Date point: 4y 10m 3w 3d AV
Frank wasn’t allowed to leave the building after his meeting with Mr. Byron. Byron had offered him a job, but had been rather vague on the details. Only that he’d be in space, be on a crew of four, and that the chances of him dying while on the job were not small, but also far from likely.
It was the kind of backwards talking that he was used to hearing from politicians on television.
Mr. Byron had asked Frank if he’d take the job. The pay would be substantial, any medical issues of Frank’s paid for, and an assurance, in writing, that if he died, his children would receive his full salary. The only caveat Byron had given him had been that if he took the job, he’d be required to stay in the building until told otherwise.
Caveat aside, Frank didn’t need incentives like that. He’d been just sitting around waiting to die, less than six months ago, as an un-needed old man. Frank liked the idea of having purpose again, and if he died, well at least his kids would be taken care of, even though all of them had decent careers.
He knew this would be his only chance, as he got the impression that Byron was a little desperate, given that he was actually considering a senior citizen for a space mission. He doubted he would ever find another man desperate enough to give him a chance.
Frank took the job.
After a brief handshake and a hurried, “Glad to have you on board.” Frank had been hurried out of the room back into the elevator, which was now occupied by a man and a woman, both wearing hospital scrubs. They’d informed him that they would now be running tests on him to assess his health.
“This feels like the very beginning of a deep rabbit hole.” Frank had said to himself.
“You have no idea.” came a reply from the scrubs behind him in the elevator.
Frank lay, utterly exhausted, and shoulders aching, upon a simple metal frame bed in some generic bedroom that he’d been assigned.
He’d been through every modern medical test he could name, and he’d been in medical health care his whole life.
Scratch tests to check for allergies, cardio exercises to assess heart and lung health, reflexology tests to see his reaction times, eye exams, hearing tests, four blood draws, body content calculations, CAT scans, X-rays, memory quizzes, lung capacity tests, renal function tests, prostate exam, flexibility exercises, and, finally, a second psych evaluation, with a different psychiatrist, instead of Ms. Ericson.
After all the tests and running from lab to lab for what must have been hours, Frank was beginning to pine for the same bliss he now associated with zero gravity, so that he might be able to sleep soundly without aching muscles and joints in his back and shoulders.
Sleep eventually came, and Frank managed to get several precious hours of sleep, until a knock sounded on his door, waking him.
“Come in.” He croaked.
The bright light from the hallway blinded him, and the man who entered turned the light on as well, which did not help Frank become any less grumpy at being woken up so suddenly.
“Mr. Clark, good morning. I’m Dr. Ericson. I hope you slept well. I’d like to go over the results of yesterday’s tests with you if you don’t mind?”
“Ugh, give it to me straight Doc, have I still got the Diabeetus?”
Frank rolled his eyes. He felt fine, and, other than the diabetes, the only health concern he had was his ability to use his shoulders, which would be solved for him once he was in space.
“Yes, Mr. Clark, you’re still diabetic, I’m sorry to say.” He said smiling, but returned to a business-like tone right after.
“For a man your age, minus the diabetes, which you seem to be handling better than most with medication, and those bad rotator cuffs, you’re in near perfect health. Carry on like this and you could make it into your 90’s. Longer even, if the rumors about alien medical technology turn out to be true.”
“Nothing I couldn’t have told you myself.” said Frank, a bit smugly. He’d been eating and sleeping much better since his little jaunt into space, having felt energized and more self-aware after the trip.
“True enough. Now I’m to take you to your handlers, after you get ready, who will explain what you’ll be doing today. I’ll leave you alone to get ready now.”
“Fine Doc, just one question. Are you married to that Ms. Ericson I met with upstairs, or is Ericson not your real names?”
The doctor smiled.
“That would be telling, Mr. Clark”
The handlers turned out to be two large men in suits, who informed him that he would now be allowed to go home to retrieve some of his personal belongings. One of them handed him a large military style green duffel bag and a list. The list read off several things that he wouldn’t need, as they would be provided, along with several prohibited items, including cell phones, walkie-talkies, pagers, hearing aids or generally anything electronic. The list also told him that he could put whatever else he wanted into the bag as long as it fit, though the bag would be searched before they returned to the corporate building.
The flight back to his house had been uneventful; and slightly boring, as he’d not been allowed to turn his phone on since his meeting with Mr. Byron.
They drove a rental car to Frank’s house, and his handlers, who still refused to give him their names, followed him inside and followed him around as he slowly gathered clothes, a multi-tool, bathroom supplies and his whole stock of diabetes medication, even though it had been on the list of things that would be provided for him. A few knick-knacks, some books, pictures, a journal, and a couple of pens had been the only other things Frank could think to put into the bag.
Once he was done, he turned to the taller of his handlers and asked, “Time to go?”
In response, his handler said, “Mr. Byron has a special request for you to bring something specific.”
“And that specific thing would be?”
“Mr. Clark, do you own any fire-arms? If not, one can be provided to you. Mr. Byron requests personally that you bring at least one fire-arm in your bag.”
Alarmed, Frank said, “Yeah, I’ve got guns, but why the hell do I need one?!”
“Mr. Byron did not specify, but he asked me personally to make sure that you had one. He also asks that you not mention this fact to anyone. Neither the fact that you have a weapon, or that he asked you to bring it.”
Frank stared at the man, who didn’t flinch from his gaze.
“Fine, give me a minute.”
Frank walked to a room near the back of his house, to what looked like an ordinary closet. Upon opening the door, both he and his handlers saw the large steel door that was Frank’s gun safe.
“A little privacy please?” Frank said as he began to spin the dial.
The suited men’s gaze averted, Frank entered the combination, the date of the day he’d met Jasmine, and spun the large wheel to open the door.
Frank heard the whistle of one of his handlers behind him. It was the most human thing either of them had done since he’d met them.
“Nice set-up. I’m impressed old man.”
“Thanks.” Frank said, intending to sound cold, but not quite putting his heart into it.
Frank had collected guns since his army days. Granted, many of them were antiquated compared to the guns of today, but Frank had a small collection of modern weaponry given to him by family and friends as gifts.
For the purposes of the vague request made of him, Frank selected his Springfield 1911 Range Officer and holster, a few boxes of .45 defense ammunition and several extra magazines. Kendra had put clear Plexiglas grips onto it, with pictures held underneath. The pictures were of his wife on one side and his kids, all in their teens in the photo, on the other. She’d done it for his birthday sometime in his fifties. This meant it was his favorite.
His handlers were now openly smiling approvingly at him.
“A man after my own heart.”
The taller man pointed into the safe, “Hold on, I recognize that. Bring that one as well, birdshot is being used most often in space by our guys right now.”
Following his gesture, Frank groaned. “I have bad shoulders, that shotgun doesn’t even have a buttstock and can only carry 4 rounds total. 3 if you’re using 3” full load shells.”
He’d received his Serbu Super Shorty shotgun the year before Jasmine had gotten sick. She’d gotten it for him, thinking, incorrectly, a smaller gun meant smaller recoil, to spare his arms from the worst of the pain while allowing him to shoot still. Frank had only ever fired it once. It was so light that its recoil had caused his left arm to pop out of its sockets requiring a trip to the hospital.
“It’ll fit in the bag, and birdshot isn’t so bad. It’s slugs that suck.”
Relenting, Frank grabbed the shotgun, which was around the length of his forearm, elbow to fingertip, and threw it and the whole lot of his 12 gauge shells into the bag, now nearly filled to the top, and said in an exasperated tone, “There, can we go now?”
“After you, old man.”
“I think I liked you better when you acted like a robot.”
Frank made the tall one carry the now nearly 50 pound bag back to the car.
Four people sat in front of Moses Byron. Each of them had been scanned for listening devices, vetted beyond any reasonable doubt and had been offered terms that he felt should have been more than enough to ensure their loyalty.
There was Jason Nolan, who was to be the pilot of the ship and also commander of the mission, as well as medic for good measure. He was desperate to fly in space, for any company who would let him, after being rejected from the American Air Force Space program for being too old at only 28.
He’d been offered a full time position as captain of any ship he wanted for the next decade if he completed the job.
Robert Frost, who, at 19, had bungled an easy six figure career with a robotics company by overdesigning every piece of technology that came his way, to the point that he’d been assigned a baby-sitter to literally tell him exactly what the customer wanted, and to keep him from adding extra things to it. In the end, he’d been fired over a firefighting robot that, when it no longer had anything left in its extinguisher, would remove the tank in the name of reducing weight. What it actually did, was jettison the tank up into the ceiling using an explosive charge, causing the tank to burst with any residual pressure left inside of it.
He would be the navigator and would also be in charge of fixing anything that went wrong on the ship. He was not allowed to redesign or tinker with any part of the ship. In return, Robert would have a job at Byrons company for the next ten years as well.
Next was Frank Clark. An old man, tired of being on Earth, and looking to be useful again in his old age. His price was easy. Simply being on the mission and some basic benefits and salary had been enough for him, though he’d be given a job managing a pharmacy on Cimbrean if he wanted it. He was the most important out of any of them. The only one he could be really, truly sure about. He’d be doing odd jobs. He’d learn how to do everything; flying, repairing and operating, and some of the sciences, but, be master at nothing. He’d even be useful as a secondary medic. His true job would hopefully never be needed.
Lastly, Ted Burnquist. A scientist, with a PhD in environmental sciences and a Bachelors in astronomy. His working career had been blighted by an ex-wife and a bitter custody battle for his two children. It had spilled into his daily working life and caused him to be black listed from many of the respected scientific institutions, as he’d been accused of abusing his ex-wife and his children, though no evidence had ever been brought forward.
Moses Byron had the best lawyers money could buy, and could have had the whole thing cleared up in an afternoon, but it was more prudent to keep Dr. Burnquist’s incentive dangling above his head until the mission was over. He’d be responsible for examining the soil samples, mineral deposits and lifeforms they would inevitably run into along the way, as well as making sure they didn’t fly the ship into a black hole.
Four people. Four employees, and not one of them was even close to what he’d wanted.
His hand had been forced; forced to jump at the first available candidates that presented themselves, because each passing moment was precious, and potentially disastrous to his company.
Jason sat waiting for the rich man in the seat that was too large for him, sitting behind the desk that was too large for anyone, to begin to speak.
He knew what was about to happen. They were about to be introduced to each other and finally be given the mission briefing.
He’d made his guesses as to the kid, gathering from his skinny build and pale skin, that he was a tech geek.
The tall guy in the farthest seat from them was a science type; you couldn’t not be with glasses like those.
It was the old guy, sitting next to him that he couldn’t figure out. A consultant? An instructor? Maybe he was another scientist, more experienced in his field than the average person.
It didn’t matter, he’d soon find out.
“Gentleman, let me tell you why I’ve gathered you all here, and been so very secretive about everything.”
The other three men leaned forward to listen intently, while Jason remained leaning back into his comfortable chair. It didn’t much matter what the mission was, as long as he’d get to fly.
“You’ll know already that humanity has a fledgling colony on the world of Cimbrean. What you won’t know is that ever since I first met with Cimbrean’s leadership, in exchange for access to large amounts of my resources, experts in zoology, biology, environmental sciences, botany and pretty much any other field of study you could name, they would turn a relatively blind eye to any other projects I might be undertaking while operating on the colony.”
Moses Byron actually looked rather smug at this point. Jason figured the man must have partied till he’d dropped after closing that deal. He certainly looked pleased with himself.
“One of those undertakings is why you’re all here. But your job is a reaction to a problem we’ve recently had, that I want you to take care of.”
Jason was happy to see the smug look was no longer upon the man’s face.
“Three weeks ago, I sent out seven survey vessels to look for settlement worlds in the Far Reaches. That’s the general area of space that Cimbrean is sitting in. Their job was to find habitable worlds for humanities first agricultural planets, with a secondary mission of finding lucrative mining locations in asteroid fields and moons. Each vessel was assembled to be the best that I could pay for. Nine crew in total for each ship, made up of some of the best minds humanity could scrape together. Many of them have worked for me for most of their careers.”
“Just tell us what went wrong.”
The tech kid had an excited look on his face, seemingly too impatient to wait through the back story any longer.
Byron looked at the kid, not a trace of amusement on his face.
“Two weeks ago, four of the seven ships went missing without warning. We have no idea what happened to them.”
“So you have thirty-six people missing?” said the old man, speaking for the first time.
“Thirty-six people, four ships, many, many millions of dollars in ship hardware and scientific equipment, and ten of those people are very close personal friends of mine.”
Silence stretched on in the room. Each man absorbing the information they’d been waiting so long to hear.
The old man broke the silence first. “You want us to find them.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes I do. But not just for my sake or theirs. They really are some of the best humanity has got, and if all of them are out of the picture, humanity’s race to the stars is going to have a very rough start.”
The four men now sat in silence. Jason noticing that, without meaning to, he’d begun to lean forward in his seat.
“The mission is this. Find my ships, find my crews, find any data they’ve gathered and find out what happened to make them disappear. Then, bring them home immediately.”
None of them seemed to want to speak first. They were all reeling at the idea of going after something that had made four advanced starships simply vanish.
“Well, will you all do it or not?”
Jason still sat, considering his options. This was likely his first and last chance to get into space; not very many options then.
For the first time, the scientist spoke. “I’ll go. As long as the terms we discussed are still valid.”
“They are, for all of you, and no one here has been told what each of your terms is. It’s been kept confidential, same as everything else about this job.”
After hearing this, all of them seemed more relaxed. They each had a personal stake in seeing this mission through now.
One by one they all agreed to fly the mission.
“Good!” Byron said, smiling for the first time. “In that case, you’ll all be separated now to make one recorded phone call to a family member, then you’ll go see your ship, and make final preparations to leave.”
The elevator made a noise behind them and the sound of business shoes upon tile filled the room, as eight handlers, like the ones who had taken Jason to his home yesterday, stepped into the room. His handlers gestured at him to follow them.
Three men rose out of their seats as one, but Jason remained seated.
“Mr. Byron, we haven’t been introduced to each other yet.”
Looking up from some papers he was now examining, Byron said, “Ah, I forgot.”
He pointed at the tall one. “Ted Burnquist, environmental scientist and astronomer.”
Check, thought Jason.
The kid next. “Robert Frost, robotics, maintenance, and navigator.
Two for two.
Himself third. “Jason Nolan, pilot, commander, and the fall guy if it all goes wrong.”
Figures.
Finally, the old guy. “Frank Clark, helper in all facets. He’ll help fly, fix broken things, clean, run tests on samples after some training, and generally help with whatever needs doing.”
That one was a surprise. A guy that old as the handy-man? It was usually some thick-headed kid with more brawns than brains, because they always ended up picking heavy things up and putting them down in other places. At least it had been that way in the Air Force. Frank didn’t seem like he’d be up for that, but Jason withheld his doubts.
“There, you’re all acquainted. Time to go gentleman.”
Frank was following down a hallway in a line of his crew mates flanked on either side by handlers. They were led away from the elevator to a hallway lined with doors into vacant offices.
“Each of you may now make one call to a family member to inform them of only the most basic facts of your mission. Namely, that you will be leaving, you don’t know when you will return, that you are not being forced to go, and you will not be able to contact them until further notice. The call will be recorded.” said one of the suits, in the same even professional tone that Frank had come to expect from them.
As each of them steered into a room with their handlers and began closing their doors, Frank was nudged by one of his handlers towards a specific office.
As they closed the door for him, a second door on the opposite side of the room opened silently, and Moses Byron entered the room.
“Frank,” he said, smiling that fake sincere smile Frank had seen before, “I’m glad you took the job. I need to speak with you in private.”
Ted Burnquist was calling the one person he hated most. He didn’t have a choice however. If he wanted to speak to his kids, it had to be done.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Charlotte? It’s Ted.”
“…What do you want Ted? I already told you that you’re not speaking to them.”
“Please just listen to me for a moment. I’m leaving the planet and I need to talk to them before I go.”
“Leaving the planet?” she snorted. “Dreams do come true. It’s about damn time. You’re still not going to talk to them. I don’t care what the hell you say.”
“Please just listen to me. There’s a real chance that I might not come back from this. Even if you won’t let me speak to them, please, just tell them that I love them, and that I’m going to try to make things right. I’m trying to make all of it right.”
“I’ll think about it.”
And then she hung up on him.
Ted tried to hold his composure in front of the two suited statues behind him.
He failed.
Frank was listening, carefully, to everything Mr. Byron had to say to him.
Evidently Bryon had suspected foul play in the disappearances from the word “go.”
“It’s just too neat. Too clean-cut. No warning, no indication of what happened and the crews of the other three ships are now refusing to go out again because of what’s happened.”
Byron seemed to be showing his true feelings on the matter now, as he was pacing back and forth across the office, looking very agitated.
“I smell a rat.” said Byron.
A look of fierce anger crossed his face.
“Someone…or something… got to someone on my ships, and they caused something to go wrong. I have a few ideas who it might have been. Several business rivals, a few crack-pot crazies that say Earth should keep to itself, maybe one or two people who have a grudge with me and lots of money, possibly even a faction within the Alliance or the Dominion. Those are alien political factions if you didn’t know. But, those I can handle myself. It’s the one possibility that I don’t fully understand, the one I didn’t account for, that makes you essential in this mission.”
Frank was now beginning to feel apprehensive. He thought that he might now know how the gun he’d been required to bring might be put to use.
“Due to a particularly vague conversation I had with a certain individual some weeks ago, whose name will remain anonymous, and an… incident, on the Cimbrean colony, I have come to fear that the technology within cerebral implants is suspect. These implants of course are the ones you see on the news, about how they can cure allergies, translate languages in real time and a whole host of other things. None of your crew has them.” Having heard about them, and seeing that a few models had been targeted at people his own age, mostly for hearing, vision and memory, Frank nodded. “I didn’t get any because I didn’t want some doctor fiddling with my head.”
“That’s one of about a dozen reasons you were selected over all other candidates.”
“There were others?”
“Almost two hundred, Frank. Everyone wants to go into space, but I needed you.”
“What for? Why the hell am I really here?”
“Frank, it’s very likely that someone on those vessels has caused this. Around half of them had some type of implant for one thing or the other. It’s also possible that there are still survivors. They had enough food to last all of them several months, and enough weaponry to deal with anything short of an invading fleet. But,” said Byron, leaning very close to Frank now, “I need you to watch every single survivor very closely, if you find any. And, Frank? If it comes down to it, if there’s no alternatives, I need you to put them down. Can you do that for me Frank?”
Frank was now staring at the stone faced man before him. He’d not seen Byron like this before in any of his few encounters. This was…calculating; heartless.
“You want me to watch the survivors. The people we’re trying to save. And if it looks like one of them caused the crash, or wants to hurt others further, you want me to kill them?”
“I don’t just want you to Frank. I need you to. You said once that you didn’t want to kill, but that you walked off that plane in Vietnam, legs shaking and head held high, ready to do just that if you had to. Too much is at stake for doubt Frank, for all of us.”
Frank considered for a moment, asking himself if he could kill. It had been a long time since passion had commanded his actions. He wondered if he’d be able to think logically in the situation Byron might be putting him in.
“Only…and I mean only, if lives are at risk. I don’t want to kill anyone, but I also want everyone to make it back alive. If I can’t have both…I’ll do what needs to be done.”
“Thank you Frank.”
“…they’ll tear me apart if I kill someone without them understanding why Byron. I’m assuming I’m not allowed to tell anyone about this right? Or let anyone know that I’m going to be armed?”
“Correct Frank. And for the purposes of keeping you alive and not locked in a cage, you will have a ‘panic phrase.’ Do you know what I mean by that?”
“Not a clue.”
“It is a phrase that I will tell you and only one other. It is only to be used in the most dire circumstance, after you have just done what others may consider completely insane, or to get your partner to believe you in a life or death situation. You will not have knowledge of which crew member is your partner, nor will you try to find out. Do you understand?”
“Seems…prudent. What’s the phrase?”
“Fortius quo fidelius. Latin for ‘Strength through Loyalty’.”
“Very poetic. Masculine too.” said Frank, rolling his eyes slightly.
Byron didn’t smile. “Repeat it. It could save your life one day.”
“Fortius quo fidelius. We learn Latin in the medical field. I’ll be fine.”
“Very well Frank, good luck. I won’t be seeing you again until you get back.”
He stood and proceeded to open the door, but looked back at Frank.
“…Frank. If you find survivors…trust no one.”
And then he was gone.