Michael James Heartly

Stratosphere Chapters 1 & 2 The Fast Mover It was the combination of her collision avoidance signal and the quaking of the single-lane road that prompted her to look up from her handlebars. She was immediately blinded by two blistering headlights. She slammed on her brakes. The thing was clanking and rumbling and spewing black smoke into the evening mist. The lights were level with her eyes and heading right for her…rapidly. She was impressed that such a juggernaut could move that fast. She unclipped her shoes and planted both feet in the gutter just before getting blasted by the pressure wave. The massive steel frame passed within an inch of her. Its powerful wake ruffled her lightweight jacket and coated her with road spray. Yuk.  That had to be one of the largest dump trucks she had ever seen. Twenty-two tires on her. Probably heading for the new Watergate II construction site, she figured. It continued down the narrow lane leaving behind a trail of noxious diesel fumes. Double yuk. It definitely would have left a mark she chuckled to herself. Her noise-canceling headphones may have worked too well. So, she grudgingly turned the Mozart down and pulled her glasses to clean them. She caught the tailgate’s digital advertisement: Self-driving crash? Call the Pros at Nickentime Attorneys at Law. She smelled her jacket. More diesel. Triple yuk. She felt contaminated. Her low hair bun had become loose under her helmet. She tightened it. Her hair smelled too. Guess it could’ve been worse. Having lived there since the age of three, navigating L’Enfant’s tangled, twisted, and confusing streets in the Washington District was second nature for the thirty-something ex-ballerina. But that night she was on a schedule. She was always on a schedule. So, she increased her pedaling cadence to streak onto the capital city’s TMG’s or Traffic Management Guideways - The city's computer-controlled roads. The colonial streetlights on Pennsylvania Avenue were popping on as she hit the bike lane. Her power meter showed that she had three minutes and thirty-five seconds to finish her planned workout. That meant three more minutes of all-out, quad-burning peddling. She turned the Mozart back up, gripped the drops of her custom road bike and put her head down. She was plowing ahead when the traffic signals appeared as green and red stars. The evening’s cold drizzle had once again distorted her cycling shades. Then a large orange star appeared from the other direction.  Since she had just escaped being splattered all over the Northwest section of the District, she slowed her bike and removed her glasses. It was a tic-tac self-driving cab. She sped past the jellybean-shaped ride while cleaning her glasses under her jacket. The cab’s digital ads were spewing claims about the latest in spring fashions and hip replacements. The amber interior light from the cab revealed it was ferrying one female passenger. No driver. Typical. She put her shades back on and cranked it. When she approached the bustling intersection of Virginia Avenue, she noticed a tiny blue light blinking on the bottom right corner of her meter. Not good. It was a weather warning. Then, right on cue, a distant flash of lightning created a silhouette of the city’s low skyline. Collision alarms be damned. It was time to boogie. She immediately tore a path across all eight lanes. Before she entered the side street, she heard the thunder. Damn. The storm was closer than she thought. A quick right turn, and the Foggy Bottom CIA garage had opened for her. The sentry saluted her as she sped past and disappeared down the ramp. The first level of the bunker housed the government-issued vehicles: Giant black gas-powered behemoths with heavily tinted windows. A true rarity. The remaining levels sported the usual EV’s and self-drivers. The electric charging stations blinked by as she advanced deeper into the garage. Her disc brakes were wet and dirty and squealing around each turn. It reminded her of her disastrous rain-soaked descent of the Alp d’Huez in France. The last thing she needed was to impale herself on a concrete column. She eased her speed for the last two levels. A few yards more and it appeared in the shadows: the brick wall leading to her lair. Her command center. Her home. One more grip of her brakes and the wall was blinking bright red with each flash of her headlight. She dismounted and froze for the body scan. An instant later the bricks rose and she walked her bike into the secure concrete twenty-by-twenty storage room. Overhead was a network of pipes, thick cables, and metal ductwork. Hanging conspicuously to her left was the black camera dome. In front of her was her bike storage bin. She shook the rain off herself and reached into her jersey’s back pocket to grab her comm device. A quick tap and presto, the lid opened. There was one empty track next to her hydrogen powered bike. She pulled her power meter off its mount, slid her bike in and put her helmet on its shelf. The storage lid lowered to the deck as she walked gingerly on the concrete floor with her metal shoe clips clacking on every step. She looked at the camera dome, waved, and the elevator door to her right swung open.  As she rode down to the only stop, she checked her power meter. After all that, she had only been fifty-seven seconds short of her goal. The elevator bounced and the doors opened to a low vestibule. Fifteen feet away was the glass-enclosed guard post. She was waved along by the armor-fitted soldier and his SIG Sauer semi-automatic rifle. She yanked her ID lanyard from her jersey and placed it on a small glass screen. A box pushed out from the wall. She put her right hand on it and leaned in for the eye scan. A green LED light signaled she could push open the half foot-thick door. Home. She stood in the dark with her eyes closed and…clap…clap. Immediately, several tiny blue lights beamed down giving her home the feel more of a mausoleum than an upscale apartment. If she ever turned on a real light, it would look impressive. She kept her surroundings lower than thirty-foot candles. Very dark. She quickly tossed her ID to the right and stood silently. A deep inhale and she pulled her headphones off and dropped them. A soft thud at her feet proved they had landed safely on the plush carpeting. She then ripped her jacket off and unceremoniously dropped it. Wet and all. She squinted to adjust her eyesight, took another deep sigh, and said, “Felix…thanks for the heads up. What are your electrical storm warning parameters, please?” A moment later a formal male voice replied, “Twelve kilometers.” “Too close. Change that to twenty.” “Copy.” She darted down the hallway to her left and ordered, “K 622 please, and Lemongrass.” “Commencing.” Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto began playing in all the rooms. A dozen strides more, and she was in her bedroom when the ominous, slightly British-accented computer said, “Dispatch from Greenland.” She stopped in her tracks. “Let me hear it, please,” she she said as she headed for her bed.  “Unidentified submersible phenomenon sighted off the coast of Nuuk.” “Source?”  “The Swedish deep sea research vessel, the Gandra Varno.” She dropped the comm device and her meter onto the glossy red side table.  “Miss Mali, are you in for the evening?” asked Felix. “Probably.”  The computer continued, “Heavy clouds. Winds over fifteen. Electrical.”  “Noted. Prepare my bath, please.” “Right away.” She kicked off her shoes and dragged her wet socks off. She wriggled her recently painted red toenails and smiled as tiny blue specks of light glinted off them. Then Felix chimed in again, “Report 520 slash S submitted by a Kommendor Erikson of the Swedish Navy.” Mali hesitated a moment before asking, “Last known bearing was ninety K from the Eastern Shore, correct?” “Affirmative.”  She then unzipped her jersey, flung it off, and plopped backward half-naked into the billowy black comforter. Her haunt was suffused with the refreshing scent of lemon and her black jacuzzi tub was being filled with perfect 99-degree water. She had finally begun to relax in the cool comfort of her bed when Felix interrupted again, “Reported as a fast mover from the south.”  “How fast?” “Exceeding six hundred knots.” “Fuck.” Mali then shoved off her bike leggings. She always preferred going commando. Sweet nakedness. The soothing music was helping her to relax when, “Also Commander…,” “Yes Felix, what is it?” “…the agency confirmed your meeting in three days. And the Thalassians have generated a meeting with Control tomorrow at Thirteen-hundred hours Zulu.”  “Copy that.” By then, her muscles were tightening up. She slid out of the pile of warm fluff and ordered, “Bubbles.” Instantly, the sound of the tub’s jacuzzi jets seeped from its glass enclosure in the corner. The sliding glass door opened automatically for her to enter. The top edge of the tub was knee-high. The hum from the motor and the gurgling bubbles, however, were competing with the soothing violins. As the partition closed, she insisted, “Louder.”  The surround-sound increased. It was heavenly. The violins were filling her with calm. She scanned her assortment of vials on a glass shelf and chose a small green one labeled Limey. She shook four drops of the oil into the bubbles. Lemon and Lime. The night was still young, and she was developing a craving for a cocktail. Maybe later. She slowly slid her toned, caramel body in. Relief. She leaned against the smooth, black, curved tub. The lime bubbles began to form on the surface. She began playing with the suds, attempting to empty her brain. But the soothing delight of the bath was competing with images of diesel smelling dump trucks and alien space crafts. So, she summoned an image of her piloting a baby carriage up Connecticut Avenue. In that dream, she was smiling and laughing with her adopted daughter whose tiny button nose and big brown eyes just melted her every time.  Ten years earlier, there were thousands of orphaned children after an atomic bomb ‘accidentally’ exploded in North Korea. As a single woman, she was constantly bombarded by calls to, “At least think about adopting…” Over the years her hesitancy to adopt had started to wane. Three months ago, she had finally decided it was time to take the plunge into motherhood. But the paperwork to adopt internationally was putting her double doctorates to the test. “Did the adoption agency give any hint whether it is a boy or a girl?”  “Negative. The agency left no word. Would you like it warmer?” “Yes, please.”  The motor hummed louder, and the bubbles increased. She attempted to empty her mind by submerging deep into the pulsating tub. It was no use; the image of the USP took over. Her years of dealing with off-world visitors had always consumed her. Were the aliens back? Which ones this time? What were they up to? She dropped back under the bubbling surface and spit out a muffled yelp. Frustrated, she rose up and unfastened her ballerina chignon and shook free her long black hair. It was floating beside her when she gathered it to see if the red streaks she had recently invested in were still there. Yes. Nice. The hot pulsing water was just what she needed, but her mind was still exploding. Those fucking off-planet assholes. Why wouldn’t they leave her alone? The idea of a bourbon and ginger with lemon sounded better. She obviously had to find out what it all meant. Probably what Control wanted to chat about in the morning. She shouted out loud, “Oh six-thirty tomorrow, Felix.” “Copy that Commander.”Probably what Control wanted to chat about in the morning. She shouted out loud, “Oh six-thirty tomorrow, Felix.” “Copy that Commander.” Chapter 2 Merry Christmas  The satellite-pilfering vehicle was owned and operated by Galaxy Recovery, Inc. The company specialized in capturing useless space junk and parceling it out on Mother Earth, reaping millions. Lieutenant Sun Jin-Sinclair considered GRI to be the used spacecraft division of the aerospace industry. Not that she would had ever suggested their craft was held together with duct tape. But the company she had contracted with used a novel business plan of employing ‘rescued’ technology on any structures they manufactured.  That included the ‘Buccaneer Three’ in which the fireplug of a scientist was floating. After surviving her first month of puking, anti-gravity pooping, and cramped quarters, she was happily occupied by the mission’s experiments in the science bay. Beams from four white pin-lights glanced her pixy length purple hair and called attention to her her bright pink sweatsuit in the cramped compartment. She was examining two tanks of fetid brown water. One held exotic boy and girl sea creatures. The other, a solitary golden dwarf moray eel. She had gotten used to the routine and the smell. Working in space? Not her favorite posting ever. She did, however, relish the solitude. She was logging energy readings from the other two experiments when she heard the civilian technician, Drew Raspin, clattering in the central tube. He was finishing his inspections and jostling his way toward her. He opened the rear hatch and floated in with an unsettling smirk. He was the All-American boy: young, tanned, square-jawed, cocky, and sporting an antique blond mullet that stuck straight up in zero gravity. He immediately wrapped his knuckles on the first fish tank. “I think your fish are dead, Lieutenant Jin-Sinclair…if they are fish?”  “They are fish, Raspin. And they are getting accustomed to life in outer space.” “They don’t look like no fish I’ve ever eaten…” Without looking up from her pad, Jin-Sinclair countered, “They were captured in the Mariana Trench. Surely, you've heard of that.” With an exasperated sigh, she Velcroed her pad to the hull next to the large red ‘Tank Discharge’ button. She then turned to the man to set him straight.  “And they are not mine. They belong to the Air Force. And the captain and I would be grateful if you stick to your end of the deal on this ‘trash tug’ as you call it. Neither the captain nor I have any dreams of spending a single sol on Mars.”  Drew had wide shoulders, but his stature was only centimeters more than hers. Meaning they were both all of five-foot nothing. His baby blue GRI jumpsuit chest pocket was full of pens and markers. She mused all he needed was a white pocket protector and broken eyeglasses to complete the nerd look. Unfortunately, there was not a molecule of scientific nerdiness in the hardheaded Neanderthal.  Drew smiled and said, “This scavenger gig is just a rung up the ladder for me…you two gals can keep your fish and gear. I’m scheduled for review the moment we touch down five months from now.” He tapped the second fish tank and taunted. “Future dinner for Mars? I hear the food up there is better than the slop we get on this hulk.” He swept his gloved hand over the red discharge button and teased, “Oops... frozen fish now…” She had had enough. She turned to Raspin and demanded, “Power meters?”  “77.6 percent. Good to go, Lieutenant,” he said, sarcastically emphasizing ‘Lieutenant.’ He then pushed off and floated back toward the stern of the spacecraft. She angrily smashed her fist against the hatch button. The divider slammed shut. “Asshole,” she said under her breath. The Lieutenant moved closer to the eels’ tank searching for movement. Nothing. She straightened up and tapped the heart rate monitor. It was alive in there somewhere. Her concern evaporated when the forward hatch whisked open and her partner from the United States Air Force Reserve Command floated in.  “What a maroon,” joked Jin-Sinclair. “five more months with that animal. God help us, Penny.”  “He’s jealous of your fish, Sonny. What’s our status?”  Captain Penny Maxwell was a tall glass of cold water. She was a slender, serious, unflinching, and by-the-book woman. Sonny pointed to the fish tank and said, “I wish he’d quit disturbing Lucy and Ricky.” Penny chuckled and asked, “What’s the eel’s name?”  “Drew.” They both laughed. The rapid ticking continued as she noted the Mariana snailfish’s heart rate. “Still plugging along,” said Sonny. “Poor things. So far from home. By the way, we’ve got a real spinner ahead. It’s that Chinese heap.” Just then, they were bathed in a pulsing red light as alarm bells started ringing. The spacecraft’s calm, female computer voice echoed throughout the vessel, “Proximity Alert…Proximity Alert…”  “It’s probably nothing. Get his highness on it,” instructed Captain Maxwell. Sonny pushed a button on the comm center to her right, “Raspin, this is for you.” Drew immediately floated for his domain: the rear remote-retrieval module. He slid into the retrieval bay chair and took the controls. Through the curved glass extension, even he had to appreciate the breathtaking nighttime view of Earth’s sparkling city lights. He was ready for action.  GRI’s Buccaneer Three was the size of a Navy Phantom Class submarine. At the stern of the ship were the ten round rescue pods. Each was wrapped in gold Kapton to protect them from the harmful rays of the sun. They created a magnificent golden mountain range against the black expanse of space. Pod Number One was the crew’s escape pod. They named it R2.  Sonny floated through the forward hatch to the Bridge. She strapped into the copilot chair, logged in, and quickly overrode the alarm. The bells mercifully stopped. She could finally think. Calmly, she commanded the computer. “VRP please.” The Virtual Reality Projection bubble blinked as it popped on. A modest sense of control buoyed her as the video feeds from outside the craft were projected across the light blue walls of the bubble. “Proximity alert object, please,” she instructed.  Immediately, a green graph glimmered on the wall to her left. It looked like a radar scope from World War II. Clearly, Galaxy had spared no expense on that crusty accumulation of floating spare parts.  The threatening object in question was blinking on the upper right of the radar screen. She flipped on the spacecraft address system and spoke. “Bearing zero, seven, two. Range ten miles and heading away. False alarm. Yer off the hook, Mister Martian.”  Captain Maxwell glided into the pilot’s chair next to Sonny and tethered herself in. She checked her instrument readout and summoned GRI Ground Control. “Ground…Buck Three.”  “Control here. Roger.” The Cap Con dude popped onto the bubble wall. He was round and bald with a full black ’stash and beard. He pushed his thick black glasses back with his forefinger as Captain Maxwell continued. “Proximity alert…false alarm. Object is moving away from us.” “That’s affirmative, Buccaneer Three. You are coming up on Satellite 729 delta dash 20 at your nine. Prepare to engage.”  Captain Maxwell commanded the spacecraft’s computer. “Show sat 729, please.” The image switched to the aft of the spacecraft. Sonny checked her readout and said, “Copy. Sat 729 in sight. Bearing zero one zero. Range five hundred yards. We see rotation exceeding 360 RPM. Copy?”  Maxwell shared a concerned look with her copilot and said, “Request permission to use non-neutronium injection.” The spacecraft’s internal sound system crackled. “Buck Three…Control. Copy that. We confirm.”  “Roger…Buccaneer Three out,” said Maxwell while flipping the off switch. The bearded dude blinked away. Maxwell then spoke into the ship’s comms for Raspin to hear. “We’ve got a real spinner out there. This is going to be a little delicate. We’ve been cleared to use non-neutronium injection.” “That’s a cinch,” bragged the engineer. “But we’ve never had one spinning this fast,” replied Sonny. “I’ve been checking the numbers. At that speed, the ballast may solidify so fast it could destroy the package.”  “And, Mr. Engineer,” said Penny. “we may lose our bounty. Four hundred and fifty grams of reclaim gold alone. What will China say then? Thirty-five million units down the drain.” His somber reply bounced off the walls. “Great. And no commission for us.” He may have finally understood.  Penny switched the interior comms off and said, “Sonny, I think we should adjust the flow. What’s the grab distance? Let’s take a gander.” Penny tapped a button and the spinning dot appeared on the large cabin readout. Another tap, and the dot magnified. “There it is,” chimed Penny.  “That is spinning crazy,” replied Sonny. Behind them, they could see Raspin approaching cautiously. He pushed his head inside the bubble. “Grab and go. Easy peasy,” he suggested.  The satellite’s out-of-control spinning was mesmerizing. Sonny looked at Drew and said, “One mistake and Galaxy Recovery Incorporated will be vacuuming up pieces of us. Or, if this goes sideways, that bird could fly off into space all the way to Betelgeuse.”  “Copy that,” he reluctantly agreed.  Captain Maxwell adjusted the radar scope. The green dot blinking near the top of the graph showed their bounty. Suddenly, a green square appeared at the bottom. Sonny noticed the strange pattern and lilted, “Hello?” She inspected the bright green object. The anomaly seemed to skip a beat. Then it blinked out…then it reappeared. Sonny turned to the engineer. “Drew, this radar screen is on the fritz again. Can you check the baselines please?” “Instrumentation?” asked Penny. “Possibly. Bearing one, nine, zero. Range five miles.” The three of them watched as their new problem slowly expanded to the full width of the radar scope. It appeared to be miles wide. “What the hell?” asked Drew.  “Copy. Switching to IR,” said Sonny. “Bearing one, eight, zero. Range four miles now.” She flipped the switch and watched eagerly as a new image labeled INFRARED materialized to her right. Sat 729 was in the upper field and was blinking from red to orange to red. The unknown at the bottom of the screen had turned a bright royal blue.  “Checking bogey at our six,” said Maxwell. “Range three point five miles. Sonny, check the sat atlas again. What we got tailing us?”  “Whatever it is, the bastard is dead.” “Drew…check guidance below…please.” “Aye, Captain,” said Drew as he exited the bubble. He then slid down into what on Earth would have been a hole in the ground.  “It’s gaining,” said Sonny with urgency. The captain stiffened in her chair and said, “I see it.” She flipped the voice-activated comms on. “GRI control, Buck Three.” The captain’s voice cracked as her speech sped up. “We’ve got a bogey up here! Do you have anything in our sector?” The bearded dude popped back on. He was looking down at his readouts. “Copy that Buck Three. Checking NASA and Space Command.”  Sonny then reached for the joystick. She swiveled the rear camera to focus on the unknown. Gleaming in the distance was a silvery band at the bottom of the picture. It looked enormous. Sonny mumbled to herself, “What in the name of…”  A moment later, Cap Comm responded, “Buck Three. Ground control. That’s a negative.”  “What? That’s infuckingpossible!”shouted Sonny. “Range now three hundred yards!” Just then, the bearded man blinked off and the blue bubble around the Captain and Sonny dissolved. Sonny quickly let go of the joystick and panted, “I didn’t do it…”  Penny attempted to remain calm, “Ground, we’ve lost AI. Sonny, check VRP.” “I got nothing.”  “Going to auxiliary…” The second Penny flicked the switch on her board, the cabin running lights blinked out. All that was left were the hundreds of tiny LED indicator lights on the instrument panels. Tensions were rising fast.  “Must be a short circuit. Used crap, all of it!” complained Sonny. She punched her microphone. “Control. We have aux failure. Do you have anything?” She unbuckled, grabbed a handhold, and pushed herself to the rear porthole. She peered out beyond the golden mountain range and declared, “Penny, that thing is huge. Range…one-hundred yards.” Penny raised her voice slightly. “Ground…do you read? Object closing. Please confirm.” “Buck Three, ground… zzz zzzz p p p p p p p.” The cabin speaker was spitting static. Maxwell reached over her head to the panel of switches. “Switching to manual.” Sonny frantically shouted to below deck. “Drew, override! We are flying blind!” Drew popped his head up into the cabin and shouted, “Who’s trying to snake our mission?”  “Nobody,” barked Sonny. “That thing could swallow us whole if it wanted to.”  Suddenly, the cabin went silent, and all their instrument lights went out. They were frozen in total blackness. Then, with a soft murmur, the emergency lights turned on, providing partial light. As the slow, whirling hum got louder, Maxwell shouted, “Get below, Raspin! Check all backups.” His head had just disappeared when the emergency lights also dimmed out. Total silence. No light at all. Their spaceship was dead. Perfect.  “Peel, stow, and drop people. Suit up now,” said Maxwell as she grabbed her LED flashlight. Nothing.  “Batteries dead,” she said. She put her hand into a pouch hanging to her right and pulled out a handful of eight-inch-long plastic tubes. She bent two of them in half, releasing the bright iridescent green liquid. She gave Sonny a handful.  “Click…click…click.”  The two women’s faces were blush with instant green chemical luminescence. They dropped into the blacked-out cabin below. The green glow showed Raspin was already hanging in his suit. He was visibly shaken as he lifted his face shield while struggling with his iconic Snoopy cap.  “What is with these fucking caps? They never fit.” The two women quickly joined in suiting up. Penny pushed her comm button. Nothing. She lifted her faceplate. “Oxygen generators are dead. Helmets open.”  Drew finally centered the wide, white stripe of his communication headgear when he shuddered, “What is happening? Did we get hit?” Maxwell handed him two glow tubes and said, “Doubtful. Everything is dead. Here…break these.” Drew broke them both. His white Snoopy cap stripe turned the brilliant green. Sonny flipped her face plate up and yanked on her Snoopy cap. Penny pushed toward the hatch and said, “R2…now people.”  The three surfaced to the upper module and began to head down the access tube. Sonny noted her fish tanks and said, “What the hell?” The experiments had stopped. Penny grabbed Sonny’s epaulets, dragging her forward. “No power,” she reminded her. “pod one…now, please.”  They reached the circular door with a large number 1 emblazoned on it. Raspin opened the hatch. They floated in. Maxwell hit the auxiliary switch. Zip. Raspin slammed the hatch closed and moaned, “Shit birds. These cheap-ass corporate scum.”  The three of them watched helplessly as four glow sticks floated silently in the airtight pod. Three bright green forehead stripes glowed in the dark. The three castaways looked at each other. Their environmental suits were dead. Soon, they would be dead.  Maxwell hit her comm button. “Mayday! Mayday! This is Golf Romeo Three. Mayday! This is Golf Romeo Three. We are out of power. Anyone receiving this on any frequency please respond.” Raspin pointed to the captain and with a slight shudder in his voice, he tried to reestablish his engineering prowess. “No worries,” he said. “This pod can keep us alive.” Penny agreed. “Yes. We should be able to survive in this for a week. We will have to strap on oxygen to work. Raspin, you are gonna’ have to manually generate some power so we can get comms back.” He shook his head in disbelief. This was not how any of them had intended to die.  “This sucks. Best guess?” he asked. “Electronic Magnetic Pulse maybe,” said Penny, almost to herself. She then declared, “We’re gonna’ sit tight and figure this out. We will work the problem, folks.”  “How?” Raspin said in frustration. Penny was silent. Her mind was racing to come up with an answer when R2’s instrument lights popped on. The unmistakable whirl of computers booting, and the sweet smell of ozone was a relief.  “Much better,” said Penny with a glimmer of hope in her voice. “How the hell did you manage that?” joked Sonny. Raspin hit the switch next to the hatch and the sphere’s interior lighting almost blinded them. They sat in silence as the hum increased throughout the spaceship.  “So much for EMP,” said Sonny. Penny nodded yes. She then tried to raise Galaxy Recovery. “Ground…Buccaneer Three. Do you read us?” Ground control crackled in her earpiece. “Buccaneer Three…Ground control…we copy. Status check.” “Roger, ground. All systems are green.” She then spoke out loud. “Checking telemetry. Copy?” “You are right on the line, Buck Three.” “Switching to secure channel.” Control replied, “Copy…on our mark…mark.” Penny motioned Raspin to open the hatch. He pushed himself out into the central tube. Sonny floated out next and held on to the hatch opening as Penny spoke into her Snoopy microphone, “We have mission clearance, copy?” His muffled reply could be heard from Penny’s earpiece. “Copy. You are a go for the next twenty-four hours.”  “We were eighty-sixed up here,” said Penny. “We had an unknown tailing us. Are you tracking it? Copy?” “Buck Three, ground. That is a negative.” Eavesdropping, Sonny swung back inside the pod and said, “That is bullshit!” The captain waved her hand to shush her as she replied, “Look, somebody was messing with us. We lost all control. Now…you and I know who’s doing this. We want to file an immediate article 520 slash B complaint to Space Command. Copy?” “Roger, Buck Three. We will review. All tracking negative.” Penny shrugged her shoulders at Sonny and said, “Buck Three out.” The speaker clicked off. Sonny pushed closer to Penny and said softly, “If an EMP had hit us, everything would have been fried. So, what was that?”  “Good question,” deadpanned Penny. Raspin leaned through the open hatchway and snapped, “It’s the god-damn E-T’s. We all know that.” Penny ignored him and ordered, “Let’s get out of this pod. Raspin, you check comms and power. Sonny, let's head up front.” “Roger that,” said Sonny. The three of them began heading for the bridge. As they floated into the science bay, Sonny stopped in horror and pointed to the fish tanks and said, “Look, no readings. Flatlined.” Raspin moved to the speaker to listen for the telltale clicking. “Nothing…sorry kid,” he said. “Guess we’ll have to survive on powdered cod.” He moved his hand over the discharge button and threatened. “Preparing to jettison.” “Not until I can double check what happened,” fumed Sonny.  “They stink bad enough now. Time to add them to the list of garbage in orbit.” Penny slapped him on his chest. “A little trigger happy there Rambo? Look at the energy monitors. Something sent those graphs off the scale. This is bizarre. We need a full accounting.” The Captain then commanded, “The complete checklist. Double check everything. We don’t need any more surprises. You two break out the pads. Examine all fuses, all circuits, all telemetry, and all radar. Let’s review every system on this bag of bolts. Get it all in writing. Now. Somebody is going to pay for this. And it ain’t going to be me. Helmets off, suits on. Just in case the…anomaly reappears.” The three were communicating via their Snoopy caps. Penny and Sonny were in the VRP bubble checking every system. Raspin was at the back of the ship reviewing his auxiliary checklist. Everything seemed unaffected. They spent the next three hours scouring every nook and cranny of the ship when ground control popped on.  Blinking on the bubble was the latest GRI college intern. A blond hair, blue eyed, fresh-as-a-daisy, full-breasted, Cap-Comm female. Her nasal voice echoed throughout the craft. “Galaxy Recovery vehicle Three we have a message from the National Security Agency.” Sonny shot a look at Penny and mouthed, “N S A?” “Copy ground. Go ahead,”said Penny. “Mission for Sat 729 Delta dash 20 has been scrubbed.” “Say again control?” “Effective immediately, the back-up crew is in transit to liftoff at 09:00 hours PCT. Captain Maxwell, Lieutenant Jin-Sinclair, and crewperson Raspin, you have been relieved of your commissions. You will be transported to the Los Angeles base for debriefing immediately upon descent to the GRI platform. Prepare to be boarded. Ground out.” Silence. Sonny ripped her cap off and bounced it off her control board. “Well, crap! I am totally not ready to be back on earth this soon.” She closed her eyes and said, “I’ve sub-let my place. All my shit is in storage.”  “Same,” said Penny. Sonny’s mind was racing. “I want to stay up here,” she said earnestly. “Here. Alone. Almost…” Penny grabbed Sonny’s floating cap, handed it back, and said, “Prepare to be boarded.” Sonny’s fish were dead, and her energy monitoring graphs had been red-lined. She knew exactly what had happened, so she shouted in frustration, “Merry fucking Christmas! Every fucking one!”