The screen showed several lines in blue coming up to the node they were over, but none going past.

“Yep,” Virgil said. “How about you Amanda? Getting anything from the inside?”

Amanda shook her head. “Not a thing passed that wall.”

“Hum, Virgil said looking down at his tablet. “Somehow I got dropped from the network. Let me try logging in again to see if that helps.” After a moment he said, “That’s funny. I can’t log in.”

Virgil tossed his notebook aside, and pulled himself out of the hole. “I think I know what the problem is; the nodule wall must be too thick for reception. That was why there were several plants here, instead of just one. They needed more than one plant to boost the signal. But I think I have a better idea. Why don’t we plant one on either side of the nodule tunnel? Set them up line of sight, and see what that does?”

“Brilliant,” said Ahmed. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you’re a chemist,” Amanda suggested?

Ahmed looked to Virgil then back at Amanda. Then both men started laughing.

“Did I say something funny,” she asked feeling a little hurt.

“No, no,” said Virgil. “Its just… I told you Ahmed is called the Chemist, so you made a good guess. Only..”

“Only…” completed Ahmed, “I’m not actually a chemist. That’s just what they call me.”

“Then what do you do here,” Amanda asked, “if you’re not a chemist.”

“I’m a botanist. Actually the botanist, for this pile of dirt.”

Amanda looked confused.

Seeing her look, Virgil filled in, “What he means is Ahmed is the VP of Botany for the Root. For all of the Root.”

“He’s a VP, huh,” Amanda asked? “Does that make him higher than a Senior Director?”

“You bet your ass it does,” said Virgil.

“Oh, so that’s why you came here,” she said. “You needed Ahmed’s help to shut down the dog-and-pony show over at the amphitheater.”

“Exactly,” Virgil said.

“What,” Ahmed asked? “Dog-and-pony show?”

“Later, Limey. Lets get some plants in the ground. Then I’ll tell you all about it. Or maybe she will. She took the pictures.”

“Pictures? Pictures of what,” said Ahmed?

“You saw that,” Amanda asked? “I thought I was being sly.”

“Later. Lets get our network up first,” Virgil said. “And yes, you were being sly.”

 

*

 

Half an hour later three more of the antenna plants had been transplanted. One near the cable node as a backup, one on the near side of the tunnel entrance, and the last one on the other side of the tunnel. Within seconds of the last one being put in the ground Amanda was reporting a weak by viable signal. Ahmed pulled a few spray bottles out of the vast collection in his truck, and gave each of the plants a quick spritz. The signal grew even stronger after that. Ahmed’s notebook was able to get a signal from Pod 17, but the company network did not show a blue line for the new connection. Amanda was playing around, seeing what she could find off the local network, while Virgil cursed his notebook again and again.

“Still not getting in,” Ahmad asked with some sympathy?

“The damn thing won’t take my password, and I can’t log in to ask Dove for help. Stupid thing.”

“You’re sure you’ve got the new password,” Ahmed asked?

“Sure, I’m sure. I was up this morning. I don’t see why it’s not working now. The damn thing doesn’t even recognize my user name anymore.”

“Well something is different.” Ahmed said. “Networks don’t just drop you because they don’t like you.”

“Yes,” Virgil said looking at him with sudden comprehension, “Networks don’t, but companies do.”

“Companies? Do you think the company purposefully dropped you?”

“After what I did this morning,” said Virgil, “it’s entirely possible.”

Ahmed looked shocked, but before he could respond, Amanda interrupted.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something Ahmed. Instead of pulling those plants out of the ground, why didn’t you use a weed killer or something?”

Both men turned around. “What did you say,” Ahmed said in a tone that was suddenly very cold?

“Use weed killer,” Amanda said. “After all, you must have 20 things that will work in your truck.”

Ahmed’s eyes got large, but before he could speak, Virgil held up his hand to silence him. “Suppose he had,” Virgil said in a calm voice? “What do you suppose it would have done to the communications cables? After all, they’re a plant too.”

“Hum,” said Amanda. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“And what about the Root wall below the cables,” Virgil continued? “What do you suppose weed killer would have done to it? After all, its a living breathing plant as well.”

Amanda’s eye’s got big. “Oh wow. I guess I just assumed that that stuff just went away. I didn’t realize…”

“You didn’t realize?“ Ahmed said? “You didn’t realize! We’re not under the sky here. Everything we do – everything – has an effect on everything else.”

“Wow!” Amanda said. I just was wondering. I mean if its that bad, why are these guys using it?”

“What!” said Ahmed. “What guys?”

“These guys,” Amanda said turning her tablet around.

On the screen they could see a group of men working behind the amphitheater stage. Some were using sprayers on the plants, others were spraying white paint on the Root wall. Still more were on a scaffold above, smoothing something into the cracks that were forming on the wall. It looked like plaster, but they couldn’t be sure.

Ahmed was so shocked, it took him a full minute to grasp what he was seeing.

“What is this?” he asked. “Where are these images coming from?”

“The amphitheater,” Amanda said. “From behind the stage. I thought I might check to see if the govcam network is up and running. Apparently it is. I didn’t realize I could access it from the wireless plant network. Looks like I can.”

“This is going on now!” Ahmed was shouting. “Here! At the amphitheater in Pod 17?”

Amanda nodded her head, shocked by his reaction.

“Virgil!” Ahmed shouted. “Are you seeing this?”

Virgil nodded, not looking up from his tablet. “What,” he asked?

“The amphitheater? Did you see what they are doing? They’re spraying weed killer on the Wall. Weed killer. Of all the bloody stupid Yank things to do? Weed Killer!”

“Uh, yes,” said Virgil softly. His eyes still on his tablet.

“Are you listening to me, you stupid git? They’re poisoning the wall. You can even see the salt water starting to leak.”

“Uh yes,” said Virgil. “I heard, its just… I think we have even bigger problems than that.”

“The walls of Pod 17 are about to breach, because of a bunch of stupid Yanks, we’re about to piss away six months of work, and you think we have bigger problems than that?” Ahmed was yelling at the top of his voice.

“Yes,” said Virgil quietly, “I do.”

“What? What can be worse?”

“The President. Of the US. The first lady. Flintridge’s entire cabinet. All of them. They’re on their way. In fact there almost here.”

Ahmed’s face turned white.

“Here?” said Amanda looking around panicky.

“No,” said Virgil quietly. “Almost to Pod 17.”

“Cor love a duck,” Ahmed went off. “If that doesn’t take the biscuit, I don’t know what does. Of all the god damned stupid idiot things to do, that wart on the bottom of my bullocks had to come here? After practically ensuring a breach? I swear, that stupid pile of shit is as thick as manure, but only half as useful.”

Virgil raised his eyes. “My thoughts exactly,” he said dryly.

“So what do we do,” Amanda asked eagerly?

“We?” Virgil said, moving quickly to the passenger seat of the nearest truck. “Nothing. Ahmed and I will get there as quick as we can. You however, can stay here.”

Ahmed moved hastily to the driver’s seat, and closed the door. Amanda looked furious.

“Stay!” she said. “For a story like this? Are you out of your mind?”

“Possibly,” Virgil said. “Look, it’s a great story, but someone has to be alive to tell it. Dead people being notorious, and all, for not writing. When the Root breaches, this tunnel here is going to pucker up faster then an a frog’s asshole in a rain storm. Everything on this side should remain high and dry. Everything on the other, well it’ll get pretty wet. Now you have all the info. You have the story. And as a plus, if you stay here, you’ll probably live long enough to see it published – which is a hell of a lot better odds than what we face.”

Amanda looked in Virgil’s eye for a split second before moving. “Fuck that shit,” she said! “Move over!”

Virgil slid over to the middle of the seat, as Amanda jumped in. “Hit it!” she yelled, slamming the door. Ahmed had already punched the gas pedal before her door closed. The truck shot off.

“What are you smiling about,” Amanda yelled? It was hard to hear over the road noise as the truck screeched around the first turn, but somehow she had noticed the grin on Virgil’s face.

“Nothing,” Virgil yelled back. “It’s just my wife. She uses that term every time I try to do something macho. Makes me laugh every time.”

“Makes you laugh. She must be special.”

“You have no idea,” he said. “If we ever get out of this mess I’ll introduce you to her. You two’d get a long like two peas in a pod.”

“You mean when we get out of this mess, not if. And she has the balls to curse like a sailor, and to back it up, then hell yes, I’d love to meet her.”

The truck hurtled down the road as fast as the the little electric motor could go, which was considerably faster that Amanda thought was safe. After a short while, Amanda was struck by a thought. “Wait a minute,” she asked? “I thought you were locked out of the network. How’d you get back in?”

“Oh that,” Virgil said. “One of my guys gave me a program that figured out a password based on the log-in name. So when my name didn’t work, I figured I would try it on another name. So I punched in William R. Patterson, just for the heck of it.”

“You mean the President of Harrison Industries,” she asked?

“Ah-hem,” Ahmed said as they rounded a turn. “President of the U.S. affiliate.”

“Quite right old chap,” Virgil said in a fake English accent. “Begging your pardon, old chum. Yes, President of the American affiliate. Everyone knows Archibald Butler is the real CEO of Harrison Industries.”

“Bloody Yank,” Ahmed mumbled.

“So you have his access to account on the network,” Amanda asked?

“Oh yes,” He said. “In fact, I think I’m going to have him send a company wide memo to all the employees working in the Root.”

“Something like, ‘Run away. Run away’?”

“Oh no,” he said. “I have a much better idea.”

 

The next 20 minutes were a bit hectic for the three. Amanda kept track via the video feed of the leak on the wall, while Virgil fired of memo after memo, and Ahmed drove like the proverbial bat out of hell. By the time they arrived at the amphitheater, a crowd had formed to either side of the entrance, and every employee was dressed in their company work suits. More importantly, each employee had their e-hap stump in plain sight around their necks. Someone had found a box full of miniature American flags, and the crowd were practicing waiving them when Ahmed stopped the truck.

Just as they got out, Virgil got an urgent email from the e-hap team near nodule 17.1. “Yes,” it told him, “he could expect 20 cables hard-wired to the English side of 17.1 in 20 minutes.” Virgil wondered what Rick would make of that order, or if he would even guess of it’s true origin, especially as it was supposedly sent by the American CEO. Since Rick had Dove with him, the odds were better than even that he knew exactly what was going on. Virgil wanted to send him a personal note to warn him to get the crew out, but that ship had sailed. It was time now to deal with a larger problem.

The three ran up past the crowd to the entrance. Ahmed was surprised to see all the workers. “What are they doing here,” he hissed? “Don’t they know?”

Virgil looked at Ahmed as they ran. “I knew if I tried to shut things down, it wouldn’t have worked. There wasn’t enough time,” he said as they reached the entrance. There, right next to a smiling Sybil, they found a large box full of extra e-hap stumps.

“So you brought them all here instead,” Amanda asked, clearly puzzled?

Virgil looked at her levelly. “I brought them all here. Along with their stumps. If I told everyone to put theirs on, I know only a handful would comply. But if I told them it was part of a plan to greet the President of the United States, I knew they would follow the order without question.”

Amanda still looked puzzled.

“Bear in mind,” he said. “I’ve been down this road before.” His tone carried the dark knowledge of his past. Amanda could feel a lump of fear in the pit of her stomach. She tried to swallow, but her throat felt constricted.

“Trust me. It’s going to be okay,” he said. “Just pick up your camera, and start to film when the President gets here. If he thinks the whole press core is here, he’ll be less inclined to do something stupid.”

She looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Okay. Anything more stupid,” he said.

Turning to Sybil he asked, “Did you get stumps for the whole crew,” he asked indicating the people behind the stage?

Sybil smiled. “You know better than to ask.”

“You’re right,” he said. “I do. Was there any trouble?”

“Oh a couple of the guys, especially the secret service ones. They tried to macho their way out if it.”

Virgil was curious. “So how’d you solve that particular problem?”

“Oh it was easy. I had a couple of the girls from accounting – you know the Davis twins?”

“You mean the ones that are, uh well endowed,” he asked delicately?

“Yep. The very ones. I had them show the boys how to properly wear a e-hap stump. It’s amazing what a man will do to get a closer look at a big pair of tits,” she said with a satisfied smile.

“Sybil, you’re a genius,” he said.

“I know,” she replied.

Just then they heard a sound. The President’s motorcade was pulling into view on the road from the train station. Virgil passed out extra stumps, put an extra two in his pockets, and made his way down to the VIP parking.

He turned to Amanda just as the cars came to a stop. “Remember. Make sure they can see you. You need to be the whole press corps today, or they’re not going to play.”

“No problem skipper,” she said firmly as she held up her tablet as a camera.

A door opened up, a leg stuck out, and flashes started going off from all over the crowd. Virgil hadn’t thought of that, but he was pretty sure Sybil had.

A secret service man (wearing a stump Virgil noted) opened the door, and the first lady stepped out. Rushing to greet her, but careful not to get in the way of Amanda and her camera, Virgil stepped around the door, and bowed before the first lady. She smiled, and stopped. Virgil could sense her surprise. She was probably told there would not be a crowd here to great her. She measured the crowd with a practiced eye, and put on her best smile.

“Greetings Mrs. Flintridge,” Virgil spoke loudly to be heard over the crowd. “Welcome to the Root. We have a ceremony we like to perform with every visitor. Those of us who work here, us Rooties, wear these garlands,” he indicated the stump around his neck, “as a symbol of those who have worked so hard under the ocean. I ask that you wear this one,” he held up one of his spares, “and consider yourself an honorary Rooty. Would you do us this honor?”

The first lady stopped and locked eyes with Virgil. He could feel a sense of hatred just below the surface of her smile. Virgil knew from his father that people in power did not like surprises. Well, he thought, you can roast me tomorrow, if you live that long. He could sense she was about to back off when suddenly he heard Amanda say, “Can you look this way, Mrs. Flintridge, while he puts it on?”

The first lady gave the slightest of slumps in her shoulders. It was about as much of an agreement as Virgil expected to get. Before she could change her mind, Virgil slipped the stump over her head, and bowed as the cameras flashed. The First Lady slipped back into her best smile, and strutted up to the entrance on the arm of one of her secret service details.

After that, the crowd rushed in, and soon everyone in the President’s motorcade was wearing an official Rooty stump. He saw Flintridge himself try to ward off a stump until one of the Davis twins worked her magic. After that, he was lead past Virgil with a bemused smile on his face. Virgil wasn’t a fan of the President, but he had to admit the man handled a strange and new situation with more aplomb than most.

It was after the last of the VIPs passed, Virgil noticed Rogers leading some secret service agents. None of them, he noticed, were wearing a stump. As they drew closer, Rogers noticed Virgil, and pointed at him. “That’s the man.” he said to the agents. “He’s the one.”

The two agents sped over to Virgil, and clamped their arms around his, keeping him from moving. “I don’t know what you think you were doing back there,” one of them said between his teeth, “but I promise you, you are going to regret it.”

Virgil smiled, his work was done.

Amanda stepped in front of them and raised her tablet as a camera.

“Give me that,” one of the agents yelled.

Amanda stepped back a few feet looking defiant.

“Go,” Virgil yelled. “Get out of here. Take the truck. Head for 16.19.”

She nodded her head, turned, and sprinted through the crowd.

One of the agents put his wrist to his mouth, and spoke into the hidden microphone. Virgil hoped Amanda had enough time to get away.

The first agent began speaking in his ear. “Okay, funny man. We’re going to move along quietly. You’re going to stay with us. No funny business. Do you understand?”

Virgil could feel the sharp point of a gun muzzle in his ribs. He nodded his head, and let the agents move him into the amphitheater. They seated him off to one side near the front, careful to have an agent on either side of him.

From his vantage point Virgil saw the crowd forming along the first few rows. The President and his party were already in their seats upon the stage. A large podium stood at center stage, the Presidential Seal glowing on its front. The wall behind the President had been painted white. Large cracks, some of them unsuccessfully filled by plaster were starting to weep from the moisture. Virgil could see the cracks slowly expand even as he watched the small stream of water at the base increase in size. The white paint could not quite hide the bruised and purple color of the wall behind.

He felt his hands digging into the arm rests as he watched the wall start to fail.

Someone, Rogers he thought, approached the podium. The crowd dutifully went silent as he waited. A low humming sound, too soft to be heard over the crowd, was now prominent in the relative silence. Rogers tapped the microphone, and got the ever present feedback squeal. “Thank you, everyone,” he said when it died down. The hum suddenly grew louder. “Before we begin…” Rogers started, but was stopped by an increase in humming. Virgil looked to the hills about the amphitheater seats. The plants were swaying and whirling. Those with mobile roots were trying to get away. It was a scene all to familiar to him. One he saw every time he had his nightmare.

The humming grew louder still. Something fell off the stage with a crash. There was a scream. People started to look around in panic. The wall on one side gave a loud pop. Pieces of wood, splinters – some of them large enough to be telephone poles – flew across the crowd. Virgil felt the agent on his right get slammed into his seat, and then slump down. Warm liquid splashed his face. Virgil reached up and felt blood. He looked over, the agent appeared to be fine, just knocked unconscious. Without thinking, Virgil grabbed one of his extra stumps, and shoved the plug end in the sleeping man’s mouth.

“What are you doing,” the other agent said? He was holding a gun, waiving it at Virgil.

Virgil looked at him and said slowly, careful not to let the adrenaline speed up his voice, “Watch carefully. You push this end into the mouth like this,” he said as he shoved the stump into his mouth again, “and you activate it like this,” he said as he pulled out, and then twisted hard the emergency tab. The stump immediately went rigid, the fringe on the bottom swaying as if underwater.

Virgil handed the agent his last stump. “Get him out of here,” he yelled over the increasing noise, desperately trying to be heard!

“What?”

“The President. Get him the hell out of here. The whole place is going to collapse.”

The agent raised his gun. At first Virgil thought he was going to shoot him, but then the agent turned his wrist, and spoke into his microphone.

Men on the stage jumped up, as if shocked, and before anyone could react, grabbed the President and the first lady, and carried them up the aisles at a dead run. They had just reached the entrance when the wall burst.

Like a cannon, the wall collapsed. Millions and millions of liters of frigid salt water rushed in like a hammer. The huge artificial sun overhead gave a loud fizzle, and exploded. The people ran, some of them screaming at the top of their lungs. Virgil slumped down to the ground, and waited. He knew he didn’t have long to wait.

He was right.

 

*

His first thought was it was too bright. He tried opening his eyes, but they hurt too much to open. He heard muddled murky sounds, the buzzing of voices. Then he felt a warm hand in his own. Even with his eyes closed he knew that hand.

“Jessie,” he croaked out. He felt her squeeze his hand. A tear leaked down from his eye.

He tried to get up, leaning on one arm, but was too exhausted to stay, so he fell back.

“How bad,” he croaked, squinting into the light. He could hear the nurse try to calm him, but he ignored her noise, concentrating instead on Jessie’s hand. He forced himself to open just one eye, squinting into the light. He could just make out the shape of Jessie, a dark lump against the white light. “How bad,” he croaked again? “How many did we lose?”

He felt her squeeze his hand then relax. “Twenty,” she said almost in a whisper, “maybe thirty. No one’s sure.”

“The President,” he asked?

“Alive. One of the first recovered.”

“Rick? The crew,” he asked?

“They stayed on the US side to help, but never even got wet. Or so he says.” She gave his hand another squeeze.

“The reporter,” he asked? “Waters?”

A voice from the other side of his bed shot out, “You think I’d let a little thing like a million tons of ice cold sea water stop me, Skipper,” she said?

Rick gave a weak chuckle that turned into a painful cough. He waited to speak until he was sure he wouldn’t cough again. “I see,” he said, and the swallowed hard. “…you two have met.”

“You were right,” the reporter said. “Like peas in a pod.”

Virgil saw Jessie smile, and then the tears started falling. She held his hand and silently cried. No one said a word. When she was done, he gave her hand a slight squeeze. By then he could open both eyes, although the room still seemed painfully bright.

“You’re a hero you know,” Jessie said, wiping her eyes with a tissue.

“I am? What for this time?”

“Well at first everyone thought it was an attack by the English. Everyone in America that is. We all presumed you were dead. The military was on high alert, and crowds were gathering, begging Congress to declare war. But Amanda here got through to an American publisher she knew, and somehow got her story out.”

“I had to twist a few arms,” Amanda said. “But I got the job done.”

Jessie continued, “At first no one believed her, but then the flowers started blooming.”

“The e-hap system,” Virgil asked?

“Yep. And blooming on the English side. The American side was…“

“Damaged,” he said. “I know.”

“While we here in America were clamoring for war,” Jessie continued, “the English were gathering all of their rescue gear, and starting to dig. They found the President the first week. After that, well everybody was so busy falling over themselves in the rescue effort that they kind of forgot about the war.

“Dang,” he said. “Just when I thought I might have a Navy career again, peace broke out.”

Jessie gave him a playful slap on the shoulder. “I think you’re done with the sea for a bit. At least I’m done with you drowning in it.”

There was a moment of awkward silence, then Amanda spoke again. “I hate to interrupt, but the President’s right outside the door. Like everyone else in America, he wants to meet the hero of Pod 17. Think you’re up to it?”

“The hero of Pod 17?”

“Corny,” Amanda said. “I know. It was the best I could do on short notice. I kind of had my hands full writing while Ahmed was driving.”

“So the old limey made it?”

“Barely, but he’ll survive.”

Jessie let out a laugh, “If he can survive being married to the biggest reporter in the business.”

This caught Virgil completely by surprise. “Married! That old bachelor? Who in the world would be stupid enough to… Ouch,” he said as Jessie slugged him. Then he realized what they were saying. “Oh good god. He married you Amanda? Dang. That’s the smartest thing that man has even done.”

They all laughed at this.

“Does that mean you’re ready to face the President,” Amanda asked?

“Well, I guess. If he can stand me, I can stand him.”

Everyone laughed again.

I wrote this story I back in June of 2011, just after wrapping up my first novel. I really liked working with the novel’s protagonist, Father Juan, and was playing around with ways to use him in short stories. Santa Muerte also makes a guest appearance, but she does that a lot in my work.

The protagonist is a new guy, Mario Cumomo, the most successful Director in Hollywood, at least my fictional version of Hollywood. Only Mario has a problem, one that all his money cannot buy. Fortunately he knows someone who can fix it for him. At a price.

This short (6,600 words) is a bit of a tear jerker. At least its intended to be. It answers the question, “what do you give the man that has everything?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I came to myself holding the handle of a broken coffee mug. The rest of the mug, along with its contents, were splashed or smashed all over the room – along with my water glass, my notes, the two desk monitors, the computer, various dvds and books on the bookshelf, a bad painting on the North wall, and pretty much anything else of value. I must have blacked out again. What was that, the forth time this year? Somehow in my rage I had managed to spare both sets of speakers, the ones on either side of the screen, and the ones on top of the desk. How they had escaped the chair I must have thrown into the ripped screen, I have no idea. Everything else in the windowless sound room was a mess. Everything except the the lowly torchère in the corner providing a dim background light, and the soundman, James.

James sat with his lang pale hands folded, his face holding that same serene look he always wore. Tall, thin, hair greying, in his 40s, he was the calmest man I had ever met, which is why I liked to work with him; nothing fazed him. The contrast of his tranquil face with the tornado like destruction of the room brought an uninvited laugh to my lips.

“Are you through?” he asked when I was done. His face calm, but concern was evident in this voice.

I looked at the mug handle still in my hand. The brown glaze flowed smoothly until it hit the edges where the rest of mug used to be. Past the break the unglazed edges were white and porous, looking like the scale model of a cliff from a bad 60s movie. I could remember standing there holding this handle, but not a damn thing before. Like the other times before, I had no idea what had set had me off, or why. “Bloody hell,” I said.

We were at a boutique sound shop working on a scene; a small backstory element not that important on its own, but crucial to establishing the protagonists motivation in the third act. The problem was, the damn scene just wouldn’t jell. The lighting was all wrong, the dialog was wooden, and the child we used just didn’t have the emotional depth the scene required. Six months ago I had handed it to the second AD, my mind at the time on other things. Unfortunately, he just didn’t have the chops. Even worse, there was nothing I could do about now but try and fix it. You see, I had approved it all. I was the director.

I had worked on the scene all last week at the studio’s main sound room, but we ran out of time; the room being booked too deep to allow for delays. So I had the AD take over the next bit of editing on the big stage, and came out here to attempt some CPR.

Now, after several very long days, I was still dealing with the same problem. No matter what I tried, no matter how many tricks we attempted, that damn scene would not work. Every time that stupid kid opened his mouth, it just made me mad. Mad, but not destructive. I have a reputation in this town for being a bit of a prick, some of it well earned I might add, but I’ve never done anything so unprofessional as to trash a sound room. That is, until this year.

James bent over from his chair, and picked up the phone. He put the hand-piece to her ear then set it down in disgust. Following the cord from the phone, he pulled on it until he found the ripped and twisted end. The connector was not just broken, there were strands of copper wire mixed in as well. I must have jerked it out of the wall. I looked down at my hands wondering where I found the strength to do that.

“Hold on,” he said calmly. “Let me see what I can do.” He got up and walked to the door. He must have found the shop’s owner and the AE cowering in the hallway outside for he stopped just outside the door.

I busied myself looking for my phone, cursing the whole time. I found it in pieces under the overturned couch. I put the couch back to something like level, and tried cramming the battery back in the phone. While I was working I could hear them talking outside. From where I was sitting I could only see part of the hallway thought the door. The bright artificial light spilled into the room, casting everything just outside the door in a harsh glow. The large windows in the offices across the hallway looked out onto the Hollywood hills. At midnight, the city looked peaceful, serene. The many street lights randomly strewn among the houses giving it appearance of a Christmas decoration. All it needed was the snow.

“Are the other rooms booked,” I heard James ask quietly? It was a silly question. This late in the summer every sound room in the town was booked doing last minute touches for the big Christmas releases.

The other two said something, but it was too low for me to hear. James turned around, but was stopped by a question before he made it through the door.

“Is everything okay,” the AE asked? Even from here I could hear the fear in her voice.

“Are you kidding,” James said? When she didn’t respond, he continued, “Look. Just get the techs in here, and have them set everything back up. This room’s done for the night. I know I am, and he’s,” he said indicating myself, “is even worse. If you can get it set up for an early start tomorrow morning – sorry, later this morning,” he said after glancing at his watch – “that would be a help.”

The AE mumbled something I couldn’t hear. The last time I saw her, she had dark rings under her eyes. I remembered she had been here every night just as late as the rest of us, and never once complained. Well, that was the industry for you. There were a lot of jobs that were much less demanding, but they didn’t come with the same paycheck either.

“It’s not that bad,” I heard James say. “I had just saved all the files, and most of the stuff in there can be easily fixed or replaced. Why don’t you call in the techs. I’ll get Mario to his car, and you can go home and get yourself some sleep.”

“Are you sure,” she asked, concern evident in her voice? “What are you going to do with him?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, sounding both confident and unsure. “I have a few ideas. We’ll figure something out.”

“Are you sure, James,” she asked a second time? I could tell from her tone she was more relieved than concerned.

“Sure,” he said. “Like I said, I’ve done this kind of thing before.”

I was curious what he meant by that. What kind of thing had he done before that was like cleaning up after a director throws a fit, and destroys a sound room?

I suppose I should have felt sorry for him, but I didn’t. You see, I am one of the biggest directors in Hollywood, and I’m married to an A list actress. I am the 3000 pound gorilla in the room. In any room. Pissing me off could prove to be a very bad career move in this town. This little sound shop was too small a fish to afford angering the studio, which amounted to pissing off their director; me. They knew it, and I knew it. So while I was wondering what a lowly sound man thought he could pull off with a power hitter like me, at the same time I wasn’t exactly scared. Besides I like James, or Jamie, or whatever his name is.

To be honest, I should also admit I was curious. I have a soft spot when it comes to things about myself. Kate likes to tease me about it. She says I am too narcissistic, too self centered. She may have a point, but at the same time, being this way – being this interested in myself – has gotten me exactly to the place I am today. If acting like a selfish jerk put piles of cash in your lap, what would you do?

See what I mean?

So when James (or is it Jamie) said “Come on,” I knew he was up to something, I just didn’t know what.

“Come on?” I asked. “Where are we going?”

“I have an idea,” he said. “I think you’ll like it.”

“Does it involve the Industry,” I asked? At that moment there was nothing about the industry that made me the least bit happy.

“Not at all,” he said with a smile.

“Good,” I said curiosity getting the best of me as I followed him out the door, and down the hall to the elevator. “A drink then,” I asked? “I could use one right now.”

He touched the down button as we waited. “Nope,” he said, “but we can do that too, if you like.”

Now I was even more curious. “Friend of yours?”

He gave me a funny look, the first one I had seen that disturbed his calm face in a week. “Not exactly,” he said as we stepped into the elevator. “Maybe more like a mentor.”

“A mentor? He’s not some swami or a spiritualist or something like that, is he?”

The sound man laughed as the doors closed. “Not he. She. And no. She’s nothing like that,” he said as we dropped down to the parking level.

My phone rang just as we stepped out. Apparently I had got it working again. It was Jane, my personal assistant. Someone from the house had called wondering when I would be home tonight. I looked over at the James as he talked in rapid Spanish with Chewy my driver. “I don’t know,” I told her. “Tell them I’ll be there when I can.”

As I hung up, James pulled up in front in a small white pickup. “Get in,” he said.

“Where not taking the limo,” I asked, “to where ever this mysterious destination is?”

“I’d rather not,” he said leaning down to see me though the passenger window. “It draws the wrong kind of attention, if you know what I mean.”

Ever since Kate and I got married, the press seemed to follow me where ever I went. I’ve made the tabloid press more times this year than I care to think about. Leaving them behind sounded like a good idea right then. I opened the door and got in.

James put the truck into gear, and took us up the ramp. We came out under the building, and the Hollywood sky seemed to just float over our heads. The night air was just slightly cool, not cold. I rolled down the window, and felt the heat of the day being released by the streets.

I looked out the window, and watched the streets of LA roll past. Somehow, without the tinted windows of the limo, I felt more connected to the buildings, the cars, the little shops going past. Like I was a part of the city, not just passing through it.

“You’re name,” I said, suddenly remembering I was in a car with a man I hardly knew, and could not remember his name. “Is is James, or Jamie?”

The sound man looked over at me, and gave a smile. “Neither,” he said. “Its Jaime,” he said, pronouncing it the Spanish way; hi-me. “Jaime Delgado. James or Jamie is the anglicized version.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I saw it written down somewhere, and assumed…”

Jaime gave a short laugh. “It’s okay,” he said with a wry expression. “Considering what I been called for most of my life, a little confusion over my name is nothing.”

With an opening like that, I had to ask. “What did they used to call you?”

He smiled again as the darkened houses of the sleeping city rolled past the window. “Father Juan,” he said.

“Father, as in a priest? Hail Mary and all that?”

“Yes,” he said flatly. “All that.”

His response made it clear it was not a topic he liked to talk about. My curiosity was piqued, but I understood his need. All of us have skeletons in our closets. Having a team of reporters dedicated to unearthing all of mine and my wife’s, gave me some sympathy for his position. Who cared what he did in the past? Jaime was a first class sound man, his suggestions were good, and his demeanor always professional. At that point, nothing else about him mattered.

Jaime drove in silence, taking his time, driving at a moderate pace. He took us in a circuitous route, forgoing boulevards for backstreets whenever possible. If you wanted to elude a media circus, this was a good way to do it. After a while I noticed we were somewhere near downtown, by the USC campus. The small houses and old apartments has the disheveled look of age and neglect. Most were spanish style, their sharp corners covered with plaster or painted adobe. Their long narrow windows often arched over their tops. We pulled down a side street, and then up into an alley. Jaime parked the truck in an empty spot behind a dilapidated store. The curved spanish roof tiles clung onto the façade above the doorway like a crooked teeth.

“We’ll have to be quiet,” he said as we got out. “My friends, the ones who own this shop, they sleep right above it.”

I could see a staircase to one side of the alley that lead up to a second floor. The living quarters on the second level looked recently redone, with fresh paint, and new windows obvious in the moonlight. LA is like that. A striking contrast of new and old, rich and poor, all crammed next to each other.

“Are you sure they don’t mind?” I whispered as he pulled out a key and stuck it in the back door.

He turned back to look at me as his hand twisted the lock. “Are you kidding?” he asked as he pushed open the door. “They’re the ones who gave me the key.”

I followed him into a small shop that was cluttered with dark shapes. In the soft moonlight I could see all kinds of items, statues and such, on little shelves all around the room. A glass counter to one side held candles and bric-a-brac. I could just make out the writing in the moonlight. Most of it in Spanish. In the dim moonlight, the store looked like a bible bookstore that had been crossed with a head shop.

Near the back I saw a life-sized mannequin. It was a woman in a long white dress. The dress showed an overabundance of lace and frill. From my take on Spanish culture, I pegged it to be a wedding dress. All kinds of candles and statures surrounded the mannequin, making it look less like a store display, and more like a very large altar. The head was covered in a long complex veil. Something about it looked wrong, but I couldn’t see what. When we got closer to it, I noticed is wasn’t a woman at all. It was a skeleton.

“What kind of religion would put a skeleton in a wedding dress,” I asked?

“What? Oh that,” Jaime said, noticing what I was looking at. “That’s… She’s for the regular patrons. Don’t worry about it. Where we want to go is in here,” he said pointing to a nondescript door to the side to the bizarre altar.

I stopped him with my hand on his shoulder. “You sure this isn’t some religious thing?” I was starting to regret my trust in him.

“Positive,” he said evenly.

Jaime opened the door slowly, then stopped. He turned to me and said quietly, “Look. I never quite know what to expect, every time I go in here, and I’ve been here a lot. She is… uh, different. Not what you expect.” I tried to mention that knowing the unexpected was part of my job, but he quieted me with a hand. “Just, try not to be too surprised. Okay? And, well, I don’t want to sound insulting, but try to keep an open mind.”

With that he lead me into the room, and closed the door.

Now I have to stop at this point to tell you that there is probably nothing that pisses me off more then when a screenwriter stops to warn the audience that something “different” is coming. Its a stupid convention that attempts to squeeze more mystery out of a piss-poor story; a cheap and tawdry way to cover up the mistakes of a bad plot. In my experience it almost always fails.

And asking me to keep an open mind – me, a director – a man that makes impossible things happen all the time? This was like asking a fish to be more wet, or asking the Pope, to borrow an old saw, to be more Catholic. In short, it was insulting. Insulting and stupid. All Jaime did with his little warning was to let me know I was in for some kind of a performance, and judging by past experience, it was going to be a bad one.

The room we were in was small, maybe eight feet on a side. A tiny opening in the ceiling let in a soft glow of blue moonlight. The walls had the brown color of aged, unpainted adobe. Instead of a floor there was uneven packed dirt. The doorway was framed in old wood, the few strips of paint remaining were pealing. There were no other openings save the skylight and the door we entered. On the ground against the backside was a small wooden pallet, maybe 5 feet long, and half that wide. On one end of the pallet was an neatly folded indian blanket which looked to be old and well used.

Jaime busied himself lighting a few candles while I stood in the middle of the room thinking dark thoughts. The blue of the moonlight puddled at my feet slowly gave way to the rich reds and golds of the candle light. He shook out the wooden match he was using, and I watched its smoke slowly curl up to the skylight.

“Now what?” I asked, still in a foul mood.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he said. “We wait.”

“For how long?” I was growing impatient.

He shrugged his shoulders again.

I let out a sigh, and put my hands behind my back, wanting to get this performance over with so I could go back home. I should never have trusted Jaime to come out here, I realized. It was late at night, and I was far from home. I didn’t even know where I was at, but my phone did, and there were people at my house who would pick me up when I called them.

It was this last thought that comforted me. Knowing there was someone, somewhere who would come if I called. I know it sounds silly, but sometimes it the little things that help. In this case it helped me to relax enough to start paying attention. A good thing too as no sooner did I have this thought, then I saw the blanket start to move and shiver.

It was an interesting effect, seeing the blanket unfold on its own. I had seen something like it before at a magic show at the Magic Castle, but that was fairly far away and up on a stage. It was much more impressive to see it right up close.

As I watched, the blanket folded all the way out and suddenly started rising up, twisting and tugging as it went. It was filling up, expanding, like someone was crawling up into it from below. I was just starting to look for the trapdoor under the pallet, when I noticed the blanket had stopped moving. With it stopped I could see it was no longer a blanket, but the dress on the body of an old woman. The transformation was so quick that I didn’t even see it. One minute it was a blanket, the next, a dress.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jaime bow down to the woman, but I was still too transfixed by the excellent stage craft.

“That was incredible,” I said. “What a great trick. Can you do it again? I simply have to know how you did that! I know just the scene for it in too.”

Jaime said something to the woman. I don’t know what. It sounded like a formal greeting in Spanish. Like something you say to a visiting studio head while he’s interrupting your work.

The old woman looked at him, then looked at me. Her eyes locked on mine, and I felt a chill going through me. The hair on the back of my neck started to rise.

The woman was short, maybe 5 foot 2. She had a round face with prominent cheek bones, like you see on the indians out of the less civilized parts of Mexico. Her dark skin was wrinkled and crusted with age. Her hair was long, mostly grey. It hung loose around her head like a crown, not braided or tied. Woven into some of the strands were bits of bones and feathers. Though short, she stood in that room with a comfort, a regal bearing, that made her seem taller. And her eyes… They held you with a confidence that said, “I can kick your ass anytime I want.”

Now I’ve met most of the great actresses of our age, I’m even married to one, so I know what it’s like to see a woman project confidence. Even up close. Hell, I’ve directed it. But this. This old woman. She held that confidence. That, and something more. Something primal. Something animal. It was a grand performance. It was wonderful, it was beautiful. I couldn’t wait to use her for something. She was so great, I knew I had to write a screenplay around her.

Only I couldn’t talk to her.

Still lost in her eyes, I asked Jaime, “Where did you find her? She is wonderful. She is perfect. I’m so glad you brought me out here. Does she speak English? Is she SAG?”

Jaime placed a hand on my shoulder. “Please, Mario,” he said. “Please. It’s not like that. She’s not…”

The old woman interrupted him, saying something rapidly in her language. It may have been a question, but from her it sounded more like a demand. I could feel Jaime tense, but he said nothing. She asked again, this time shorter. Her eyes never leaving mine.

Jaime finally spoke at length. I don’t know what he said, but his tone was that of a school boy caught cheating on a test.

When he finished talking, the old women’s eyes grew hard. It was a very small change, but suddenly the room felt very cold.

“What did you tell her,” I asked feeling myself get angry? Clearly something he had said had made pushed her the wrong way.

“Only what you said,” Jaime replied.

“Tell her I want to use her,” I said. “Tell her I want make a movie with her as the star.”

He looked at me as if I was an idiot. “But you don’t understand,” he said.

“Tell her!”

“Okay,” he replied. “If you say so.”

He spoke at some length to her. She asked a few questions in return, which he answered quickly. When he was done she looked at him with astonishment, then back at me. Then she laughed.

She said something else which she translated. “She thinks you are very funny,” he said. “An excellent joker.”

I was shocked. A joker? Me?

Doesn’t she know who I am,” I asked. “Tell her. Tell here I am Mario Cumomo, the director. Surely she’s heard of me. Whistling Bells? Hallowed Ground III? The Churning? I’m one of the best directors in town.”

Jaime translated my words while I waited. She smiled at first, then the humor seemed to peal from her face leaving a stone hard surface underneath. With cold eyes she looked at me and spoke is short sharp sentences.

“It is not that I do not know you, Señor Director,” Jaime translated rapidly. “It is you who doesn’t know me. I am Santa Muerte, the queen of death. And you are a naive fool to think you can offer me anything.”

She leaned forward, and ran one hand past each side of my face, like she was brushing off a fly from either ear. With each motion she made a noise like “foof, foof.”

“That’s better,” she said. “He can understand me now.”

And it was true. She still spoke Spanish, or whatever language it was, but I could understand every word.

“So why did you bring this fool to me. Miho,” she said looking sharply at Jaime?

“Please Abuela,” he pleaded, calling her by the Spanish word for Grandmother. “He may be ignorant, but he is not a fool. He is simply spoiled, like a boy too used to getting his way.”

“What,” I said interrupting? I couldn’t help myself. “Who is ignorant? What are you talking about?”

“You!” they both said in unison.

“Do yourself a favor, Mario,” Jaime said to me in English. “Shut up and listen.”

I opened my mouth, but something held my tongue. Kate liked to joke that it would take a miracle to get me to stop talking. Perhaps she was right.

“See, Abuela,” Jaime said. “He can learn.”

“Okay,” said the old woman her eyes still fierce. “Perhaps he is not a complete fool,” she said without much conviction, “but why did you bring him to me?”

Jaime held her eye for a moment, and then spoke softly, “Because, Abuela, you took something from him. Something he cannot live without.”

“And,” she said like a challenge.

“And,” Jaime said defiantly. “He needs it back.”

She paused for a moment, both looking at me, and Jaime, her eyes grave. “Does he know what you are asking?”

“No Abulea, he doesn’t?”

“Will he pay the price? You know the rules.”

“Yes, Abuela, I know how you work.” He swallowed for a moment then said, “If he doesn’t pay the price, I will.”

She looked at him, her eyes suddenly large with surprise. “Are you sure, Miho?”

“Si,” he said.

“But you hardly know this man. Would you pay that price?”

“I may hardly know him, Abuela, but I have worked with him long enough to see into his heart. There is a decent man underneath all the bravado. I am sure. I will pay the price if I have to, but I don’t think I will.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You trust him that much do you?”

“Yes.”

“Forgive me,” I interrupted because I could not take it any more. “I have no idea what you are talking about, but I gather there is some cost involved. I know you prefer me to stay quiet, but if it involves me, shouldn’t I have some say in this?”

The old woman turned and gave me a look of grudging respect. Jaime said to her, “See, Abuela. He’s not a total idiot.”

Then he turned to me. “I came here to intercede for you. I cannot say what for, or why. That is part of the rules. If I told you in advance, it wouldn’t work.”

“Like some kind of magic, or something,” I asked?

“Something like that,” he said. “Yes.”

“Hum,” I said. “So I can’t know what it is, but I still have to accept. It that what it is?”

“Yes,” he said. “Exactly.”

“What if I say no,” I said.

“Then nothing happens,” he replied. “She might even wipe this memory from you, for all I know.”

The old woman gave a slight nod as if removing a man’s memory was an easy thing. That chilled me more than her words.

“Who are you,” I asked out loud before I could think to stop myself.

“She is Santa Muerte,” Jaime said. “The Saint of Death.”

“The saint of death,” I asked? ”How does that work? I thought all you Catholics…”

Jaime raised up his hand to stop me. “Another time, Mario. We need to decide. You need to decide. I already made my decision.”

I thought for a moment. “You want me to trust you,” I said? “Want me to pay a price for something I don’t know what it is, nor what it is about? Is that about right?”

“Yes,” he said.

“I take it the price is high, is that true?”

“That depends,” said Jaime. “For me, the price would be very high, but for you… Well I cannot say much, but I think you would pay this price. Willingly.”

“You trust me that much?” I asked. I was surprised and touched in a way that was troubling.

“Lets us just say that this retired priest still knows a thing or two about people. If it helps, think of it as a wager I am willing to take.”

“This isn’t some trick to try and get my money is it?”

Jaime laughed at this. “If I had wanted money, Mr. Cumomo, I would have stayed in the drug dealing business like my family. Believe me when I say, dealing with Santa Muerte has cost me more then it could ever give.”

A look of sadness crossed both of their faces. That surprised me. How could sadness connect Jaime to this strange woman? Then again, I reasoned, she was the saint of death. Sadness and death tended to go hand in hand. What surprised me more was the idea that Death could feel sadness too. That was new to me.

Then suddenly, as if the plot had dropped into my lap, I knew exactly how I would chose.

“Lets do it,” I said. “I accept.”

“Are you sure,” she asked? “This is am important decision.”

One of the things about being a good director is knowing when to make a good decision, and sticking with it. Whatever this was about, I was ready. I waived my hand with impatience. “Yes, grandmother,” I said gravely, “I am sure. Lets do this.”

“Okay,” she said. “As you wish.”

I felt a breeze against my skin, a warm one. Suddenly the small room transformed itself into a meadow, the dark midnight giving way to sunny day. We stood in a field of knee high plants, most of them supporting colorful flowers. They surrounded us on every side. Off in the distance I could see rolling hills. The Hollywood hills. Yet these hills were devoid of any trace of man. It was as if all of humanity had been wiped away, all of our sin, all of our anger. In its place was a perfect world. A perfect Spring.

I heard a sound behind me. The soft footstep of a child. Then I heard a little girls voice. A voice I had not heard in a long time. A voice that chilled my heart. “Papa,” she said? “Is that you?”

“Elsa?”

It was nine months since I last heard that voice. I remember the day well. It was the next to the last day of production. Elsa and I had been planing our “Daddy Week” for a while. Each night, before she went to sleep, we would go over the schedule. On Tuesday we would go to the zoo. On Wednesday, the Science Museum, one of her favorite places. Then on Thursday we would go to Travel Town to see the trains. And so on. Al the places a precocious 5 year old liked to go.

A “Daddy Week” or a “Mommy Week” was a little holidays that Kate and I did with Elsa whenever we completed a movie. It was both a celebration, and a way to connect with her, making up for the lost time caused by our busy schedules. I had kissed her goodbye that morning, giving her a hug for Mommy too (Kate was on a shoot in New York). I remember Elsa had been so anxious, saying she just couldn’t wait for tomorrow.

That afternoon she had been in such a hurry that she decided to cross the street without waiting for her nanny. She never saw the car that hit her.

I dropped to my knees, as she ran up and threw her arms around me. I buried my face in her hair, crying. Weeping like a lost soul. She was my love, she was my everything. She was the reason I went to work, and the reason I came home. We shared a thousand songs together, played a hundred games. I would do any thing for her. She was my joy. She was my heart, and she was taken from me completely one afternoon while I was editing the last minute foley.

It was like my life had been cut with a brick. I could not think, I could not act, I could not work. Only I had to work. A director directs. He needs to make the big decisions no matter what. That comes with the job. That and the paycheck. Only the paycheck, the fame, didn’t seem so great compared to the simple joy of holding my daughter, and crying into her hair.

If that was the price the Saint was talking about, I would gladly pay it. A thousand times over I would pay it. What was the use of wealth, if it could not buy a simple thing as this?

I stopped hugging Elsa long enough to hold her out at arms length. Her smile was still the same, her hair the same tangled bird’s nest when not braided. She was wearing the same clothes she the last morning I saw her. She was my little Elsa. Everything exactly like it was nine months ago.

Unbidden, a line came to me from an old college philosophy class. “You can never step twice into the same river.” Good old Heraclitus. That’s when I knew something was up. I could feel the anger in me. The rage starting to build, but I could not be angry in front of my child. Not my dear sweet Elsa.

“I can’t keep her, can I?” A tear unbidden, dropped down my cheek.

“No, mortal,” The Saint said. “Once I have taken a life, it cannot be returned.”

“Can I trade my life for hers then?” I asked as I brushed the hair of of her face.

“That I cannot do either,” she Saint.

I held Elsa close to me, Hugging her fiercely, so great was my need. Then a tiny voice in my ear said, “Its okay papa. It’s okay. I like it here. They treat me nice. There are lots of great toys, and always fun games to play. You’ll see.”

She wiggled out of my arms and walked over the the Saint of Death. She raised her little arm, and placed her hand into the wrinkled claw-like hand of the Saint. “Thank you, Grandma,” she said with a smile, “I liked seeing Papa. Can we do it again?”

The old woman shook her head, and that’s when I knew the price I had to pay. I was not my great wealth she wanted. Not the fame. It was not even my life. It was to never to see my daughter again. Ever.

I started to cry, wondering if I could pay that price. If I could make that choice. My heart felt crushed, ready to break all over again. I had forgotten how much she was a part of me. How much I needed her. Then I felt her little hand on my shoulder again, and a strand of her wild hair touched my cheek. “Its okay Papa,” she said. “Don’t cry. Mommy has a surprise for you. You’ll see.”

I placed my hand on top of hers, and gave it a squeeze. I looked up into the eyes of the Saint of Death, and nodded my consent. Then still holding my little girls hand on my shoulder, I dropped my head and I cried.

I was still had my hand on my shoulder when I found myself back in the little room at the religious store. The moonlight fell down to the earth, and puddled around me on my knees. My face was wet with my tears. I could still smell a trace of wildflowers in the room.

I lifted my hand from my shoulder. There was something in it. Instead of my daughters hand was a small statue of a skeleton in a wedding dress. The likeness of the little figure was perfect. Real. Except for the flesh on her face, it captured everything about her. I put it into my pocket, and we made our way quietly out of the store.

*

The following morning while in the shower, an idea came to me about the scene, the one that had been vexing me. Back in the shop we quickly set up a few simple edits, and by 11:30 I knew I had resolved it.

Jaime never mentioned a thing about the previous night, but he didn’t bat an eye when I put the little statue of Santa Muerte on the desk before we started, and he made sure I had it when we left.

Just after lunch I got a call while we were going over the last little edits. It was my assistant, Jane, telling me Kate had called. She was on set again, this time in Chicago. I dialed her cell, and got her just before they went back to shooting.

“You sitting down,” she said? “I’ve got good news.”

“Yes I know,” I said.

“You know,” she asked sounding crestfallen?

“I know that you have good news,” I said. “Just not what the news is.”

“You do?” she said. “How do you know that?”

“Look, are you going to tell me what it is, or do I have to fly out there and beat it out of you,” I said sarcastically?

“Oh, you’re so sexy when you’re angry,” she whispered. It was a joke we used to share back when Elsa was first born, and we were dealing with the frustration of being first time parents. We hadn’t spoken like that in months. It hit her too, I could tell as she paused and forced herself to keep from crying. I wasn’t wearing makeup for a part, so I could cry for the both of us.

“Okay,” she said. “Something funny came up last week, so I made an appointment with the doctor. I went and saw her this morning.”

My heart skipped a beat. Something funny? Oh God, not again, I thought. I forced myself to keep a light voice. “And what did he say?”

“Not he. She. And she said we are most certainly and definitely pregnant. What do you think of that?”

For the next few minutes all I could do was cry. When I finally could speak I said, “What I think is that I am the happiest man in the world.”

And you know, it was true.

When I was a kid my dad was a fighter pilot at the Fresno Air National Guard. Every once in a while he used to sneak us out to the Guard to look at the airplanes. I still remember the time when I was about 8 that he let me sit in the cockpit of a F-102. The bottom edge of the canopy was well above my head so it was like being dropped into a well where the sides surrounded you with mysterious dials, nobs, and switches. It was an incredible and heady experience.

So knowing this, it’s probably not much of a surpise that I’m a fan of airplanes.

 

As a kid I used to draw airplanes in school. Later I learned to build models of them. First plastic and then stick-and-tissue ones. I even tried my hand at radio controlled planes, although I didn’t really get the hang of them until I met my late father-in-law, who had a massive collection of model airplanes, as well as the experience to fly them without crashing. Even now, I still look up into the sky when a plane or bird passes.

Do you remember, when you were young, reading science fiction stories of boys building rockets and flying into space? Well, Take Off, was my way of trying to distill my excitement of airplanes into that kind of a sci-fi story. Even though the protagonist of this story is an young adult, it was intentionally written as a “boy’s adventure”, with a maximum of excitement, and a minimum of adult themes.  Except for a few curse words in the first paragraph, there is nothing in this story you cannot share with a 10 year old. Young children won’t get parts of the ending, things like a “love interest” are generally beyond them. But every kid knows deep in their bones what it means to belong to a family, and that is what this story sells. In spades. Well, family with a large side of math and engineering, because the future has to be built, not just dreamed.

Take Off is a little over 14,000 words long, so its going to take you a half hour or more to make it through, but it will be a half hour spent inside the mysterious world of the Cloudies; families who roam the Earth like gypsies in giant powered gliders called cloud-ships, that fly for months on end 10 miles or more above the surface, and live in a world where mathematical precision and quality engineering mean the difference between life and death.

So grab your oxygen mask, take a seat, and prepare for an adventure.

 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Take Off

“That’s a house,” said the girl’s voice in my headset. “That’s a god-damned house! What in the hell is it doing there?”

I was in the nose of the cloud-ship Alice May, on its final approach. One of the rare times these massive gliders actually land. Landing is a tense moment, the whole family was keyed up, especially the patriarch, George, who lay next to me in the cramped observation bubble.

“Paul?” he quietly said over the intercom to the 15 year-old boy who was piloting the massive ship, “Is there any way you can miss that?”

“Unknown,” replied the calm voice in my ear. “Unknowable.” Unlike his 13 year-old sister who was navigating, Paul could remain calm in the direst of conditions.

I glanced at the instrument readouts on my tablet. We were on final approach, 1500 feet and dropping rapidly, about to turn onto our final leg and land. The giant glider, technically a powered sailplane, lumbered and creaked as its great wings flexed and shifted in the turbulent warm air near the planet’s surface caused by the heat island of the city. The excess energy of millions people living cheek-to-jowl, shimmered over the hills just below us. The long graceful wings flexed and shifted, computerized controls making subtle changes to the wing’s shape, keeping the giant glider on course. The computer guidance made going in a straight line fairly easy, but a glider with a 112 meter wingspan wasn’t exactly designed to turn on a dime, especially at its landing speed. Only now it needed to.

“Can you fly around it?” The voice next to me reverberated.

“Negative. The plotter is telling me its too close,” returned the same calm voice.

“Climb over it?”

“Negative. The R-A-S is already hugging a stall. If we try to rise even 100 feet A-G-L we’ll loose another half knot. Then it wont matter what’s below us.”

There was a pause, then Paul spoke again in that same calm voice. “There’s one more thing: Its not an it. There are several of them.”

“Several? But we shot this approach three months ago.”

“Tell me about it,” the boy said sarcastically. He turned to his sister, “Giss?”

“Radar is picking up at least five of the towers,” she replied, “packed too tight for us to slip between. And, they definitely are not on our map.”

“Looks like I’ll have to yell at the airport manager again,” said George beside me.

“Did you try the motors?” I interrupted, fingers tense.

“All thrust is at maximum,” Giselle replied, her tone suddenly frosty. She was right to sound mad. Even after three months on board I was a still visiter, not a family member. I wasn’t supposed to speak on approach. If I had been paying attention I would have noticed the sensors showed all 16 of the motors at full throttle. Then again the sound they made as they reverberated inside the foam and reinforced plastic of the wing was pretty hard to miss. Unfortunately their combined thrust was not all that spectacular, especially with almost half the wing retracted.

“Can you slew around it?” George asked. This is a trick small airplanes often use; banking the wings and using the rudders to keep the plane on course.

“Too draggy,” the boy replied. “I’ve plotted it four different ways, each one says we need either an extra 200 feet A-G-L or a dozen mips more R-A-S. We have neither.”

“Shit,” said the voice next to me. This time not on the intercom. The only reason I heard it is because the eldest male, and family head, George Henderson was laying in the cramped space right next to me.

I locked eyes with him as the plane shifted and shook around us, sounding for all the world like a pile of styrofoam pellets in the world’s largest paint-shaker. Not 12 hours ago Paul had used these very words to describe the sound inside a cloud-ship when it was on final approach. At the time I thought he was being hyperbolic. Now I knew he was telling the truth.

“Are we going to make it?” I mouthed so as to not be picked up by the mic. George looked at me for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders, or tried to at least. Its hard to shrug while lying in a cramped narrow space. His face looked calm, maybe even resigned, but trapped with him in the tiny area I could also smell his fear.

 

###

 

My adventure that summer started with a call the previous spring. It was late May and the warm sunlight streamed though my bedroom window, causing me to squint as I reached over to answer my phone.

“How would you like to spend the summer on a cloud-ship?”

It was my agent, Barney Sanders. “Huh?” I said as I got out of bed and stumbled over to the coffee machine, trying hard not to step on the clothes and other detritus spread all over the floor. The clock read 10:00. Was it really that late?

“How would you like to spend the summer on a cloud-ship?”

“Um,” I said thinking fast, trying hard not to sound excited and looking through the mess in the sink for a clean coffee mug. “It depends…” In truth my mind was going, “Woooo hooo!” but I had learned not to trust everything my mind thinks especially first thing in the morning. Besides there were practical matters to consider, like how was I going to afford it? While I might a times exaggerate to my friends about the glorious life of a freelance writer, the reality was good paying stories were getting hard to find. So the idea was appealing, but my rent was due in three weeks and my bank balance was close to zero.

“Don’t worry, John. Its not some luxury liner. This is the real deal. A small family-owned ship. They want an insider to do a couple of in-depth features, which means you need to live with them a while. You’ll have to put in a few shifts as well, but they claim there’ll be plenty of free time.”

“Don’t give me that, Barney,” I said. “You know how these things go. A few shifts will mean 90 hours a week. Spare time will be the gap between brushing and flossing.”

“It’s non-exclusive,” he replied.

That slowed me down. “I can write other pieces?”

“Their contract is for two, and only two, 10,000 word features. You know the drill–slick, happy, PR pieces. Everything else you write is yours to sell. And get this: I got them to promise full access.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Really?” Any freelance writer worth his salt could crank out a hundred stories on the cloudies. They lived for months or even years (no one knew for sure) in the upper atmosphere, existing on the raw fringes of human civilization. They were practically the dictionary definition of danger and mystery. There was no end to fictional accounts about them; in the past ten years there had been two major movies, four television series, and who knows how many fan blogs. Yet there was practically zero factual information about them in the public record. Cloudies were known to keep tightly to themselves, and they never mixed with outsiders. Even their family names were kept secret. No one got an inside scoop on them. No one. I know, I’d been trying for years. They were a secretive lot, an untapped market. Heck if I could live with them for a week I could probably sell their grocery lists for a couple hundred.

“And that’s not all. Bill Bryson at U.S. & World tells me he has a cover spot opening sometime in late August. That is, if you think you can put together 15k of meaningful feature.”

“A cover?” That was big news. A major feature on the largest news magazine in all the world would mean I could finally say goodbye to ramen noodles and frozen diners at the 99 cent store. It was good deal. Too good.

“Okay, I’m in,” I said. “But what’s the catch?”

 

I should probably stop and tell you now I’m slightly crazy about cloudies. They’ve been a hobby of mine for years. Every book, every rumor, every news story written, I’ve either seen or read. There’s even a model of the Carl Rankin, the first glider-ship ever flown, hanging from my office ceiling. So you would think with all that research there wouldn’t be much for me to learn.

You’d also be wrong. Or at least, I was.

My first lesson came when I showed up at the airport. My bags were packed for a summer in one of most exclusive experiences on the planet. I had everything I needed, my tablet, camera, week’s supply of clothes, a couple of pairs of shoes, toiletries, and other things a modern man needs. What I wasn’t prepared for was the person they sent to greet me. It was a kid. Maybe 10 years old.

The boy took one look at my bags, and shook his head. “You the reporter?” he asked. I nodded. Then he said in a firm voice, “You can’t take all that.”

“But I need it,” I said, feeling somewhat out of place having a conversation about my underwear with a kid.

“All that you don’t,” he said with a surety that belied his years, “not where you’re going, at least.”

I wasn’t used to being told what to do by a child. I knew each glider-ship was based on a family, so I thought I could do an end-run around him. “Look kid. Are your parents around so I can ask them?”

The boy shrugged his shoulders, and slid me a number from his tablet. “Suit yourself,” he said politely.

Ten minutes later, after getting one of the most blistering tongue lashings in my life, I was standing near a table as the boy expertly went though my stuff. Half of the gear I brought, the special high altitude breathing gear, the thick clothes, the leather boots – were sitting in a pile, along with half my clothes and most of my toiletries.

“Are you sure I don’t need this,” I said holding up a bar of soap trying and desperately to hold on to some of my dignity.

“Where’re you going to use it?” he asked. There was no challenge in his voice. It was a rhetorical question. “There’s no shower on the Alice May. There’s not even a bathroom.”

“There’s not?” I said in some surprise.

“Don’t worry,” he said as he gently took the bar of soap out of my hand. “You have enough. Really. You’ll be fine.”

I thought the kid was messing with me, still sore from when I tried to go around him. As it turned out, he was being generous. I didn’t use almost a quarter of the things he let me keep.

That first meeting taught me two important things about Cloudies; they are deadly serious about their weight, and they are kind even generous to strangers. I didn’t know then how important either would be until later. And then it was only because it changed my life.

 

They call themselves the Cloud People, or the Cloud Clan. Sometimes People of The Clouds. Cloudies, for short. They are a funny breed. Fiercely independent, beholden to no man or country, they roam the skies converting small pockets of trace gases into cash, most of which they fold back into their glider-ships. They live in a tight space, under severe conditions, and with very little latitude for error. They live in the margins, forever tweaking their planes, and their processes, always digging for a few more percentage points of efficiency or profit. Most Cloudies fly as a family; the work is too difficult, the price of a mistake too great, to trust to the hands of an outsider.

Imagine living with six other people in a tiny studio apartment day in and day out, 51 weeks a year, and all at eleven miles above the ground where the slightest mistake can mean economic ruin, starvation, or worse. More than one glider-ship had taken off never to land again, at least in one piece.

This is what was going though my mind as the boy, Jared his name turned out to be, lead me and my much reduced gear to his family’s plane. The Alice May sat on the tarmac like some obscene foam whale. The huge wing spanned over 100 meters, and easily thick enough at the spar for a six foot man to stand upright inside. The enormous tail at the back of the plane looked big enough to count as a wing in its own right. Later I found out the horizontal stabilizer, the flat part on the tail which is parallel to the ground, was actually slightly larger in area than one of the wings on the modified 747 that was preparing to tow us into the air.

Walking up to a plane that size was definitely impressive. It didn’t just sit there on the ground, it loomed. From a distance the color appeared a uniform white, but up close I could see slight imperfections in the color of the sheet foam. Tiny numbers, lines, and neat handwriting were etched at every joint and sheet. It was like seeing a model airplane plan written right on top of the plane. When I got up close enough to see the writing I noticed most of it was reversed. I was looking at it from the wrong side.

Seeing me stop to look, a tall man with hard blue eyes in a perpetual squint approached me from one side. I could sense an impatience in him, but he let me look undisturbed. I was just about to ask him why someone had written all over the inside of wing when it came to me. Of course. It was easier to have all the parts labeled right where you were working on them, than to have a plan written somewhere else. The writing was on the inside because while the plane was in the air no one would be working on it from the outside.

“Ingenious,” I said, appreciating the planning behind this approach. More than once I had wished my car was equally labeled.

“What’s that?” the man with cold eyes asked.

“The labeling,” I said turning to notice tan leathery skin and a receding grey hairline. “That’s a smart way to mark things. Are all cloud-ships labeled like this?”

The man smiled at my compliment. “Only the ones that want to keep flying,” he said matter-of-factly. “The name’s George. George Henderson.” He stuck out his hand and we shook. Not ten minutes before this same man had been yelling at me for being a fool. Now he seemed calm and untroubled.

“I see you’ve met Jared,” he said with a wry smile, telling me he hadn’t forgotten, but he also wasn’t going to necessarily hold it against me. “Why don’t you come inside and I’ll introduce you to the rest of the crew?”

The rest of the crew turned out to be the Henderson family. George, and his wife Bonny (who curiously went by the nick-name Cobra) were the parents. Their children were, in order of age, Lisa (21), Paul (15), Giselle (13), and Jared (10) whom I had already met. They welcomed me to the Alice May like any family might welcome a stranger to their home. Only this family was decidedly different. For instance, Giselle’s room looked like a typical tween room with large photos of boy bands cycling on her wall, but our first conservation jumped rapidly from the latest hair fashions on musicians to the problems of wind-sheer in the upper atmosphere. To her the two topics appeared to be of equal importance, never mind that one usually required about three years of college level math to even understand.

And then there was Paul. I first met Paul as he was holding a carefully constructed piece of foam, carbon-fiber sheet, and plastic. The piece was flat, approximately three feet by one, and maybe 1/2” thick. Looking inside (it was mostly hollow) I could see a complex pattern of inter-weaving struts, each no thicker than a spider web, but together comprising an elegant solution. It weighted only about two ounces, but was so rigid I could not twist it with my bare hands. I know because he had me try. It was about as a nice a piece of engineering as I have ever run across, and belied a level of mathematics which was well over my head.

“So what is it for?” I asked when I handed the piece back to him.

“This is the new and improved FC-13,” he said with some pride.

“What happened to the old one?” I asked.

He frowned. “Its a bit complicated.“

“Try me,“ I said with a smile.

He looked me in the eye for a moment. I could see him measuring if he could trust me. I was tempted to say something to reassure him, but decided not to. After a moment’s thought his shoulders gave a shrug and he continued, his mind apparently made up.

“I’m not sure,” he said, answering my question. “We changed the airflow over some parts of the wing a while back when switching to a different set of airfoils. The changes were largely benign, but for some reason they increased flutter at one spot; FC-13. Part of our flying-flap system.”

Most people wouldn’t know what flutter was on an aircraft. It is hard to believe that tiny up and down fluctuations on only part of a flying surface could be a problem. But flutter is no joke. Such fluctuations if left unchecked have been known to rip an airplane to pieces, or worst, make it impossible to steer. The standard solution for flutter is to make the part stiffer, which explained the piece Paul was holding. This wasn’t the only solution. On some planes counter weights were added instead, like they did on the P-38. Adding stiffness was just the easiest fix.

“Well,” I said. “It looks like you found a good solution. I can’t imagine that piece flexing anytime soon. For as thin as it is, the torsional strength must be off the charts.”

Paul smiled at my compliment. “Well, I did try to make it as strong as I could. After all, its not fun to replace this piece, even on the ground. Its a right pain to fix while at altitude.”

“I can imagine,” I said. “Need any help with installing it?”

“No thanks,” he replied with all the surety of a teen. “I’ve got it handled. I’ve done this before.”

 

For all the rumors about Cloudies being taciturn and secretive, I found the Hendersons to be delightfully open and accepting. The one exception was the eldest daughter, Lisa. Perhaps it was her age, perhaps it was that she had just finished going to a university and was overly tired of living around ground-pounders (as Cloudies humorously liked to call the rest of humanity), but whatever the reason, she made it abundantly clear I was not welcome on board. Oh, she was not openly rude, but she stopped just short of that. I had started my career as a reporter, so I was used to going places I wasn’t always wanted. Still it had been a while since I had been around a person who treated silence not only as a tool but as a weapon. I did my best to get along with everyone, and tried not to let it bug me.

Besides I had a lot on my mind. To work as a crew member in a glider-ship one needed to be an expert on several different subjects. Everything from cooking for six people, keeping yourself clean (which is not so easy without a shower), to advanced fluid dynamics. When I arrived on the Alice May I thought I had a pretty good understanding of what makes an airplane fly. What I discovered was that I had only a cursory knowledge of some of the subjects. I needed to catch up to speed quickly if I was going to be of any help. I also needed to write some stories if I was going to pay my rent.

George and Bonny happily gave me a course of study, and everyone else pitched in to tutor. There were no tests, yet I sensed at every step I was being graded. George and Bonny demanded perfection, and accepted nothing less. They were polite, but firm. It was like a cross between a bizarre liberal arts college where you lived in the dorms with your professors, and a military academy for wayward teens. The combination was like nothing I had ever experienced, and it took me a while to come to terms with. The kindness I could understand, but the rock-hard expectation of perfection was something else. That being said, I never once felt they were too strict. As George liked to point out, “at eleven miles up, any mistake can be a fatal one.”

One day I was working through a practical engineering exercise having to do with calculating the amount of flexibility inherent in a wing structure. For the past three weeks Giselle had been helping me with the math until I was versed enough in it to go over the engineering with Paul. He had been showing me a few tricks he’d picked up for adding torsional stability when George came by to check my progress. George took one look at my structure and said, “This looks like crap.”

I had been working non-stop on that engineering for weeks, and his words hit me like a blow. I must have looked pretty shaken because George’s face softened, and he put his hand on my shoulder.

“Look. Don’t take it personal, Bob. Its not about you. When your whole family is riding on the equation–everything you love and own–there is no room for error. None. Remember, there are a thousand ways to get it wrong, but only one way to get it right. Make sure you pick that one.”

As he walked out I turned to Paul. “Is he always like that?”

“Demanding?” he replied with a smile to show he empathized. “Sure. But I think he has a good reason to be. Don’t you?”

I nodded my head reluctantly. Still feeling despondent I said, “I guess some of us were not born to be engineers.”

Paul laughed. “Like him, you mean? You wanna hear something funny? Mom says Pops failed first-year engineering, three times in a row.”

“He did?”

“Sure. Even now he’s always careful to have someone else go over his work.”

“So he uses you to double-check?”

“Oh, no. I’m pretty good, but I’m not that good. He uses Lisa. Even when she was in school he used to send her stuff.”

“Really?” I was surprised. I never heard Lisa speak up about engineering. Then again I had never heard her speak up about anything.

“Yep. Mom says she’s a natural. Pops says he’s never seen anyone so good.”

“Your sister? Well if she’s that good, then why does she never talk about it?”

“Dunno,” he said shrugging his shoulders, but I could tell by his eyes he knew something more.

 

That night I stayed up late outlining a few pieces for some fan blogs. Nothing serious, just day-in-the-life stuff. The big money would come later, but I still had the rent to pay. Besides working on the Alice May was keeping me pretty busy. I was finishing up around 2:00 am when the banging started just outside my room.

That was not a good sign. In a flash I was up, had my pants on, and was heading with my pad towards the wing access panel. Cobra was on duty that night flying solo, so I sent her a message. “Always tell the pilot,” had been drilled into me from my first day aboard. I guess all that training had been good for something.

A rather sleepy looking Paul joined me by the time I got the panel off, and was ready to crawl into the wing. I noticed another beautiful piece of foam and plastic was already in his hand.

“Let me guess, FC-13?” I asked nodding towards the part as the banging continued unabated.

“Sounds like it,” he said looking grim.

“Well,” I said. “Sooner started, sooner finished.”

“You don’t have to do this,” he said to me. “I can handle it.”

“Is it that bad in there?”

He shrugged his shoulders. The universal teen response.

“Look,” I told him. “Its not a big deal. Besides, it might be a good idea to show me, just in case it needs to get fixed again and you’re too busy.” I didn’t add that there was probably nothing on the plane that could keep him too busy to not want to repair it. Paul liked to fix things. It was in his DNA.

He shrugged his shoulders again.

“Okay,” I said. “The truth is I was up anyway, so you might as well give me something to do.”

He stared at me for a moment, then jerked his head. “C’mon. You really should know how to fix this. Just in case.”

Most people would be surprised to know that most of the wing on a plane that large is devoted to storage space. The structure itself was light and thin, with lots of volume in-between. That volume was used to store everything from batteries to razor blades. Even the kid’s rooms were out in the wings. It was only near the back part of the wing, called the trailing edge, that the structure got too narrow for storage. Which also meant it was too narrow to crawl in. Almost.

Working as quickly as safety would allow, Paul and I wormed our way in, and started deconstructing the wing surface. It took us almost 30 minutes to get to the offending part; FC-13. By then it had been banging around so much it had damaged some of the pieces around it. Paul is thin, but fairly short. We discovered that with my long arms I could reach things easier and faster. Never in my life had I been so thankful for being tall and thin. Before long Paul was fetching replacement parts out of the emulsifier, and sliding them out to me while I gently put them in place. It a few hours the job was done.

Climbing back out, hot and dirty, Paul thanked me as dusted ourselves off.

“Hey,” I said to him. “I noticed you showed up with a new FC-13, but the rest of the parts you just extruded. Why not extrude the FC-13 too?”

“The simple answer is it takes too long,” he said.

“And the long answer?”

“It takes too long.” He smiled at his joke and continued. “Simple pieces we can extrude rapidly, but the complex ones take several hours or even days. That’s why I built a couple of replacement parts in advance.”

“Looks like you were right then. Did you build a third?”

“Not yet.”

“Hey maybe you can get your hotshot sister to engineer one.”

Paul looked at me, his eyes suddenly absent of emotion. I had stuck a nerve, I just didn’t know which one.

“Look,” I said, “I didn’t mean…”

“Its okay,” he interrupted. “I know, its just…”

“Not a good subject?” I offered.

“Something like that, yes.”

He looked pained, so I offered some sympathy. “Well if it makes you feel any better, I can’t get a word in edgewise with her either.”

He looked back at me, for a second time his face was unreadable. “Yes,” was all he said.

 

The next morning I decided to confront Lisa and see if I could get to the bottom of this. I didn’t care what she thought of me, or what was going on between her and Paul, but I had a story to write and didn’t have the time to deal with petty issues. To do this I needed a neutral place to meet her, some place she would feel safe, so I decided to face her while she was doing dishes.

“So what did you think of the chicken?” I asked as I entered the small galley. I had cooked a dinner that night for the second time, and I was pretty happy with the results.

She glanced at me and then quickly looked back at the sink. “It was okay,” she said with the absent tone one uses to signal they are busy and do not wish to be disturbed. I crossed my arms and leaned back against the oven/stove.

“How about the broccoli?” I said.

“It was fine,” she replied. This time not even bothering to turn around.

“The rice?”

“Adequate.” I could see her back starting to tense.

“How bout the wine?”

She whirled around, her eyes flashing. “Look are we going to do this all night, because I’m kind of busy right now.”

“It depends,” I said.

“Depends on what?”

“You,” I said quietly so it didn’t sound like a challenge. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I came here to do a job, and I need your help to do it.”

“My help?” she said.

“Yes,”

“With what?”

“I’m doing a piece on your family, and I need to include everyone so it’ll work. To do that I need your help. Your cooperation. To interview you. I’ve already got everyone else. All’s that’s left is you, only every time we talk you don’t say a thing. I don’t know what it is you have against me, and I don’t care. All I ask is that you give me a short interview, and in return I’ll do my best to leave you alone. Okay?

“That’s it?” she said in disbelief. “That’s all you want?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

I nodded my head.

“A interview?” she continued. “For some Cloudy fan-blog, I suppose?”

“Yes. Hyper-Flight.com, in fact,” I said with pride. It was a big step up for me.

She looked me in the eye. Not with anger, but with something else. “Do you even know why you’re here?” she said carefully. “Why they picked you?”

“To write a story. Two really. That’s what I was told.”

She stared at me for a moment, disbelief and anger at war on her face. Anger must have won. “They picked you,” she said enunciating each word slowly, as if speaking to an imbecile, “because you are thin.”

“What?” I asked, not understanding.

“Your weight. They didn’t pick you because you can write, or love airplanes, or can learn slightly faster than the usual brain-dead ground-pounder. They picked you because you were ten pounds lighter the the next guy. That’s it. That’s the reason. Ten pounds!”

“Huh?” I said completely surprised. By then she had stormed out of the room.

Women.

 

I didn’t have the first clue about what to do with Lisa, but I wasn’t lying when I said I had a story to write. And let me tell you, writing pieces for the larger blogs is a headache. For all that they pay well, they suck up a lot of time and resources. Fact-checking alone can eat up days and days of work. Only I didn’t have that luxury. My solution was to fall back on a habit I picked up in college; staying up later. In essence, trading work for sleep. There is a down side to this: After the forth night, the lack of sleep starts getting to you. After the sixth night, well, that’s how I fell asleep sitting at my desk.

And this time I dreamed…

I was standing on a the runners for a dogsled, the snow wooshing by my feet, the team pulling hard, and me yelling at them at the top of my lungs. We were on the last leg of a long race, and the crowd around the finish line could be seen just ahead. Our sled was carefully engineered out of carbon fiber and plastic with all the spiderweb engineering to make it both strong and light. Even after countless miles and horrible abuses, the framework still gleamed like it was brand new. It was by far the slickest sled on the course, and with it we held a commanding lead.

As I watched the finish line approaching I heard a change in the crowd. The cheering suddenly stopped. Without the sound of the crowd I could hear the scratching of the runners sliding across the icy spots in the snow, each imperfection passed up to my hands as a vibration. Bang, bang, bang.

A small bark behind be alerted me to another competitor. I turned around to find the strangest sight I have ever seen. It was a sled built from the flimsiest of thin foam and supported apparently only with long thin drinking straws. The runners were held in place by strips of clear tape, wrapped around and around the frame in big wads. Gaps between the foam and straw supports were covered in plastic food wrap, which hummed and stretched with every jolt. This strange contraption bound over the snow like a crazy funhouse on skis. Every bump and dip, even the slightest of breezes, made the whole thing flex and bend like a palm tree in a hurricane. First one side touching the ground, then the other.

Pulling the sled was a team of miniature poodles; dogs obviously not suited for the snow, let alone a serious race. Each poodle was carefully dyed a bright pink, and encircled in a rhinestone covered harness. The team barked and nipped like they were frolicking at the park instead of pulling a heavy sled. Yet most surprising of all came at the very back of the sled: Running the sled was that most famous of airplane designers, Carl Randkin. He had a crazy smile on his face, and waved a drinking straw like a whip as he encouraged his team to run faster and faster.

While I watched, Carl’s sled slowly caught up, and then started to pass us. The crowd was dumbfounded at first, but soon they began to cheer in earnest as the our two sleds raced for the prize.

The passing sled whipped our own team into a frenzy. They pulled at their harnesses like mad things, their frantic motion jerking the sled this way at that. Worse still, the quality of the snow near the finish line deteriorated from all the passing of the fans. Icy footprints and sled marks turned the once smooth snow into a bumpy mess. Each imperfection in the snow was like running over a rock, with the frame faithfully transmitting the impact to my hands and feet. These bumps also had the effect of slowing us down, transferring our forward momentum into noise and vibration.

Paul dove onto the front of the sled, and desperately tried to smooth the snow in front of the runners with his gloved hands. Lisa sat on the back with a frown on her face, repeating over and over I was ten pounds too light. I ran along at the back, alternating between yelling at the dogs and attempting to steer the sled around the worse of the tracks in the snow. I jumped on the back of the runners for the finish line, feeling them pounding into rut after rut, the impacts shaking the sled and sending tremors up my legs.

Just as we reached the finish line, the crowd started chanting, “Wake. Up. Bob. Wake. Up. Bob. Wake. Up…”

Suddenly I woke up at my desk. There was a pounding sound like someone was banging on my door, and a thin line of drool dripped from my mouth to the surface. “What?” I shouted at the noise, wiping the wet from my mouth. “Hold on already.”

“Bob,” a voice said from my tablet.

“Huh,” I said disoriented. I looked down and saw Paul’s face. He was talking to me from the pilot’s seat.

The banging from the dream continued. Then suddenly it clicked into place. It wasn’t someone knocking at my door. It was FC-13, and it was failing. Badly.

“I’m on it,” I yelled towards the tablet as I got up quickly, banging my head against a bulkhead. “Shit.”

“You okay?” Paul asked.

I didn’t bother to answer. I was already out the door.

Exhaustion does funny things to a person, blurring the lines between the waking world and dreams. As I crawled through the wing access hatch a part of me was also crawling along on top of the sled. When I got to FC-13, I could see there was already a lot of damage to the wing. There wasn’t time to extrude custom parts. That piece had to come out of there. Now.

Working quickly I grabbed parts out of a pile of sheet foam stored in a space nearby, and started cutting. I wasn’t thinking clearly. To be honest I wasn’t thinking at all. I kept seeing our runners pounding away, and the crowd roaring past. I crawled and I cut, I pieced and I pushed. I didn’t even realize what I had been attaching the foam with until I put the last piece in place. That’s when I noticed the roll of clear packing tape in my hands. I don’t even know how it got on the plane. It was about as low tech a solution as I could think of. Like fixing a broken computer with a band aide.

I was thinking of how I was going to explain this to Paul when his face showed up on my tablet.

“Good job, there Bob,” he said with a smile. “The instruments say the wing is stable, and the flutter is gone. At least for now.” His smile slipped for a second as he checked a reading on his board, then he continued. “You had me worried there for a moment when you didn’t wake up at first, but whatever you did it the wing seems to be working fine now.”

I looked back in the tiny bay where I had been working, and swallowed a lump. It looked like a mad scientist had let loose in there with a roll of tape, and a pile of foam. I shuddered to think at what George would say when he saw the sloppiness of my repair.

Paul must have seen the look on my face, but misunderstood the meaning. “You looked pretty beat, Bob. Why don’t you get back to bed. I’ll go over the repair with Pops at the end of my shift.”

That was even worse. “But..” I said.

“I mean it Bob. Get back in bed. I know your worried it might fail again, but don’t. Trust me. If it fails you’ll be the first to know.”

That’s what I’m afraid of, I thought, but at that point I was too tired to argue. I gathered up the few tools I had used, and crawled back out of the wing. I was so tired by then that I don’t remember anything until I woke up the next afternoon, stiff and sore, the bright sunshine coming almost straight down through my window.

 

Paul and George met me as I was sipping hot coffee in the galley.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” George said in his normal stern tone, “about the repair you did last night.”

I took too large a sip and burned my tongue. Ouch. Pain distracted me for a moment, but my mind was racing. I knew I had nothing to lose by being honest, and everything to lose by trying to bluff my way out the situation, so I tried to head him off. “You mean the disaster I did to the top of bay 13?”

George grimaced at the word disaster, but didn’t say anything for a second. He shared a glance with Paul. “Well, that too,” he said with a slight smile, “but what I most want to talk about was your, uh, unorthodox repair methods.”

“You mean the tape?” I asked.

“Not just the tape. The use of sheet foam. The tape. Everything.”

I was cooked, and I knew it. I had blown the gig. I could feel it in my bones. I had taken the Henderson’s clean and orderly plane, and decorated it like a kindergartener on crack.

“I…” I stammered looking down into my coffee. “I really don’t know what to say. I’m sorry? I don’t know. I was tired, and I wasn’t paying much attention…”

“Stop,” George said.

“But I really didn’t mean…” I continued on.

“I mean it, Bob. Stop.”

I looked up expecting to see anger in their eyes. Instead I caught bemused expressions. They were smiling. Both of them. Genuine smiles.

Seeing my confused look George said, “I suppose I should have started this conversation with Paul’s data. You see he was very careful to show me how well your repaired worked..“

“I showed him the data,“ Paul interrupted, “before I let him out in the wing.”

“Before?” I asked still confused.

Paul slid something from his tablet to mine. It was an overlay of two charts. One chart was of his fancy FC-13 fix, the complex one. The other chart was of my foam and tape fix. Both charts measured fluctuations up one axis, and time on the other. It took my tired brain a while to grasp what I was seeing, but there was no denying the numbers. My cheap fix was already holding up much better then the expensive one.

“You showed this to your dad before he saw the repair?” Was all I could think to say.

George managed a smile. “Yep. He even went so far as to turn off the internal camera in the bay.”

I turned to Paul. “You turned off the camera!” I said in surprise. Falsifying information about the ship was against the rules. Turning off a camera was a definite no-no. Paul wisely said nothing, but I could see his cheeks start to turn red.

George continued as if I hadn’t said anything. “It was a good thing too. Had he shown me that repair first I might have tossed you out of the nearest opening. Without the benefit of a parachute, that is.”

George was smiling as he said this so I knew he was only half serious.

I was still trying to process the whole thing. “But it works?”

The smile slipped, and he was back to his usual austere self. “For now. We still need to get in there and refit the whole area, but that can wait until we’re back on the ground.

“On the ground?”

George looked at me in surprise, and then smiled. “Didn’t you know? The Cloudy Jamboree starts next week. Normally we wouldn’t drop in till Wednesday, but this year I’m on a committee and need to be at a meeting on Monday. The schedule’s been on the nav station for a month. Didn’t you see?”

I shook my head. They hadn’t taught me navigation yet so I hadn’t had a chance to look at the screen.

George got up from the table. “I have a shift to run, and you two are going to be busy of the next couple of days. In addition, I expect complete a refit plan for bay 13 on my tablet no later then tomorrow evening. Is that clear?”

We both nodded our heads, and he walked out the door.

 

“Oh I can’t wait,” Paul said his eyes glowing with excitement after his father left.

“What?”

“The Jamboree, ground-pounder,” he said teasingly. “Didn’t you hear?“

“Huh?”

Paul continued, ignoring my grunts. “Its going to be so great. Bonhill’s will be lecturing on fluid dynamics on Thursday. I mean, the Bonhill.”

I made a mental note to look up whoever Bonhill was.

“They’re also doing a new building competition this year, and now that I’m 15 I’ll be in the seniors category.”

“Is that good?” I asked somewhat perplexed.

He laughed. “Good? No, great! I’ll finally have some real competition. Not those stupid kiddy planes. And then there’s the food and the drinks, and the booths, and the latest software gadgets for the emulsifier, and, and the girls,” he blurted out without thought. Suddenly his face turned red again. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Anyway, you just have to see. Why the Jamboree is just the best.”

 

It turns out the Cloudy Jamboree is the best. It is the one time of the year when all of the cloud-ships can come down, and the families can get together and mingle without fear of the ground-pounders. It was also the only airport in the world where the glider-ships could land, taxi, park, and take off with their wings fully extended. It was a time for Cloudies to relax and let their hair down, a time to refit, a time to learn. Even a time to brag. Think of it as a cross between Mardi Gras, and Christmas, only add in about a hundred weddings, and you’ll get pretty close.

So a week after I sent my first story in, I found myself walking between the rows and rows of shops at the largest gathering of Cloudies in the world. It was like a dream come true. There were booths all around, games, and drink. The food was incredible, the lectures amazing, and thanks to the popularity of my article, I found myself for the first time with plenty of coins in my pocket.

There was only one problem. Everybody hated me.

Ever had one of those dreams were you felt like there was a target painted on your back and everyone was shooting at you? Well I can tell you from experience its a lot worse in real life.

The Hendersons had taken me on as part of “Openness”, which was a PR campaign devised by CPACA, one of the larger organizations that most Cloudies loosely followed. The operative word here is “loosely”. It turns out that not all of the Cloudies liked the idea of Openness, or what CPACA as doing on their behalf, and they were pretty comfortable at expressing their opinions. The President of CPACA, and every one on the Openness committee, including George, got their fair share of nasty comments and email. But the majority of the Cloudies seemed to vent their frustration on the one outsider in their midst; me.

Of corse I didn’t know this at the time we landed. It wasn’t until I heard the words “that reporter” for the hundredth time that I learned to duck after hearing it.

To be fair, most of the Cloudies were not angry at me. Most where either neutral, or slightly perturbed. A few even took me aside to thanked me for the article. In secret.

The worst of the abusers were the third hands, which was the loose term a Cloudy would use for a spare helper on a plane. What they used to call a “hired hand” in the old west. They were a rough lot; young men who didn’t fit in, or were saving money for a plane of their own. Some were outsiders like me, which surprised me a bit, and a few were even women. They occupied that strange place; too close to be an employee but too distant for family, and something about that position made them chafe. They assumed my article would increase the number third-hands as public interest in Cloudies grew, and they thought these potential competitors might ruin their good thing.

Not that they generally spoke so eloquently, but one could piece together their opinions between the punches and the kicks. After four days I had managed to receive a black-eye, two lacerations, a sprained wrist, five broken knuckles, and a couple broken ribs. It got to the point that the staff at the infirmary started placing bets on when I would return. At least they did a good job healing me before they sent me back out into the fray.

So as you can imagine I was feeling pretty low the afternoon Lisa found me in a quiet corner behind the tent village. It wouldn’t quite call what I was doing as hiding, but it was next thing to it.

“Hey,” she said walking up to me. “What’ch doing?”

This caught me by surprise. I stood there thinking this was the first time Lisa had initiated a conversation with me, when I realized she was staring.

“Uh, I was supposed to say something, wasn’t I?”

“Generally, that’s how a conversation starts,” she said helpfully. “New at this, are you?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“In fact, I did,” she replied, this time with a smile to show she was only having fun. “You finding the Jamboree a bit overwhelming?”

I nodded my head. “That wouldn’t be the first word I’d choose, but it’ll do.”

“Thought so. The first Jamboree is a bit too much for anyone. Sometimes its nice to step back from the crowd.”

“Now that I can agree with,” I said still puzzled at her new behavior.

Seeing the question in my eyes she said, “Pops sent me over to see how you were doing.”

“So you’re checking up on me now?”

“Well…” she said glancing around, “to be honest I was bored and wanted a drink, but I hate to drink alone. Wanna join me?”

“Well, since we’re being honest,” I replied, “that’s the nicest invitation I’ve had all week.”

“Oh,” she said. “That’s right. Your story.”

“Yes.”

“Not everyone liked it, I take it?”

“Um,” I said, “that’s one way of putting it.”

She looked me in the eye, and really looked this time. I could feel her focus, her intelligence, like a white hot light. “C’mon,” she said looking away. “I know just the place.”

She did.

She found us a nice quiet bar, sat me down with a drink, and went to work. It took her a couple of hours, and maybe a few drinks, but she finally got me to talk. Look, I wasn’t trying to not tell her. I just could not. Maybe all those years of interviewing others made me bad at it myself. Maybe it just took me a while to trust her after the way she had been for the last month and a half. Maybe I just don’t like to dump my problems on women, especially after all the nice things her family had done for me.

Did you ever try to not tell something to a smart girl? A pretty one too? See what I mean? And that was the weirdest thing. Sometime in all that conversation I realized she was pretty. And oh my gosh did I clamp down on that thought. Hard. All I needed was to let that feeling show, and I was cooked for sure. So much for the vaunted emotional distance of my journalism training.

So rather than focus on that, I told her about my week. As I talked her face grew harder and harder. Each time I stopped she asked me to continue, her voice calm, smooth, and very much at odds with her eyes. By the time I got to the broken ribs her jaw was set and there was an intense glow in her eyes.

When I finished she stood calmly, took my hand and said, “C’mon.” Not knowing what she had in mind I meekly followed.

We crossed the whole grounds, her leading me like a child. I was too numb to care until we came up to the Third Ward which was a cross between a bar and a meeting hall. It was the place that most third-hands hung out looking for work, or having drinks. It was also the place I received my black-eye. I tried to shy away from the door, but she just pulled me right in. Too late, I noticed she was pretty angry.

As we entered the room, the crowd went suddenly quiet. I had read about this happening a hundred times in books, but this was the first time I had seen it happen in person. Let me tell you, its not so fun when you’re the one everyone is staring at.

Lisa didn’t seem to care. She glared right back at them. Her anger easily  a match for the whole room. After what seemed like hours but was probably a few moments she said quite loudly, “I wish to issue a challenge.”

A large man came out from around the bar and crossed his arms. He looked like a bouncer complete with tattoos and a few stray earrings all over his face. “Yo, Lisa,“ he said.

“Yo, Derek,” she said back.

“You can’t issue a challenge,” he said. “You know the rules. You’re family.”

“Its not for me. Its for him,” she said tugging my arm.

The quiet room was suddenly a buzz with whispers.

“Him? The reporter?” Derek said as if he was talking about a slug.

She didn’t respond. She simply stared at him.

“But he’s only been in a plane, what, a few weeks?”

“The Alice May will vouch for him,” she said.

A shock went though the room at that. The bouncer looked taken aback. He leaned forward and in a quite tone so as not to be heard above the noise he asked, “Are you sure?”

She stared him right in the eye. “We consider it a matter of honor.”

Derek leaned back, staring at her as if he couldn’t believe his ears.

“Pick your best man,” she continued. “We’ll do the test tonight.”

“Tonight? What test?”

“The Spar Test,” she said, and then the next thing I knew she was leading me out the door while the room behind us erupted into noise.

 

Its a funny thing about being brave. Sometimes it comes on at the strangest moments. Leaving that room must have flipped a switch in me because suddenly I was incensed.

“What in the hell was that all about?” I shouted. “What do you mean by a challenge, and what is a Spar Test anyway!”

I looked around and noticed a crown was starting to form. Lisa looked back at me calmly and said, “As I mentioned it is an issue of honor. You are a guest on the Alice May. If someone harms you, it is as if they had harmed our family.”

“What?” I said. “That’s crazy. This isn’t some medieval village. You don’t have to stand up for me like that. I can take care of my own.”

She looked me in the eye, and arched an eye-brow.

“Okay, so maybe I’m not so great a fighter. But you sill don’t have to be involved.”

“Its not like that,” she said. “Its not about you. Its about the Alice May. We can afford a lot of things, but we cannot afford to have someone in our family who does not trust us. Among the people of the cloud this is the worst crime; to lose the trust of a family member. We simply cannot allow it to happen.

“Okay,” I said. “I can see that. So what’s a challenge then.”

“Oh, that is easy. It is sort of like a duel, only a duel of wits.”

“A duel of wits? Like an IQ test with guns?“

“No. No weapons.”

“Okay, then what is the Spar Test?”

She smiled at me and took my hand. “Only the toughest challenge I could make.”

“The toughest? What are you going to do, engineer them to death?”

“Not me. As Derek pointed out, I’m family. I’m not eligible. It will have to be you.”

“Me?” I said, suddenly afraid again.

“C’mon,” she said taking my arm. “You’ll be fine.”

“But some those guys,” I protested, “have been doing this their whole lives.”

“Yes,” she said with a mischievous smile. “I’m counting on it.”

“You are? But…”

“Hush,” she said and put a finger to my lips. “I said you’ll be fine, and I meant it. But, there is one thing.”

“What?” I asked.

“The rules state you can’t use packing tape.”

“Har de har har.”

With that joke she took me for a walk, holding my arm the whole time. Sure we got stares, sure lots of people glowered, but you know what? When there’s a pretty girl on your arm, its really hard to notice.

 

As Lisa explained to me, the Spar Test was pretty simple. Take a complex wing structure like a spar, with all the parts custom engineered to fit together in a particular way, and put the parts all in a bag. Then you shake the parts up, and build. Did I mention there was no labels? It was like a crazy 3D puzzle, only it was done against an opponent. Whoever finished their wing first won. Won what? I asked Lisa. She told me it was a honor thing only, although lots of families used a challenge to solve disagreements. Sort of like the medieval trial-by-fire, only without the fire. So no lives, and no first-born male children were at stake. I could live with that.

But the test still didn’t make sense to me. I mean why have a competition which turns out to be nothing but high speed puzzle building. Lisa laughed at my description, but then explained that there was something about this test called intuitive engineering that the Cloudies valued most of all. “When you’re in an emergency and you have no time to think, but you still have to act, what part of your brain do you use?”

“Huh? I don’t know.”

“We do. We call it the “intuitive engineer.” It is the thinking that only comes out under times of stress. When a person doesn’t have time to think, only react. That is when we are at our best. That is what we prize.”

Which made about as much sense to me as everything else that had happened that day. But what could I say? If she had told me to jump off a cliff, I might very well have.

Women.

 

The test itself was pretty easy. I mean I knew I was going to lose, so much so that I didn’t really care. But I also knew this was important to Lisa, which meant it was important to the whole family. So even though I didn’t care, I still had to try my best. George and Bonny would expect nothing less.

We showed up at the auditorium a few hours later, and it was packed. Every seat was taken, people were standing in the aisles, and crowded out the door. The seats surround two pits, circles really, each maybe 3 feet deep, and each holding a table in the middle. George, Bonny and the whole family had a seat in the front row. They looked a bit harried, but smiled and waved when we came in. Lisa took me to my table, and showed me how to use a shocker, which is an electric device that can glue any two pieces together. Then she left me to sit with her family. That’s when the stage fright hit.

“But what am I going to do? Those guys have been with their ships for years?”

“Don’t worry,” she yelled back from her seat. “Just remember what we taught you, and do the ship proud.”

Before I could protest more a loud horn sounded, and the room descended into silence. I looked around the room at all the intent faces. When my name was announced only the Hendersons cheered. Everyone else just glared. Then when they announced the other guy, Phillip was his name, the crowd went wild. Great. Well I knew going in I wasn’t the home town favorite. This only proved it.

Two judges came in, and handed us our bag of parts. I took mine and set it on the table waiting. The horn sounded again, and I dumped my bag on the table.

The rules said the wing structure could be of any type, but most of the time it was a simple wing cross section. I looked at my pile of parts, and decided to sort them out. Looking over I saw Phillip working feverishly. Already he was sticking parts together. Woops, I better pick up the pace.

I started grabbing parts and seeing how they fit. Before long a kind of structure emerged. The crowd was chanting “Phil-lip, Phil-lip,” but to be honest I sort of tuned them out. It was like working on a story. I entered the “zone” as we called it in school, and tuned everything else out. Before long I had a wing going, an honest to goodness wing. I could see the parts in my mind, see how they went together. My hands sort of worked on automatic. Going where they needed to, picking up the parts they needed without thought. To be honest, I have no idea what I was thinking. I really wasn’t. I guess this was the intuitive engineering thing Lisa was talking about.

I was almost done when something about the wing bothered me, so I stopped. I picked it up and looked at it one way, then the other. Then looking down it I saw the problem. The wing was weak. Too weak. Not a lot, just enough. It was strong enough to hold together under it’s own weight, but if it was ever put to use it would crumble. For some reason this bugged me. I didn’t know if the Spar Test included a pressure test, but if it did this design would fail. The pieces had gone together right, but the wing was wrong.

I looked over at Phillip. He was struggling, but still going hard. He was maybe 80% done. Then I looked back at my own pile and was shocked to see only a few parts left. I could easily glue them on and be done, and no one would know. No one would know but me. I looked over at George. He was staring at me intently, as was the rest of the family. I thought about them, and about all that they had taught me. Then I got out my glue gun and went to work.

It took me a while, but I eventually got the wing right. By then Phillip had finished, so I guess he won. I didn’t care. I wasn’t there for him, and I certainly wasn’t there for the crowd. I was there for the Alice May. And by God I was going to do her proud.

When I finished, I showed the wing to George. I had had to break several trusses and glue them back together at odd angles to make them fit, but the wing was strong, wonderfully strong. If I had built it the way it as given to me, it never would have worked. Someone had tried to sabotaged it. George took one look at it and scowled, handing it to Lisa. She smiled, and pointed out some of my modifications. They huddled together talking, but I was too tired to hear what they were saying, much less care.

Bonny took me by the hand and led me back to my bunk on the Alice May. George didn’t say anything that night, but spent the next day in several hushed meetings. No one said anything to me, but I could tell by his grin he was happy.

By then I was pretty sick of the Jamboree, and couldn’t wait to take off, which we did the very next day. That night over a late dinner at 10,000 feet and climbing George held a toast for the strongest wing he had ever seen. I knew they were proud. That was all that mattered.

 

Two weeks later my temporary fix to FC-13 started to fail. I could hear it flutter every once in a while when every thing else was quiet. A little buzz of vibration, like the sound of a hummingbird flying close by your ear. The tape allowed the part to flex, but it still did not solve the initial problem. Something about the shape of the wing was causing the air flowing over it to become chaotic, and when it did FC-13 would flutter.

When I was a kid a neighbor of ours used to fly radio controlled airplanes. He used to take me to the flying field on Saturdays, so I could watch and learn. It wasn’t long before I had a few planes of my own. I used to love sitting with the old guys on warm afternoons, swapping stories, and learning about planes.

One day I guy came to a field with a plane I had never seen before. The plane itself was fairly typical, but the wing was not. Instead of a teardrop shaped wing, smoothly curved on top and slightly curved on the bottom, this wing was flat on the bottom with steps built into the top. It was constructed of several flat sheets of foam, each about 1/8” thick, and layered one top of each other like a cake with very thin layers. Each successive piece was less wide then the one below it, and all of the pieces met at the front, which was sanded to a nice rounded shape. The overall effect was exactly like a normal airfoil on the front half of the wing, but the back half sported a number of steps instead of a smooth curve. It was exactly as if someone had cut a stairwell into the back side of on an otherwise smooth wing.

I remember all the old men scoffing at this guy when they saw his wing. There was no way that ugly thing would fly, they told him, the design would cause too much drag. So when he tossed into the air we were surprised. Not only did the plane fly, but it flew well.

Thinking about this gave me an idea. The guy had called his airfoil a KF something or other. I didn’t remember. A quick search of the web found the airfoil name; KF-5, and even who it was named after; Misters Kline and Fogleman. The KF airfoil hadn’t originated on a model airplane as I thought, but a paper airplane. One that held the world record. Even then paper airplanes didn’t scale up to glider-ships too well. I was just about to give up when I ran across a paper that described the laminar air flow properties across a KF airfoil.

That’s when I ran to the cockpit to tell Paul.

When I got there I found Lisa instead. She was using the Nav screen to work out some complex problem, glancing between it and the regular instrument read-outs. She was so focused she didn’t even look up when I came in.

“Oh, hey,” I said.

“Hi, Bob,” she said still peering intently at her screen.

“Is Paul around? I’ve got something to show him.”

“Paul?” she replied. “He’s been down for hours.”

“He has?” I looked at the clock. It was 3:00 in the morning. “Oops. I guess It’ll wait till tomorrow. I didn’t realize it was so late.” I turned to leave.

“What ‘cha got?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Nothing?” she said. “Normally you don’t come charging into the cockpit over nothing.”

She had me there. “Okay,” I said stepping back into the room, “I was poking around on the web, and I think I found a way to fix FC-13. Permanently that is.”

“You solved the flow problem?”

“Possibly,” I said.

“Possibly is still better than anything we’ve been able to find. Can I take a peek?”

For some reason I suddenly felt shy. “Um…”

“C’mon.”

“Okay. Promise you won’t laugh, though.”

She looked back at me. “Why?”

“Well, it’s a bit eccentric.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Eccentric, huh? Will it work?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“What the heck. Its not like I have anything else to do this shift.”

I slid the data file to the Nav screen. A KF airfoil popped up with all its graphs. Lisa took one look at it and said, “Hoo-kay.”

“Hey, you promised you wouldn’t laugh.”

“Did I? Well I’m not laughing,” she said with a smile. “Yet.”

“Great,” I mumbled as she glanced closely at the figures.

“Well, I’m surprised,” she continued. “That thing is ugly, but it looks like it actually works. At least at a higher AOAs that is. But I don’t see how it could help us with FC-13. Not without adding more parasitic drag.”

“Well,” I said leaning over to touch the screen. “I was looking at the steps, and wondering why they worked. Somehow those steps kept the airflow stuck to the wing.” I pulled up a schematic of the Alice May’s wing. “And that’s when I started thinking about how the wing was working here and here.” As I spoke I pointed to the curved sections around the cowling for motor one. The motor was on the front of the wing, its the cowl wrapped around it, and fitting smoothly into the wing as it made its way back. It also happened to be almost exactly in front of FC-13.

“Go on,” she said.

“Well I thought maybe the chaotic flow we’re getting was caused by the air crossing over the wing, and flowing around the cowl.”

“But it flows like that over every other cowl too,” she said.

“Yes, but not near the fuselage, like motor one, and not with the spiral flow of the working motor.”

“You think it’s caused by the flow from the prop, or the fuselage?”

“No. I think it’s a combo of both.” I showed her the formulas I had used, and how I thought the combined airflow might cause the problem.”

“Hum,” she said, staring at my work. “This is…if not promising, at least interesting. Where did you find this airfoil anyway.”

“Um, I used to build model airplanes. Radio controlled ones, that is.”

Lisa looked at me, a grin slowly spreading on her face, then she tilted back her head and laughed.

“Hey,” I said. “You promised.” For some reason I found myself laughing too.

“I’m sorry,” she said when she could finally control her breathing. “Its just, so weird, and yet so, so, I don’t know. Unusual? Perfect?”

“So you think I’m unusual?” I asked feeling my cheeks start to warm.

She looked at me, searching. Her eyes serious. “Yes,” she said. “I believe so.”

For some reason from her it sounded like a compliment.

We stayed that way, looking into each other’s eyes for I don’t know how long. Then she yawned, and that was that.

“Look, Bob,” she said. “I was… uh, rude to you when you first came aboard.”

“Is that what you call it?” I said playfully.

“What?”

“I was thinking more like impudent. Maybe cheeky,” I said.

“Cheeky?”

“Perhaps churlish. Do you think that’s a better word? Its got a nice ring to it, churlish does.”

“Hum,” she said. “I’m afraid I haven’t given it much thought.”

“There’s also discourteous, and unmannerly. Tactless, is a good word. So is undiplomatic.”

“I see,” she said.

“There’s also brusque. But my personal favorite is insolent.”

“Are you through?”

“No. I have more if you would like?”

“Thank you,” she said in mock seriousness. “But I believe you’ve made your point.”

“Have I?”

“Yes. Only, there’s something, uh I think you should know about us Cloudies. A cultural thing. Uh, something that perhaps you were not aware.” I noticed her cheeks were staring to turn red. “Not that this is an excuse mind you,” she continued. “Its just that…that…”

I waved my hand in a circle. “C’mon. Spit it out. I haven’t got all night.”

She swallowed hard. “Well, on most planes when there is a girl, a girl of… lets say marriageable age…”

“Go on,” I said.

“Her parents often hire on a third-hand, to… you know, try to marry her off.”

This stopped me cold. “You’re serious?” I said.

“Yes.”

“You mean I was hired on, to set you up?”

“Yes,” she said. “You mean you didn’t know?”

I shook my head. “No.” Now it was my turn to be embarrassed. “Oh, my G…. Well that does explain a lot, doesn’t it?”

“Yes it does.” she said. “I can’t believe Paul never told you.”

“Was he supposed to?”

“He said he was.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know what to say to that. He must have known this information would have been helpful, but he never let on. I guess the feeling on my face must have shown.

“You really didn’t know, did you?”

“No. And had I known I… I…” Suddenly realized I didn’t want to finish that sentence. “Uh, look,” I said after a moment’s pause. “Its late, and I have a shift tomorrow. I really should be turning in.”

“Yes,” she said jumping at the change of topic. “Good idea.”

I was just starting to turn around when I remembered why I had come in the first place. “Oh, yes. About that airfoil.”

“What about it?” she asked.

“Well I was hoping to show it to Paul in the morning….”

“And, you don’t want me to tell him first? Is that it?”

“Something like that,” I said.

Suddenly her face took on a mischievous look. “I’ve got a better idea,” she said. “How about if we surprise him instead?”

“Um…” I said, feeling unsure.

“Look, if the ridges work, you’ve got nothing to loose. Right?”

I nodded my head in agreement.

“And if they don’t work, you’re out nothing.”

“Sure,” I said. “But how can I be sure…”

She held up her hand to stop me. “Don’t even go there, ground-pounder. I’m still the best engineer on this ship. If anyone can make it work, it’ll be me.”

She had me there. She was the best engineer.

“Besides,” she continued with an innocent smile. “I think we own my brother a nice little surprise. Don’t you?”

It was the smile that got me. “Yes,” I said feeling the matching smile on my own face. “I think we do. Only on one condition: you have keep me in the loop. Okay?”

She held out her hand and we shook.

“Deal,” she said.

 

True to her word, Lisa kept me informed on her progress. At first we met every couple of days, but soon we were going over her figures almost nightly. She ran the simulations and tweaked the math, and I reconfigured the wing so it could produce the steps as needed. We tested in small sections first, always at night when everyone else was asleep, and always very careful to double-check our work. Within a couple of weeks we rigged a few sensors on the back of the motor cowl, and had a program which popped up the KF steps, or ridges as Lisa called them, every time it sensed a separation in the airflow.

After that, we never had a problem with FC-13 again.

You would think Paul would have noticed, after all it was his project initially. By this point it was fairly late in the Summer, and Paul had his own issues. You see he was about to leave the Alice May for ground-pounder school. The very same university Lisa had just left. Between the books, the girls, the dorms, the girls, and the 10,000 things a college student needs to worry about, airflow separation was rather low on his list of priorities.

Which is why he was slightly preoccupied as we attempted to land that Fall.

 

###

 

“Hold on,” came the voice of Paul over the noisy intercom. “I think I got something. Giss?”

“The one coming up the pass? I’m already on it,” said Giselle. She spoke again a few moments later. “Hum. Its a warm mass, and it looks like its peaking.” Giselle spoke as she was glancing at a thermal imaging array of our flight path. Sensitive cameras all over the ship focused at highlighting tiny differences in air temperature. She was watching the ground for thermals much like a bird of prey might. Thermals are the bubbles of warm air that hawks use to gain elevation without flapping. Only we were about a thousand times bigger than any hawk. “Yes,” she said, her voice excited for the first time. “Its separating… Its clear. We should feel it when we crest the ridge.

“Roger that,” Paul said calmly.

The giant glider hummed and moaned. In front of me I could see the new houses. They were towers really. Tall, thin, made of some kind of clear plastic, carbon fiber, and injected foam. They loomed over the homes below them for hundreds of feet, standing right on the top of the ridge where they would have the maximum view. They were shiny new examples of the high rise homes people were building. Minimalist design, light construction, yet strong enough to handle the Santa Anna gusts that tore though this area annually. If the Alice May hit one of them, the impact might be enough to cause an early morning riser inside to spill their coffee, but it would also dump thousands of pounds of glider-ship on the the roofs of the houses below. And incidentally kill all of the people on-board.

The glider’s speed, the RAS or Relative Air Speed –– that most precious commodity, and most looked at reading –– slowly dipped into the red on my screen. All along the huge hollow wing I heard the tiny servos rapidly push and pull the flying surfaces, trying to eek out a bit more speed to counter act the huge drag of skidding a plane sideways. There was a bump, like we had just drove over an invisible hill, which in point of fact we did. But it wasn’t enough.

Suddenly Lisa spoke formally over the headset. “Pilot. Requesting permission for the controls.” It was the protocol used for passing control of the ship from one person to another.

“Damn it sis,” Paul said, sounding rattled for the first time, “I can handle it.”

“I’m asking,” Lisa said calmly but firmly, “but in three seconds I’ll be telling.”

There was a long pause. No one said anything. By long tradition one could take over piloting from another if you were sure the pilot was not able to handle the situation, or if there was information they were lacking. There was only one caveat; you better have a darn good explanation for your actions, if you ever expected to pilot again.

“Okay. Damn it,” Paul spit out. “Just go. Take it!”

“I have the controls,” Lisa said calmly, completing the protocol.

The plane shifted slightly as she tested the controls, then over the headphones she said, “Hang on everyone. This is going to get interesting.”

Then to her computer she said, “Pop the ridges.” This was the key-word to configure the entire wing for the KF structures. We’d tested this airfoil in small sections, and run hours and hours with it on the simulator, but we’d never actually tried it on the whole wing.

The servos whined and the steps formed up and down the whole length of the wing. The sound level dropped, and some of the vibration vanished. I was looking at the external camera to make sure the steps deployed correctly when I heard Paul’s voice.

“Shit,” he said.

I looked down at the RAS and saw what he meant. Lisa had pulled the nose up to climb, but we were now going uphill which was slowing us down. The needle was slowly creeping down towards the red area of the gauge, indicating a stall. Then it dropped lower. Technically, a stall was when a plane’s wing no longer produces more lift than its weight. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say the wing simply stops flying. As does the plane. We watched as the RAS needle dropped 2, 3, and then 4 miles per hour into the red. Any second now we should start to drop. I kept waiting and waiting for that sickening weightless feeling, but it didn’t come. The needle finally stopped 6 miles per hour past a stall, and there it stayed.

In the mean time we were still in the midst of a thermal. The slower speed kept us in the warmer rising air mass for longer. It wasn’t much longer, but it was enough.

The plane tilted to one side as Lisa raised the right wing. The nose pointed off to the left, but I could feel the plane still flying the same direction, the long fuselage was literally flying sideways, like a car skidding on ice – heading down the road in the same direction, but the front turned on the yaw axis. Lisa was using the rudders to keep us on path while the ailerons raised the starboard wing to clear the tower. Yet slewing like this created extra drag which slowed the plane down, which in turn…

Right as we approached the tower the Alice May finally stalled. It wasn’t a typical stall; she didn’t drop a wing, or loose several hundred feet of altitude. Instead, she just sort of mushed along. The whole plane lifted, the wings shuddering, the servos rapidly chattering, and very lightly the starboard wing cleared the tower in front of us, neatly clipping the tiny antenna sticking up on it’s roof. Then we dropped a bit, maybe 10 feet, and were flying again.

While we were passing I looked down below at the tower and saw a woman on her balcony. She was 400 feet above the ground, holding onto a toddler, and waiving at us enthusiastically as we passed, like we were an attraction at the zoo. I could imagine her saying something like, “Look at the pretty airplane, sweet’ums. Isn’t it shiny?” I swallowed the lump of bile that was suddenly in my throat. She had no idea how close we’d come to dying.

Lisa expertly lowered the nose and straightened the plane back to our flight path. With the nose down we quickly picked up speed, and we’re soon back in the groove. Two minutes later the wheels smoothly touched down on the runway 200 feet from the start, and we rolled almost the whole entire length until we came to a stop.

We were alive, and on the ground.

George pulled himself slowly back from the cramped observation bubble and said with some sarcasm, “Well, that was interesting.”

I looked down still too stunned to move and noticed for the first time my nose was only a few inches from the ground. As I slowly wormed my way out of the cramped space, I noticed the huge plane whispered and shifted on the ground almost as much as it did in the air. The wind outside blew past in waves. Each gust echoed by tiny pops and cracks in the structure. Standing up, I glanced out the front canopy as a truck came to tow the plane off the runaway. When I stood, George shook my hand and said, “Welcome to the Couldies,” he said with a smile, but his eyes betrayed his worry for those close enough to read them.

 

Two hours later, the plane was strapped down, the galley cleared, and the whole family ready to leave. It was time for our goodbyes. For me it was time to go back to my apartment, which for some reason no longer held any appeal. For the Hendersons it was time to take Paul to the university, and help him settle into his dorm room.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” George said to me as he shook my hand goodbye. “With Paul gone to school the Alice May could use an extra hand. Would you consider shipping with us a while longer? I can’t promise you a birth once he gets back, but that should give you a good three years to look around for another plane. What do you think?”

I smiled at him, having already expected something like this. “Well,” I said, “it depends.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Depends?”

By then the rest of the family had started to gather around.

“Yes,” I said trying to keep my voice steady. George has that effect on people. “There’s a lot I don’t know yet about flying, so I’ll need a lot of training still.”

“Granted.”

“And, I’ll need a little more time to write. After all, I still have my freelance work, and it’d be too costly to drop it just now.”

George frowned for a second, but I knew he couldn’t refuse a man who wanted to work. “I can see that,” he said starting to realize the conversation wasn’t going quite the way he expected.

“And one more thing,” I added. “I’ll need some kind of income.”

At this both of his eyebrows shot up. “Income?” he asked.

“Income,” I said steadily. “I’m going to be doing some saving, and I need to be able to put away a little bit each month for that purpose.”

George put a hand to his jaw and looked away in silence. It was a trick he used to make the other person feel uncomfortable. It comes in handy when trying to negotiate a price, especially when your whole family is riding on the decision. Fortunately, I had been carefully coached through this part by an expert. I waited it out, both eyes on him.

“C’mon Pops,” Paul said. “You said yourself he’s pretty handy with the tape?”

“I did?” George replied.

“And you know,” Gisselle added, “he picked up the math faster than any of the other hands.”

George nodded. “There is that,” he said begrudgingly. He looked around at is family. “Anything else?” he added sharply.

“Well, he does cook the chicken vindaloo pretty well,” said little Jared in his thin voice.

“Hum,” said George looking around again. “Don’t any you think I don’t know what’s going on here.” he said with a frown.

Just then Bonny put her small arm around him and whispered into his ear. I don’t know what she said, but George’s face flashed anger at first, then quickly resolved to calm acceptance.

“It appears,” he said, “I’ve been outflanked by my own family, the bunch of degenerate mutineers.” He smiled and stuck out his hand to me. “I’ll toss in a slight income as well. It will be slight, mind you…”

Bonny cleared her throat with a loud “Ah, hum.”

George looked her way, and his smile faltered. “Okay, more than a slight income. It appears my wife thinks we can afford it, though I hazard to guess why.”

“Thank you, George,” I said. “I think you’ll find its money well spent.”

“You think so, do you? Mind telling me what you’re planning on saving it for?”

“Well I was thinking…” Suddenly I found myself at a loss for words. I thought to myself, Some kind of writer you turned out to be. Just then Lisa stepped in beside me, slipping her hand in mine. I felt a light squeeze. That was all I needed. “Um,” I muttered, “the thing is, its going to take years and such. And a lot of planning… so don’t think its going to happen over night, or anything. But we, that is Lisa and I. We were thinking of building a plane. Of our own, that is.”

George looked me hard in the eye, a scowl on his face. Then a smile came across his eyes and his hand come out again.

“In that case,” he said as he shook my hand again, “I guess you better call me ‘Pops’.”