MAYA

CONFESSION

July 12, 2037

He was amazed at how much smaller the steps seemed. A twinge of guilt stabbed his heart, for not having come back sooner. Growing up in the throes of religion, guilt was a natural sensation, he was used to that. But this time it was a genuine feeling, not based on the consequences of sin, but on the inexcusable crime of forgetting the past.

Tired knees creaked and popped as he walked up the steps. His membership at the gym had run out six months ago, and since then he hadn't done so much as walk a few feet if he didn't have to. If he'd have been younger he'd have tackled the steps, two at a time, and been up to the top, not even winded. Now, he felt his heart race and he'd only made it to step number seven. The sin of slothfulness. It crept into his mind in reaction, before he'd reached the ninth.

At the top, he took a moment to rest. The flat plaza stretched slightly higher than the main street running below it. Cars raced by, whizzing to God knew where. For everyone's rush to get somewhere, Truman couldn't help but think they were rushing nowhere. He was like that once, running somewhere, to do something, for someone. Nameless faces to nameless places. Rolling the machine of Industry for Industry's sake. It made him sick to the stomach. It made him even sicker to know that he was a part of it.

The air was clearer today. He couldn't tell with his eyes--the sky had the same brownish red haze it always had. It lingered above the mighty mega towers of San Francisco's business district, rolling and looping with the wind as it blew around the nanotech wonder megaliths.

Looking closer at them he could see the damage from countless attacks by the ACC, the war rolled on. He felt the clearness in his lungs. He could breathe fully--near full anyway. It still reeked, was still smoggy, and smoked filled, but it was cleaner.

They sat huddled in pews praying to their gods. That's how he'd always thought of the parishioners as they clung to their beads and repeated their holy incantations until either their's or their loved one's souls were saved. The last time Truman had prayed, he had two good knees. He would never tell Father Daly, but he thought prayer was a waste of time. He believed in God, but somewhere in the last twenty one years of global war, he decided that God was going to let things happen whatever way they were, regardless of what Truman Sanders desired.

He slid silently back behind the last row of pews and made his way toward the confessionals. Withered old women and the reeking homeless were the recipients of the cathedral's soothing touch. Although he never found the need to pray, Truman realized the calmness and serenity one felt when entering a house of worship. Whether it was the actual presence of God, or merely the enormous vaulted ceiling, the cathedral seemed a guarded barrier against the agonies of outside. War, poverty, and worst of all, complacency. He didn't know why it was, just that it was. That was enough.

There was no one in or near the confessional. Truman reined in a smile. Figures he thought. Who needs to confess sins when there is evil to be done? Even the old women in their pews sat there almost too comfortable, looking as though they were above reproach, the blameless leading the rest of us into the light.

Looking around, he nervously made his way near the confessional. The rich red fabric felt lush in his hand as he pulled back the curtain. As he did, he hoped he would be struck by lightning.

"Forgive me father," Truman began. He felt like a small child again. A happy boy, the one before the wars, about to immerse himself in shame, his soul about to be made whole. "Father, uh. I have sinned."

There was silence for a moment. Truman tried to read the situation, but was too nervous, too immersed in the returning sensations of the past.

"Truman, you're late," he heard a voice say.

"Father Daly," Truman replied. "I guess it's safe to assume you didn't get my message."

"No," the priest said through the dark wood mesh. Truman could see the light shining through the tiny holes reflecting on the priest's pink skin, making a strange pattern. "But Truman, it's good to hear your voice."

Truman wasn't sure if he heard enthusiasm, or a well hid scolding.

"Hey, Truman," Daly's voice whispered thorough the barrier. "What say we get out of here and go to that coffee shop you like?"

***

Heat radiated from outside, but there was no sun. Truman and father Daly sat near the window of The Coffee Connection. He almost couldn't believe the place was still there after all these years. With the war going on twenty one years, and the general economic depression, this little coffee shop still thrived. Even in war, people needed something to keep them up and running.

Father Daly looked basically the same as Truman had remembered him. Years ago, when they had first met, the priest was already old, but had a little more hair. His appearance was acceptable, but obviously the old man's eye-site, or maybe it was just his mobility, was decreasing because there were little details of grooming that he'd missed. The platinum rim of hair hung lightly above his ears, stringy and looking almost unkempt. His glasses were at least one size too small, and the cuffs of his sleeves hovered somewhere around mid forearm. Along the way he had spoken to Truman squarely and seriously. Truman had to keep himself from laughing, lest the priest mistake his laughter as a genuine sign of disrespect. Instead it was only a slight one.

Father Daly flashed an ultra-wide grin to the waitress as she lay the steaming cup of coffee on the table. "Thank you," he said, then raised it to his mouth. He blew the layer of vapor from the liquid's surface then lowered the cup, Truman realizing the darn thing was probably too hot. "So Truman," he said gravelly. He sounded as though he saw through the facade Truman had held up since he'd walked into the cathedral. "Tell me what happened."

"Am I that obvious?"

"Son, a brain surgeon I'm not, although some say I practice surgery on men's souls." He blew over the top of the coffee again, then looked as though he decided it still was too hot.

"It's my dreams. They seem to have..." he said. He didn't want to finish the sentence. If he did, it would give the words power. And if they had power, the situation would become more real.

"Returned?" Father Daly finished.

"Yes father. You remember them? From time to time they come, sometimes like a soft whisper, sometimes like an pounding beat." Truman squeezed his temples expelling the tension from his head. Closing his eyes the strong scent of the freshly ground coffee beans seemed even more powerful. The light clinking of coffee cups being placed on their saucers, and the crisp sound of spoons tapping the cups' rims, scrapped across the dark canvas of his closed eyes. He exhaled, forcing every bit of air out that he could, then breathed in fully, opening his eyes. "They feel so real. I hate them. It feels as if I were living through that same day as vividly as when it happened. When I wake up, I'm afraid to go back to sleep. I'm afraid the dream will come again." Truman shifted in his seat , slumping his shoulders as the weight of the moment weighed on him. "And lately they've been more intense. More frequent."

Father Daly finally took a sip of his coffee, then wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin with the stencil "THANK YOU FOR CONNECTING". He placed the cup down, then reached across the table and firmly grasped Truman's hand. "Does this have anything to do with Tyler?"

Truman looked up shocked at the mention of the name. It had been four years. The pain resurfaced and felt just as real as the day he'd first heard the news. "That may be a part of it. But no, it's something else. At least I think it is."

"I'm sorry if I opened any old wounds," Daly said. "I didn't realize...."

"That's okay Father," Truman said. "Have you heard about that vessel that disappeared out near Titan?"

"A little bit. The coverage from the News services hasn't seemed very thorough. Awful strange to me."

"I can trust you with something," Truman said leaning across the table closer to the Father and lowering his voice to a low growling whisper. "Can't I?"

"Of course son. This is confession after all," he replied with a wide grin. "This is between you, myself, and God."

Truman hesitated a bit, contemplating whether he should speak or not. The debate was settled quickly. "Well it wasn't at Titan. It was Pluto."

Father Daly sat back flabbergasted in his seat. Truman watched then as the old man, looking almost giddy, leaned forward, excited, in on a secret only top level military types knew about. At his point Truman didn't care. If talking about it could help him find out the source of his dreams, he would tell every sordid, filthy thing he'd ever done. "The satellite relay in Neptune's orbit picked up something. A signal? I don't know, but it was something. The UN Security Council "enticed" Delta Mining to order one of their ships to investigate. The miners had just finished their stint on Titan and were heading back for Moonbase-T, then Earth. It was supposed to be a relatively quick detour, just some reconnaissance, and situational extrapolations. But they never came back."

"Any communiques or messages from the scene?" Daly asked. He had that look of genuine concern that Truman remembered. No matter how little he knew about you or the situation, Father Daly had a way of making you feel he cared for every aspect of your pain.

"There was a message sent at approximately 0500 hours Eastern Standard Time, the Lady Grey sent its last message, detailing nothing out of the ordinary, then never checked in for it's next scheduled transmission with Delta Mining." Truman lowered his voice realizing he was talking a bit loud. Father Daly sat still, absorbing what Truman was saying. The waitress came by and asked if they needed anything else, they both declined then resumed.

"Pluto? But we haven't gone out that far yet. Have we?"

"No," Truman said. "But not because we couldn't. Because nothing there really interested us." He couldn't believe he was revealing classified information to a priest in a coffee shop. If the brass ever heard about it, Truman would have a much clearer reason for having his dreams.

"And now, they are sending a ship to investigate? A military one I assume."

Truman nodded.

"And with the war going on they need pilots, so they are sending you along."

"Me?" Truman said loudly. After a moment he was self-conscious, aware that his voice echoed across the room as the patrons grew quiet, some looking his way. "Me?" again, this time in a whisper. He laughed slightly, looking around to deflect the remaining stares aimed toward him. "No, I haven't been in space, let alone an airplane in, well, since the last time I was there I suppose. Twenty six years. Nor do I plan to return, ever."

"But you're involved in some sort of way. What is it? Tactical, communications?"

"Consultant," Truman said, his chest swelling with false pride. He could feel Father Daly's gaze, reaching past the facade to the core of the real Truman. "They offered to pay me a lot of money to go up. Enough so that I would never have to work again. But I don't think...I know I'm not willing to go up again. Not for this. I'm uncomfortable enough as it is giving advice on matters, and trying to get the new hyper drives operational. Besides, I couldn't live with knowing that a decision, a wrong one, could send a crew member to their death. I don't want to be responsible for that ever again. Leave it to someone else. Someone willing. Someone qualified."

Father Daly lifted the coffee cup to his face, then took a long draught. His chubby cheeks bulged as he took in the coffee, then swallowed it in successive gulps. Slowly, he lowered the cup and peered over its lid into the bottom. He swirled it around, again and again as Truman looked on. Daly then lowered the cup, and wiped his mouth with the crumpled napkin. "And you need me to tell you what's wrong?"

Truman did not answer.

"Janelle right?" Daly said. "She made you sign on didn't she?" This time Truman lowered his head. He was unable to look the Father in his eyes. "No, no son. That's a good thing. She knows you better than I ever could. What's more, she knows what's good for you. She knows exactly what it is you need."

"Your right about that I guess but there's something..."

"No son. What is it you've been doing for the last twenty-some-odd years? Shuffling papers? Filing?"

"Teaching. I was teaching at the Academy for ten years then moved over to the Hyper drive project."

"Teaching. That's right. Physics right? Relativity and that garbage."

"Hyperspace theory," Truman said suppressing a grin. Father Daly couldn't put stock in anything outside of a God who ruled from beyond the clouds. Even with all of the advancements in science and technology, Father Daly was frighteningly old-fashioned. Truman didn't want to bring it up, but if it weren't for nano-surgery to repair the human body on a precise cellular level, Father Daly would probably have been dead of old age ten or fifteen years ago. To Truman, Father Daly refused to move into the Diamond Age, where carbon was the basis of everything manufactured, and once useless properties as the moon had wars waged over them.

"Well son, whatever it was you were doing, Janelle didn't tell you to go for herself," Daly said. "She told you, for you. You know where your heart lies. I know it's not in the class room or looking over some man's shoulder as he draws up blueprints. I can still remember the day you joined the Military. That was the only time I saw you doing what it is that you do, for lack of a better phrase."

Truman nodded slightly, the boyhood feeling, the passion of flying crossed his memory, allowing him to feel the same emotion he had back then. He was light, free of spirit. Unafraid to act. Soaring, where he was meant to be.

The smashing of the window brought him back.

An old woman held on to her purse, yanking it backward as one boy pulled in the opposite direction. Truman was amazed she could muster enough strength, keeping the boy from taking it. She was thin, but looked as though she had been extremely fit at one point in her life, but had faded as the years passed on. Another boy moved in to attack with a knife drawn He moved in to attack, pushing her, hoping probably to break the woman's grip, but instead, with her still holding on, sent her crashing through the window. They were right outside the remainder of the Coffee Connection window, mere inches away from Truman. She turned toward him, a gritty look of determination across her face, as the boy pulled harder. It was then Truman noticed that he was doing what everyone else was doing, whether in the shop, or outside on the street. They were simply looking on.

The boy with the knife navigated past his friend and across the broken glass that covered the ground. He lowered his hand, ready to sink the knife into the woman's body, when Truman grabbed his arm, and stopped it's forward motion suddenly. The boy, yanked his arm lose and ran off before Truman realized it. The other boy holding the purse stood and stared. With one swift, crisp, kick the woman gave him a shot to the groin. The boy dropped on all fours, his hands plunging into the layer of jagged glass on the pavement. From where Truman stood, it looked as though the boy cared little for the pain in his hands at the moment.

What there was of a crowd quickly broke off as they saw the commotion had come to an end. An officer came running down the street, and gathered up the boy as some remaining onlookers filled him in on what had just happened.

"Well, that was exciting," Father Daly said. Truman turned and saw that he had gotten glass in his hair. He was brushing it out with the napkin, looking over the edge of the window and at the boy still in a ball in the street. "Penance."

Truman looked at the woman he had helped. She went through her purse, looking as though she were checking to make sure all of its contents were still there. "Mam," he said. "Are you all right?"

She looked around, calmed herself, then spoke steadily, "Yes...yes. Thank you."

Truman looked around the shop. The people were sitting down again. All of them talking, drinking, and conversing as though nothing had just happened. It disgusted him. "No problem mam," he said. He looked around again. He was almost ashamed to speak. He had barely moved himself.

"It makes me wonder what we're fighting for. The world is at war, and young punks take to robbing old women," Truman said to Father Daly. "I'm afraid there may be no hope for our future." Truman's hand was cut. A thick piece of glass stuck starkly out of the skin above the knuckle. The old woman reached into her purse and pulled out a white handkerchief. She folded it into a triangle, then yanked the piece of glass from his hand. He tried not to flinch, but couldn't help it. Carefully she wrapped the handkerchief around the bleeding wound. She held his hand firmly, hurting him as she did so. She looked upward into his eyes. He couldn't help but keep her gaze. Her eyes were crystal blue orbs. She pulled him closer, then released his hand.

"There may just be hope for us yet."

The doors of the elevator seemed to slam shut, as he leaned back and rested against the cold metal railing. His talk with Father Daly had helped a bit. He had walked the father back to the cathedral and promised to keep in touch. Truman couldn't honestly assess how truthful he was being when he agreed to, but his feeling was that the father would be able to tell either way.

It was only noon and already he'd had a full day. His stomach dropped as the elevator rocketed upward. There was such a thing as being too efficient. The elevator in his building was one of them. It hadn't bothered him so much when he was younger. But now, every little stitch was noticeable and almost unbearable, be it too cold, too hot, too fast or not slow enough. The years had caught up with him before he had time to realize. His back always hurt, even with advancements in nano surgery, there was just something, a certain quality about old age that couldn't be cured. Maybe it isn't the body that's weary. Maybe it's the mind.

The old woman's words weighed on him. The world was a piece of crap--one large garbage dump that we'd all been placed on to mess up a little bit more. It had scared him, that he stood there, still, watching the woman being attacked. He would have felt worse if no one else had moved. Even the police officers conveniently showed up after the altercation was over. When Truman left the scene, the pudgy officer of peace was taking a statement from the old woman, he closed his digi-pad, and was on his way. Someone else's misfortune was impacting his already miserable life no doubt. Truman was no different from anybody else. He didn't want that. With ongoing war, general economic depression, and family problems, the last thing he truly needed was to risk his life, for some stranger.

Looking outside the thick pane of glass into the crowded San Francisco cityscape, he wondered what technological advancements had brought anyone. There were more conveniences, more wealth being generated. But that only belonged in the hands of a very select few. Even worse, the human ace on a global scale had little regard for one another. They were all raw material. No longer unique individuals, but instead workers in a hive. There were few who believed in anything substantial anymore. Their technology had no basis in a tradition of morality. Everything was new, and they were all making everything up as they went along at a hare's pace. Unfortunately this was leading to conditions getting worse before they could ever get better.

Yet still, in his heart, he knew he could have done nothing else.

He didn't know why, really. It was just something that felt right. "Maybe there is hope for us yet," he said muffled, as the elevator came to the one hundred and fifty-seventh floor. He didn't know how to accept the old woman's words. They seemed to sink into him and rest somewhere in his thoughts. Not overpowering, but ever-present.

The car stopped quickly. Blood rushed to his head. He shook off the light-headed sensation as he braced himself firmly against the railing again. The doors hissed open, and he walked down the hallway toward his apartment. He let out a heavy sigh. Home. Even that word had little meaning to anyone. Few people in this world had a place that they truly felt safe.

Janelle sat on the edge of the seat on an thin bar stool. She hunched over the ledge of the counter, looking into the living room, ferociously jotting down notes as she conversed on the telephone. It was either Suzanne, who spoke a mile a minute, or Rebecca who took little time to let the other person speak. Janelle would always be a little trooper, into every nook of the conversation, then turn around and complain that her friends talked too much. He loved her anyway. He just hoped she didn't do the same thing to him.

She had aged much more graceful than he. He was a gruff, rugged forty-seven, the rigors of space training, and worry having taken its toll. She was a piece of work all together. Her skin a light shade of brown, her legs still firm and smooth. He loved it when she would wrap her arms around him. They were thin yet strong. He would always imagine that she would never let him go. Her face was still youthful. Unlike most of her friends, the only cosmetic nano-surgery she'd had was to remove a mole that had worried her doctor more than herself.

Often he would lay there beside her at night after one of his dreams, unable to fall asleep, wondering what it was that he'd done to deserve someone so beautiful. She told him he must have made a deal with the devil, and that someday he was going to have to pay.

He walked across the room to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. A wall of cold air rushed at him and bathed his face. He grabbed a bottle of juice and since she was occupied on the phone, drank it straight from the container in front of her. She shot him a look, but continued on in her same tone as if she weren't even upset. He smiled, courageously placed the container back inside, and walked over to his wife. She wouldn't acknowledge him as he stood there, so he walked around the counter and stood behind her, lightly pecking her with soft kisses on the neck. She liked it, he could tell. That was why she kept slapping at him, trying to shoo him away. Finally his strategy worked. She began to cut off whoever was on the phone, then shortly, she had hung up.

"No, you did not drink out of the container, then put it right back," she said. Attitude seeped from her when she spoke. He didn't say anything. He just looked into her eyes then closed in for a kiss.

It was deep, and their lips rolled over each other a few times before they came up for air.

"And if you think you can just come in here..."

He kissed her again.

"So how is Father Daly?" she said, leaning back against the counter. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, and let out a relieved breath of air.

"He's fine, and said to say hello." Looking over his shoulder he spied the notes she had scribbled. "Who was that? You weren't using the vid function."

"It was just Rebecca," she said. Truman reached over and grabbed the paper, perusing it as she held him tighter.

"How is that old windbag?" he asked.

Janelle hit him in the chest, and pouted, poking out her lip. "Don't talk about her like that. She's my friend." Grinning, he gave her an apologetic look. "Sometimes Truman..."

Even though an argument was brewing, he felt them moving in closer. Her arms squeezed around him. She stopped pouting.

"So what's going on?"

"She wants me to go to some convention with her next week. They're trying to install some new computer system in the schools, and the Board of Education is demonstrating it. Although, if we're all here next week I'd be surprised."

"What do you mean by that?" he said.

"You mean you hadn't heard. It's been on all the News channels all day."

Truman turned from his wife and looked toward the television. "On," he said loudly. "Channel 52." The screen flashed in a quick white light, then slowly the screen digitized, the picture unfroze and began moving. The reporter was talking about something, a map of the European front of the War covered the screen, with a red caption, saying "Colin Hurnforsch: Live" in bold white letters. Small red stars covered various locations on the map. They could only mean more fighting. The sites were along the Euro-Russian border with the ACC. There was a blue line to the right of the screen denoting it, and a green one to the left denoting another division. In between was a white space filled with diagonal yellow lines. The United Nations had lost more territory. Not very good news.

Janelle walked beside him and shouted a 'lower volume' command to the televison.

"They've been talking about using that missile again. The Assimilator? The UN brought sanctions today against the ACC again. They've attributed the bombing of Parliament in London on the ACC or guerrillas affiliated with them. Marauders have been attacking some of the mining sites in the Belt again. And to make it all worse, the UN is blaming the disappearance of the Lady Grey on either them or the ACC."

"That's insane," Truman said. "The possibility is there, but in fact we have nothing to support that theory."

The News report began, a computer animated representation of the Assimilator, a smooth silver pill slipped through the dark simulation. It moved in toward the Earth then exploded in a cloud of fire, mushrooming toward the heavens.

"Science fiction," Truman said. Janelle looked at him puzzled. "I can't believe some of the things they try to feed people. And the sad part is that like sheep everyone believes it." He walked closer at the screen, images of mass destruction zooming across it. "Look at this. Volcanoes? Tidal waves? The truth is that neither the UN or the ACC has a full grasp on the destruction that thing could cause. They know what they think it can do, but no one is stupid enough to test it."

"That's why no one has ever used it?" Janelle said.

"Hon, the ACC can be fanatical, but they are by no means ignorant."

"True."

"Worried," he asked looking into her eyes.

"Not really. We've been in a state of war for the better part of the last twenty six years. What's an exploding planet going to do to make people feel any worse than they already do?" She reached down to the golden knob on the set and turned off the picture. "How's Father Daly?"

"Fine," Truman said. He was waiting for her to ask about his hand. She gave it passing glances but left the topic alone. Truman knew her too well. She didn't want to know what had happened. She already worried too much...especially after Tyler. "Who called?"

"Oh yeah," she started. "I sent a digi-mail to Sarah for you."

Truman was annoyed. Creases grew thicker upon his dark-skinned forehead. "Why'd you bother? I could have left last week, hell, last year and she wouldn't care."

"I bother because she's our daughter and I love her even if it has been two years since she's spoken to us. You love her too you stubborn windbag."

She was right. He'd never admit it though. "Okay, okay. So who called?" It was his signal, acknowledged through twenty five years of marriage. Topic for discussion later. Much later.

"The secretary at the base called. Needs you to okay some paper work." Janelle gracefully strode across the room and walked into the bedroom. Truman heard the closet door sliding open and the sound of clothes brushing past each other. "Captain Ramirez called too."

"The Captain?" he said. "I wonder what she wants."

"You I imagine," she said. Truman thought he heard humor in her tone, but wasn't sure. "Just kidding. Besides, she couldn't take you even if I let her."

Truman smiled as he sat next to the phone and activated the vid function. A listing of white numbers scrolled upward across the green-tinted screen. "Ramirez," he said as the number lit up and the phone began to auto-dial. He waited there for a moment. Three rings, then Ramirez answered the phone.

Ramirez here...Oh," she seemed startled. "Truman."

"Hi Ramirez. It's been a while. Everything smooth for your launch window?"

She seemed nervous. Antsy as she looked away, telling and unknown person to leave the room behind her. She turned back toward the screen then began again.

"Listen Truman. At first I called to coordinate some things between UNASA and the command crew--to see if everything was up and running from the ground."

"But," Truman said. He knew he wasn't going to like what he had to hear.

"But..." she hesitated. "I just got the manifest and crew list of the Lady Grey."

He could hear the paper rustling in her hand as she fumbled it around. "I don't know how to say it other than just to say it." She exhaled then began. "It seems that one Sarah Sanders, African American, twenty-three years old was onboard. Her address is in Los Angeles. I've checked on it, but wasn't sure until just before you called."

Truman sat motionless. Speechless.

"Truman," Ramirez said with a slight Spanish accent. "Your daughter was onboard that ship. She's one of the missing crew."

He could not believe his ears.

"Sanders? Sanders?"

"I'm here Ramirez," Truman said. He looked toward his bedroom and heard Janelle still rummaging through the closet. He looked back at the screen. He didn't believing what he was about to say.

"In three days, when that ship leaves, I'm going to be on it." He felt his controlled breathing begin to slip slightly into an erratic pattern. "Pull strings. I'll pull some on my end. But I'm going to be on that ship."

"I thought you'd say that." she replied. "Will do. I'll call you later to let you know. Ramirez out."

The screen went blank. Truman, almost shivering, rested his head into his hands, elbows propping him up on the table. He heard footsteps coming from the bedroom. Janelle stood in the doorway holding up a dress. Truman looked at her. She looked back.

"What?" she said. "What happened?"

He stood from the wooden stool then walked over to his wife.

"You may want to sit down hon." He gently cradled her arms with his. "You're not going to believe this.

May 12, 1969

Jenna could not sleep. The wild sounds of the night permeated through her shelter seemingly in a direct line for her ears. She tossed and turned for three hours before she finally decided to forgo the formality of lying down. She decided to just get up and do something productive.

Even though she had been awake the entire time, her body still felt drained and listless. Her limbs were weak, her neck aching. She needed sleep, but it was stubborn in coming tonight. Stretching her arms above her head and pointing her toes straight away she tensed her muscles. Tiny spasms quivered throughout her body. Relaxation flooded inward, filling the void, but soon the tension crept back in, pushing her peace further away. She cursed Bimini. The University. She cursed Howard McGrath. She cursed herself.

Jenna contemplated reading, but after two pages and realizing she had absolutely no idea of what she'd read, she decided to go outside for a brisk walk, hoping to clear her mind. And perhaps expunge a few demons.

She pulled her Khaki pants on over her shorts. They were wrinkled, and smelled musty from having sat in her dirty clothes pile for at least three weeks. It hadn't been this cool outside since early April. They felt a bit loose, sagging and hanging on her upper hips loosely, even though she was wearing the shorts beneath them. She didn't really care about her appearance anyway. Besides, she thought. Who would be up at three AM to condemn my hygiene or fashion sense?

The waters crawled across the shore, the crashing sound of the waves in the distance betrayed the peace that stood directly before her. The still warm water slid gently around her feet as she stood staring out toward the sea. Somewhere out there in the darkness lay the Bimini Road. And somewhere beyond that, a temple that she may or may not have imagined beneath the sea.

She hadn't applied much intellectual thought to the possibility of there actually being a temple beyond her grasp. She thought that if she'd contemplated it enough it would make the possibility real, and if it were real it would undermine the basis of most everything she believed whether closely held personal rituals or rejected ideas. Somewhere along the way she'd forgotten that she was striving to find the Truth. It was as though all she fought to challenge paled to the act of challenging, itself. Ironic she thought. She'd spent her entire career trying to debunk the established beliefs of the scientific community. But, once confronted with something from the outside, she struggled herself to assimilate it. Her problem was she just couldn't.

The heavy, wet, sand covered her feet to her ankles. As the waves washed in she sunk slowly into the earth. Wiggling her toes, she felt the fine, gritty, texture of the grains around and between them. She'd never been to a beach before, seen the sand, until she'd attended the University of Vermont. North Beach on Lake Champlain had calmer surf, fresh water, and quieter surroundings. But after arriving in Bimini she realized that the shores of Lake Champlain had been a flat imitation of the one before her. This beach was somehow truer, real, and primal. A beautiful and violent spectacle stretching across the horizon. One strong tug from an errant wave could crumble and smash a human body, dragging it out to sea.

What could the entire ocean, if it so desired, do to an entire island?

Wild birds screeched beyond the dark wall of trees leading to the jungle within. Beyond the thicket was her tent, still lit and glowing alone within the dark. Beyond it was the general encampment. It sat atop a slightly sloping hill. Jenna saw the light shining in the guest cabin. Palmer must still be awake.

She walked through the thick foliage, branches and tall grass brushed against her pants. She held her sneakers in her hand, allowing the thick blades to tickle the tops of her feet. Once she reached the first line of trees, the grass faded away, leaving a relatively bare forest floor, with thin-trunked trees sprawled amid the thicker ones. The canopy cut off the sky from her view, but sometimes it would peek through. Not that she would have actually been able to see much of the heavens tonight. Fluffy, dark, billowing clouds hung heavy in the sky, bottomside covered in darkness, topside tinged by the moonlight.

She came through the trees.

The campsite was situated in a semi-circle, at the top of a short narrow path surrounded by vegetation. The entire sight was cast in muddied colors. The greens and browns from the flora seemed dull and inactive, waiting for the light to bring them life and color. The occupants of the tents were probably asleep. In a few days they would have to leave. Large wooden crates, some made of fresh wood, some dark and molded and obviously having arrived with the first team three years ago, rested beside and behind the tents in succession. Everyone but Jenna was prepared to leave. Even if she didn't want to stay for research all she had to return to was an empty apartment in the faculty housing complex and snowfall eight months out of the year. "What's the big hurry?" she said aloud. Embarrassed, she looked around to see if anyone was there to hear her. Somehow the sounds one makes in the dark seem louder than in the day. She detected no movement however and continued on toward the cabin.

The guest cabin was primarily used as a lab for experiments and for the occasional medical emergency. So far in the three years since they'd been there, there had only been two such emergencies. The first was a jelly fish sting on the arm of Enrique, one of the university assistants. The other was Jenna herself, who'd contracted some kind of stomach bug, and became severely dehydrated. They both recovered quickly from their injuries. Enrique was given an ointment for his wound, supposedly local, and Jenna was ordered to work less, and drink more water. She slowed down for only two days however, then was back to work.

The light from the cabin shown dimly through the window now. It had seemed much brighter from a distance, but Jenna thought Palmer might have lowered the lights while she'd been in the forest. The cracks between the individual slats running vertical around the cabin were illuminated, softly glowing, casting strips of light along the ground and across her face. There was a faint sound of movement inside. A wind rustling the leaves, or echoes from a distance. She couldn't decide which it was. She slid around the corner and walked up the short wooden steps. They creaked wearily as she stepped on them, the rough, damp, wood feeling strange beneath her bare feet. Inside Palmer sat zombie-like, erect at the end of a table. The spectral analyzer lay dormant, waiting for the next test. Palmer held the orb, cradled in his hands. He was silent and contemplative.

"Palmer," she said from behind him. He did not move. She walked closer and lay a hand heavily on his shoulder. He responded, slowly turning his head. It was strange for a moment that he did not seem startled, but Jenna soon forgot as he turned his attention toward her.

"Oh, hi, uh, Jen," he said, his voice warbling from disuse. He looked weary, less from lack of sleep and more from a failure to grasp at something mentally. She'd had that sensation many a night herself. Looking into the bathroom mirror she'd got a glimpse of the "weary wonder." Too many nights of Grad-level Chemistry had made her familiar with the look. It didn't suit her. Palmer either. He looked at her shaking his head, letting his body tell the story more than his words. "I just don't get it."

I knew you wouldn't.

"Even with the naked eye this thing threatens to demolish what we believe about archeology. And if that falls, geology, history, biology and God know's what else would follow before we knew...." He paused squeezing his brow between his thumb and middle finger, tensing and relaxing his face. He rubbed downward with the same hand, then let out a deep sigh. "I shouldn't be holding this thing in my hand right now. I can't be."

"Someone in my corner?" Jenna asked.

"I wouldn't go that far," he replied. "There's not enough here for me to venture and declare all that we believe about the history of this planet is false...that the world indeed isn't flat."

"But?"

"But," Palmer sighed. "But I'm intrigued. I will say that." He stared deep into the orb. Reflections and events running across his mind. He dared not dream of the truth. The truth can sometimes destroy. "What are you doing up anyway? What time is it?"

"Three," she said bluntly. She knew his mannerisms. He always had to segue into a topic he felt was risque. Something tinged with danger. She wasn't going to wait for him to fumble around until he hit the mark. "It would only take us twenty minutes," she said. "I can pilot the boat out and have us back before the sun's up."

She struck the right tone. Palmer's face lit up.

"Okay," he said. "Let's do it."

She dropped three flares down into the depths as Palmer sat regulating his apparatus, assuring himself and Jenna that the dive would be safe and seamless. Jenna pulled the mask over her face. She was nervous. Not from fear, but from anticipation. She prayed they'd find something.

Palmer was a bit calmer, still not knowing quite what to expect. He looked at Jenna under the moonlight. He noticed her form looked slimmer, her silhouette sleeker. He'd heard she was working too hard. Now he could see it. She was pushing herself beyond reason. Taking herself to an edge Palmer couldn't guarantee he could bring her back from.

"Exorcizing my demons," she said.

"What?" Palmer asked. Until then, there had been no words spoken between the two.

"Earlier, you asked me what I was doing out at three AM," she replied. "I was exorcizing my demons."

Palmer placed the mask above his head. "I hope you do Jen," he said. He slid to the edge of the boat, attached the breathing apparatus to his mouth, and dropped backwards into the dark water.

Looking above him he could see Jenna's silhouette sinking above him. It swam eerily as the moon rippled on the surface of the water. Looking downward he could see the last of the flares still dropping to the ocean bottom. Further down were two small dots, pinpoints of light from the other sticks that had already reached the sand floor.

For Jenna's sake he hoped they would find something. She seemed so fragile now. He did not want to see her break.

It took them twenty minutes to reach the bottom. Once there, they left one flare burning and bubbling in the water, while they took the other two and began to follow the side of the massive Bimini Road. Jenna swam in front, a large flashlight making a path into the darkness. She lead the way like a guide, desperate to make sure her charges didn't have to suffer through a harsh night.

Palmer was fascinated by the great stone blocks that ran beside him. When it had been discovered late the preceding year, he'd seen pictures and descriptions of it, but none of them could compare to the sheer power the stones actually held.

He didn't know how anyone could begin to think this "road" was a natural formation. Nature was too random to produce something nonliving that followed some sort of symmetry. Like the orb he'd been studying for most of the night, the Bimini Road threatened to destroy the status quo of knowledge. And what the scientists did, who had everything to lose by admitting they did not hold the truth, was suppress the truth. Debunking was a science in it's own right.

Jenna swan, soldiering forward, while Palmer looked periodically at the wall rising above him as well as into the thick darkness mere feet away from him. She was near where she thought she'd seen the phantoms. Where she had taken the orb. But she wasn't sure. Palmer could tell. She would stop, look around, desperation striking because it was the only feature of her face that he could clearly see.

She stopped and turned. She jerked all the way around. Three hundred and sixty degrees. One hundred and eighty. She signaled to move on forward, then as Palmer began to follow she stopped suddenly. She stuck her thumb up and pointed it toward the surface. She had given up. It was the first time Palmer had seen that from her.

They rose, Jenna breaking the surface first. She took a deep inhale as she removed her mask. Clinging to the side of the boat she waited for Palmer to remove his gear. He'd have sworn she was in tears if her face hadn't already been wet. She spit out the acidic salt water and slicked her hair back as she spoke to Palmer. "I still have the demons I guess."

Palmer looked frankly at her hoping she could see his face in the darkness. "It's one thing to battle your demons Jenna." He paused. It was here that their friendship just might come to an end. "It's another matter to battle them and still look sane to the people around you."

Neither spoke another word, instead listening to the sound of water lapping against the side of the boat. The sun rose slowly in the distance, the sky a canvas of smeared oils--red, orange and yellow.

From across the sea they heard the roaring of machines. Over the horizon flew a swarm of helicopters moved toward the tiny island. A new day had arrived, and so too, soon would Dr. McGrath.

Aphelion Letter Column A place for your opinions.

Return to the Aphelion main page.