Dancing Among the Stars

Dancing Among the Stars

  A short story collection by

  Josh Langston

  Published by

  Fireflies

  ~*~

  Channel 0

  ~*~

  Double Eagle

  ~*~

  Head Game

  ~*~

  Hard Guys

  ~*~

  Symbiote

  All stories Copyright 2011 by Josh Langston

  Girl cover photo

  Copyright 2011 by Lev Dolgachov/Shutterstock.com

  Planet cover art

  Copyright 2011 by Martin Capek/Shutterstock.com

  These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ~*~

  Fireflies

  Our true reality is in our identity

  and unity with all life. --Joseph Campbell

  0605 Hrs 18Dec2317--FSS Forager:

  Caitlyn squinted at the viewscreen. The cloud of lights seemed to be approaching again. This was what--the third time? They barely registered on radar and only showed on-screen after much image enhancement. The resulting picture reminded her of the phosphorescent bugs she'd seen on Earth as a child. Spectroscopic analysis indicated a cluster of tiny objects composed of a surprisingly wide variety of compounds.

  Caitlyn laughed, then keyed the ship's computer to record the image.

  "Fireflies! Imagine that--way the hell out here." She shrugged, then added, "Space crap, probably, metallic dust or debris.”

  The time had come for another course correction, and Caitlyn shifted her attention to the monitor displaying the most likely new trajectory for the microsun, Luyten 726-8B. The anti-matter charges had been distributed according to plan, and her crew had already deployed and positioned the modified Chang-Garcia conduit. Caitlyn's job now: get the hell out of the way as their equipment forced the little star in a new direction. The physics of shifting celestial bodies concerned her far less than the reasons for doing it.

  The development of gravity-deflection technology made it possible to rearrange asteroids, planets and the smaller stars--dubbed microsuns--into pocket solar systems. These consisted of one or two terra-formable planets and a small sun. A half-dozen such systems would provide substantial living space within reasonable distances of Earth. Of course, it would be many years before those planets could support life, but someone well above her pay grade had blessed the investment. Much could be accomplished before men could live outdoors on the surface of any of them.

  Caitlyn glanced again at the monitor following the fireflies. The cloud seemed to have tracked her through the last maneuver. She keyed the computer again. "Syscomm note: debris appears attracted to ship's mass. If it--"

  A warning buzzer swamped her voice. According to data relayed by a remote diagnostic routine, one of the anti-matter charges had failed. Caitlyn silenced the alarm and then initiated a system recheck in the remote which uncovered a faulty sensor. She authorized a subsystem bypass and life returned to normal--for several minutes.

  Then something clanged against the hull. Amber warning lights indicated the ship had been struck by foreign matter. Damn! Should've enabled grav-deflection.

  She touched a stud on the main panel. A low-frequency hum and a slight vibration in the hull confirmed gravity deflection had been engaged. The amber warning lights went out.

  "There's no way I'm gonna let this mission be endangered by space junk," she told herself. She thought about it for a moment. "Assuming I haven't screwed it up already."

  ~*~

  1025 Hrs 05Apr2331--Randall's Hope Station:

  Caitlyn Ames sat in the observation dome of the fleet hospital on Randall's Hope, the one planet destined to become habitable in a pocket solar system she helped to create. She was no god--technology made it possible for men to push the stars around. The little ones anyway.

  Captain Caitlyn Ames, 24th century creator of galactic lebensraum, had occupied the same chair, in the same spot, for nearly two weeks. It was deemed a better place for her than the service-provided quarters where she was found after failing to report for debriefing. Still in her flight suit, she sat staring at a blank wall. She held a small, wooden chest in her lap: hands rigid, locked in white-knuckled ferocity around its corners.

  Lt. Commander Bradley O'Neil stood in the observation dome looking at her. She had once been his mentor, twice his lover and always his friend. She didn't look back. She didn't do anything.

  "What's wrong with her?" he asked.

  The ensign assigned to her care shook his head. "Can't say for sure, sir, but the doctor said something about stress syndrome."

  "Post-traumatic stress syndrome?"

  "Yes, sir, I believe so."

  "What triggered it?"

  "We don't know, sir."

  That came as no surprise. She flew her two previous missions solo, and for good reason. There was simply no need to jeopardize anyone else, especially since crewmen remained in stasis for the journey out and back. Pilots slept, too, except during the critical four-week period when they had to align the target body, anti-matter charges and Chang-Garcia conduit. Moving a gas giant or a microsun into a new trajectory was complex, but by necessity, highly automated. Like any other space jock, Cait’s presence ensured the availability of human judgment in the event of the unforeseen. For the most part, her work amounted to planned redundancy, functions designed primarily to keep her focused--and busy.

  "What's in the box?" O'Neil asked.

  "Don't know, sir," the ensign said.

  O'Neil frowned. "Hasn't anyone looked?"

  "Doc says that's a bad idea since the Captain's so heavily focused on it. Doc's afraid she might react negatively."

  "Seems to me any reaction would be better than letting her sit here like a zombie."

  The ensign shrugged, but stepped closer to his charge.

  O'Neil remembered the way Cait looked before her last mission. Formerly a pleasant kilo or two beyond lean, she had become gaunt, sustained by intravenous fluids. Her eyes, which once smoldered with passion and commitment, now gazed languidly from red-rimmed lids. The light brown highlights in her short, thick mass of auburn curls had become ashen stains on dull, brown dross. A slack jaw replaced the lopsided smile that used to light up rooms, his in particular.

  "For Christ's sake, Cait! What happened to you?" Though he spoke but inches from her face, his urgent whisper went unanswered.

  The ensign touched his shoulder. "You're on the wrong frequency, sir."

  O'Neil's eyes flashed an instant of anger before he realized the younger man’s comment had not been offered in jest. O'Neil forced himself to relax. "Yeah. Guess you're right." He stared at the woman seated so rigidly it made his own spine ache. "Does anyone know what happened?"

  The ensign shook his head. "The Review Panel meets tomorrow."

  ~*~

  0915Hrs 06Apr2331--Randall's Hope Station:

  O’Neil and a half dozen others attended the inquiry. When everyone found a seat at the spacious conference table, the proceedings began. Edwin Hatcher, civilian commandant on Randall's Hope, presided over the informal gathering.

  Hatcher leaned back in his chair and sighed heavily. "Well? Anybody got any ideas? There's not much to go on except her report of--what'd she call 'em--fireflies?"

  A baby-faced lieutenant cleared his throat and shuffled some papers. Hatcher nodded at him.

  "According to our calculations, Luyten 726-8B has no satellites large enough to sustain life. Therefore, it is highly unlikely that a report of, uhm, fireflies could--"

&nb
sp; "Moseby?" Hatcher's voice was low.

  The lieutenant looked up. "Yes, sir?"

  "I believe we're all willing to concede that captain Ames was merely waxing poetic."

  "Yes, sir, but persistent reports of anomalous--"

  "Moseby?"

  "Sir?"

  "Do you have anything worthwhile to contribute or must we all suffer from the ops manual the Academy shoved up your ass?"

  O'Neil grinned. He'd always liked Hatcher, except when the irascible cuss went after him. "Calm down, Ed. The kid's just tryin' to follow procedure. You probably did it once or twice when you were young."

  "I was never young," Hatcher said, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile. "And don't you ever forget it."

  "Right," O'Neil said, and he abruptly changed the subject. "So, where'd she get the box?"

  Hatcher shook his head. "The jewelry case? I don't know. She's carted it around with her for years. Claimed it was her only tie with home."

  Crewmembers often stowed small personal effects in with their gear, but O'Neil couldn't remember ever seeing anyone with anything larger than a harmonica. Caitlyn's wooden chest could've housed enough harmonicas for everyone in the station. "How'd she get out here with something that big?"

  Hatcher's thin lips scribed a flat line. "Because she was the best, and those were her terms."

  O'Neil nodded. Both men knew the real Cait--a woman willing to give up an easy life on Earth, albeit an over-crowded Earth, in order to make a difference. Life was precious to her, but when offered the choice between letting future populations die or creating new places for them to live, she made her choice instantly.

  "Let's hear that last recording again," Hatcher said, waving a vidscreen to life.

  Caitlyn's image appeared wall-sized, and her voice came through the speakers in mid-sentence. "--omm note: sensors indicate possible exterior damage caused by collision with orbiting debris. I can't engage the main drive until I've established hull integrity. This EVA is intended for observation only."

  Caitlyn retreated from the screen and then appeared to return as if she'd changed her mind. An on-screen timer indicated the recorder had turned itself off and back on automatically. She faced the camera, her expression grim. "There's something wedged between the hull and a communications array which is keeping it from retracting normally. The angle makes it impossible to photograph clearly. I'm going to try and dislodge it with the waldo. I don't want to delay the mission if I can avoid it."

  The screen flickered briefly and the timer reeled off another hour. Caitlyn's face appeared in the monitor once again. "Looks like I’m all set. I managed to clear the debris, though the camera on the waldo wouldn't focus very well. I left the trash with the waldo in outboard stowage. I'll examine it after the push." The image faded.

  Hatcher stood up. "Except for her review of the firing sequence, that's the last recording she made. We can listen to--"

  Hatcher's aide entered the room. "Sorry to interrupt, sir, but you asked to be notified if we managed a clear relay to Earth. It may not last long."

  Nodding to the others in the room, Hatcher stepped to the door. "We'll reconvene in two hours," he said. The door closed behind him.

  ~*~

  1130Hrs 06Apr2331 -- Randall's Hope Station:

  O'Neil caught up with lieutenant Moseby in the Mess Hall. Moseby was stuffing food in his mouth as if it were his last meal. When O'Neil put his hand on the young man's shoulder, he thought the junior officer would have a stroke. "Slow down, you'll blow a jaw muscle."

  Moseby relaxed.

  "That's better. I'd like a little more detail on these firefly calculations of yours."

  "The what? Oh. Sure." Moseby wiped his mouth on a napkin. "Obviously there aren't any insects in space. Our job was to certify that nothing orbiting the microsun could have supported life. We're certain of that. There was nothing big enough to hold an atmosphere." Moseby eyed a dinner roll on his plate.

  "But what if there were?"

  "That's not possible, sir," Moseby said. "Our calculations--"

  "What if they're wrong?" insisted O'Neil. "What if there really was a planet orbiting that crummy little star? And what if there was something living on it?"

  Moseby cast about as if looking for an escape route.

  "Well, ensign?"

  "This is all hypothetical, you understand, 'cause there's no way in Hell Luyten 726-8B could sustain life."

  "But..." O'Neil said.

  Moseby nodded. "But if it did, it's gone now. When the A-M charges went critical and the Chang-Garcia gear kicked in, that little star was yanked clean out of the sector if not out of the galaxy. Anything in orbit would've been left behind. There wasn't enough gravity to drag anything along with it."

  ~*~

  1710Hrs 20Apr2331 -- Randall's Hope Station:

  Fifteen days after the inquiry began, the doctors allowed O'Neil to pry Caitlyn's fingers from the box. It was secured by a simple hasp which O'Neil flipped open. He raised the lid.

  The box contained a magnifying glass and what appeared, at first glance, to be a pair of toy spaceships. Both had been heavily damaged by the steel waldos but retained much of their original shape. They were of a design unlike any he'd ever seen.

  O'Neil gazed through the magnifying glass into a seam torn the length of the larger ship. His eye was met with one strange detail after another. Though form often suggested function, much of what he saw was inexplicable until he reached an interior compartment. By angling the light and forcing the tortured seam slightly wider, O'Neil could make out two rows of tiny incubators. The occupants weren't moving.

  ~End~

  Channel Zero

  Seeing a murder on television... can help work off one's antagonisms.

  And if you haven't any antagonisms,

  the commercials will give you some. --Alfred Hitchcock

  Scott mispunched Daphne's intercom number twice before he got it right. His finger hovered over the buttons, quivering, ready to stab in another extension if she didn't answer. At length, she did.

  "This is--"

  "Where's the goddamn World Series?"

  After a moment of silence, Daphne answered. "Budapest?"

  Scott made an effort to unclench his jaws. "It's supposed to be on ESPN."

  "Oh! Sure. Stand by. I'll check the feed."

  Scott tried to calm himself. Daphne would have everything back to normal soon. Her ambivalence toward sports had nothing to do with her technical ability, and he had no right to blast her because his private life resembled a train wreck. The IRS audit notice he received had left him shaken, but when the World Series went missing, he’d allowed his emotions to reach critical mass. Not good, he realized. When she reported back, he’d offer an apology.

  While he waited, Scott stared at the mass of blinking lights on his phone console. How come people only called him when things went wrong? He'd been to college to learn cinematography, and he was good at it, so why did Spinaldi insist that he spend his time managing this second-rate cable TV company?

  "Signal's strong," Daphne said. "I'm getting a great picture."

  "Of the game?"

  "Well, no. It's either a commercial or a kid's show, but it's a new one on me. It's a conversation between a couple of, I dunno -- elves, I guess -- and one of those horse-looking things."

  "A unicorn?" Scott rubbed his eyes.

  "Yeah," Daphne said. "A real beauty! And I thought ESPN only ran sports."

  "Kill it."

  "But the picture's perf--"

  "If it ain't baseball, it ain't leaving the building. Go to 'Stand By' until you can get the game back on, okay? And Daf? I'm sorry I yelled."

  "No problem," she said.

  Scott hung up and faced the bank of TV screens at the far end of his office. A big one at the heart of the array carried the picture Daphne described. A pair of green-tinted midgets, with wings, floated to either side of a unicorn. One of them polished the horn protruding from the animal's forehead
while the other combed its mane.

  Absurd! Where in hell were the Orioles and the Braves?

  "Mr. Pettigrew?" A secretary stood in his doorway. "There's an attorney here to see you."

  Scott shook his head. "From the IRS? Tell 'em I'm--"

  An athletic young man in a dark suit slipped past the secretary and dropped a large gray envelope on Scott's desk. "I know you're busy," he said, "so I won't stay."

  Scott poked the envelope. "What's this?"

  The attorney looked surprised. "Your wife didn't tell you? She's suing for divorce."

  Scott’s gaze dropped back down to the envelope on his desk. "Really? It took her long enough."

  ~*~

  Daphne slumped in her chair. "There's nothing left to check."

  Scott stood next to her, shaking his head. "We've missed something. You don't feed a ballgame signal into the wire at one end and get elves and pixies out at the other!"

  "Well, we did," Daphne said. "Right up until the fourth quarter."

  "Inning."

  "Whatever." She took a long pull from her diet Dr. Pepper and offered him the can. He made a face.

  "Maybe we should look at the unicorn tape again. If this is a high tech prank, I'll bet there's some kind of message in it."

  Daphne pulled up the file containing the recorded footage. "I've already watched it twice. I sure didn't see any message." She clicked PLAY.

  The screen cleared to a bucolic scene featuring the elves and the unicorn. "Turn it up," he said.

  "...but I don't have any proof," said an elf with a goatee. He patted the unicorn's neck. "Besides, we all know that humans are myths."

  "Nonsense!" said the second elf. "Just because we haven't seen any doesn't mean they don't exist."

  Scott and Daphne watched the entire tape, but the conversation rambled. "It's obviously not a planned production," he said. "Certainly not a professional one. The whole thing's just silly."

  Daphne cleared the screen. She stepped closer to Scott and put her hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry about all this, really. I heard about the divorce papers."

  "I should have expected it." Scott patted her hand. "Berta used to do my tax returns, but she never showed any interest in me until Spinaldi hired me for his production company. She must've thought I was going to be some big deal Hollywood director, and spent money we didn't have to improve her chances in front of the camera."