THREADS OF THE BROKEN FUTURE
CHAPTER SIX
* We all have our own take on what transpired back on Earth, after the moon was hurled out of orbit. Since I'm working within the realm of twisted time, anything is damn near possible. Historical records indicate that Hurricane Floyd had just rolled through, and it might have been raining, a little, that night. Adverse weather conditions? Sure, I can work with that. Better than trying to work with alien lifeforms that are talking trees and intelligent rocks.*
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Luray, Virginia – September 22nd, 1999
The rain tapped a soft, persistent rhythm against the kitchen window, like a clock ticking away his time. The overhead ceiling fan light cast a dim glow over the table, illuminating his scattered papers, the open folder, and his glass of Scotch, which sat half-drunk and forgotten. The rest of the room was shadowed, the fan above him still and silent, amplifying the tension in the air.
His gaze was locked on the computer screen, where the cursor blinked steadily, each flash an unspoken taunt. He was supposed to be filling in job details - finishing the damn forms by week's end - but his mind wouldn't cooperate.
Every time he typed, details of his last 'job position', came rushing back in, clawing at him like a memory he couldn't quite catch.
He ran a hand over his face and leaned back, fingers tightening around his glass as he forced his eyes to focus. The screen continued its mocking rhythm, unrelenting, unfeeling, while he sat there, caught between the faint glow of the fan light and the shadows pressing in around him.
He stood and wandered over to the kitchen sink, glass in hand, his eyes drifting to the window just above it. The dark sky stretched endlessly, clouds hanging heavy and low, reflecting no light but the soft glow of streetlamps. Rain streaked down the window in erratic lines, each droplet illuminated for a brief moment before it was lost, joining the others in a slow, quiet descent.
Staring out the window, his eyes searched, searching for anything beyond the dark that might help anchor him back to Earth, back to reality.
"Sure as hell can't put down Chief of Security on Moonbase Alpha," he muttered, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "Please speak to Commander Koenig regarding job performance."
He huffed out a short, humorless laugh, but it died quickly, leaving an aching emptiness in his chest.
What the hell?
These memories, the damn dreams that clung to him even in his waking hours. They seemed to be a cruel mirage of something long gone, something that had not yet happened. Something that would never happen, if it had even happened at all.
He shook his head, a small sarcastic smile crossed his face. He could not list former supervisors that no longer existed in this solar system. He most certainly could not notate a job title that had yet to become a fact, indeed would never become a fact.
Unless Earth had come up with some intergalactic communications network he didn't know about.
Not yet they hadn't. But they would.
He muttered a small curse. He was being tormented by little fragments, details that kept coming to him when all was quiet around him.
All he craved was normalcy. Just when he thought he could slip back into normalcy, a single detail, sometimes multiple details would flash before him. A place, a name he couldn't quite recall.
He looked back out again at the rain lines, sliding down the window. He knew he should feel grateful, lucky even. He was back on Earth. He had not been flung out into the terrifying reaches of space, cut off from everything that he'd ever known.
His family was safe, scattered about, but safe. This new job would allow him freedom, freedom to work from wherever he chose. He could plant those roots his grandmother spoke of, if he so desired. And he would be part of the rebuilding process that Earth now found herself in.
Sure, Earth had taken a tremendous blow, but she would survive. Humanity would rebuild, adapt, reshape whatever was broken. Humankind had been wired, since the beginning of time, to move forward – to survive – no matter how hellish the process was.
His new job, chaotic that it would be, offered stability. He would be part of the restoration, part of the forward momentum. Sure, Earth's space program had been turned into a twisted mess, but that too, in time, would rebuild. And he should be happy that he would play a role in that rebuilding.
He brought the glass to his lips, but tonight the Scotch burned too harshly, the warmth he sought instead settling into a bitter knot that twisted deep in his gut. Nothing seemed to fill the growing void, to ease the weight pressing on him from every direction. The taste, wrong and metallic, was too much. Without thinking, he turned to the sink and tipped the glass over, watching the amber liquid pour down the drain, disappearing as quickly as had the life he had once envisioned.
Then, as if on autopilot, he moved to the fridge and opened it. Three unopened beer bottles sat on the shelf, almost taunting him.
On a scale of one to ten, where are you now?
A voice echoed in his head, distant but vaguely familiar.
Would you believe still a two?
Voices.
Who?
Carter?
No. Commander Koenig?
No, that couldn't be right. Gorski had been commander of Alpha when he'd left.
No, one John Koenig had been named commander of the base just days before the horrific events. He'd met the man, a few times in passing. He had never worked under him or for him. But he had, hadn't he?
In a rapid motion, he yanked all three bottles out and took them over to the kitchen sink. There was no hesitation as he opened the first bottle, the beer splashing into the sink, the foamy hiss filling the silence of the room.
Directive Four. It empowers the commander to act in a situation like this. You will do as ordered.
The words sent a chill through him. He had known what a Directive Four was and it had not been a directive of kindness. A coded signal, a very clear order to destroy the place from where it originated. Shoot first and shoot quickly, ask no questions.
But why?
What had they been destroying?
The second beer popped open with a sharp crack. He dumped it too, faster this time. The beer swirled down the drain as more memories pressed harder.
Some people don't appreciate my efforts.
Who the hell had he been talking to? What efforts?
Who said you were human? He knew Helena had once asked him this question.
No!
Angrily he corrected himself. Doctor Russell.
She could never have been more than Dr. Russell. She had never been more than Doctor Russell. Yet his dreams, these distorted recollections insisted that she had been more than just Alpha's Chief Medical Officer. She had been a friend, a very close friend.
He looked up from the sink.
"Helena!" he yelled angrily towards the ceiling.
"Helena!" He said again, loudly.
"Her name is Helena Russell!"
Images of Alpha's CMO came to mind, flashes of a teasing woman, a visibly upset woman. So many images. He shut his eyes, trying desperately to block her and every other twisted fragment from his vision.
He exhaled sharply, his chest tight, like there wasn't enough air in the room. He opened the third beer, each movement faster, more frantic than the last.
And yes, there had been a woman. A young, beautiful woman. No matter how hard he tried, he could not focus on her face. He knew she had a beautiful smile and she had been his. And yet, no matter how hard he tried, he could not see her face, could not retrieve her from these bitter visions.
As he dumped the last of the beer down the drain, he was horrified to realize that his cheeks were damp. There were hot tears streaming down his face, blurring his vision.
His hands fumbled as he grabbed the Scotch bottle again, this time not to drink but to rid himself of it, dumping it down the drain as fast as his trembling hands would allow.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow I am making an appointment with a shrink.
He certainly had the money. Didn't have to give his real name. Didn't have to reveal the entire truth. He had to talk to someone; he had to know if he was losing his damn mind.
Because none of this was normal. None of this was rational. Nobody continually dreamed of friendships and experiences, not like this. Not like these. Recollections born from a foundation that was little more than passing acquaintances. And yet, his very soul was telling him that these people had been his friends, his family – in a universe that was terribly, horrifyingly unlike anything man on Earth could imagine.
And the young woman?
His mind screamed at him that she had been real.
His soul screamed that he had loved her more than anything in the entire universe.
And yet, he couldn't even recall her face.
The Scotch bottle slipped from his hand, clanking loudly against the metal of the sink, the noise shocking in the silence of the room.