1
Colorado Springs, CO
4 November 2010
1633 Hours Mountain Time
Cherko slid to a stop in the garage, alongside Erica’s 2001 Honda.
He wasn’t... right.
Something was terrible wrong with him, he felt it, and it made him sick to his stomach.
What had just happened?
Cherko hit the garage door switch as he entered the house.
“Erica! Erica!”
No answer. But he saw the message light blinking on the answering machine.
The thought did people still use these things? entered his mind, but he dismissed it.
Cherko rushed past the message machine, up a short flight of stairs, then hooked a sharp right to enter the third floor of the tri-level... and ran smack into a wall.
“What the—”
He backed up; touched the unexpected barrier.
A wall where stairs should be! There used to be an upstairs hallway right here!
Cherko shook his head.
“Erica!” he continued calling into the wall. He spun around, again calling her name, and again returned to the wall...
And found a hallway.
One that led to their bedroom and back office.
Without another thought he shot up the stairs, down the hall, and into what should have been Erica’s home office.
But no Erica.
He spun around.
It wasn’t even her office... but a spare room.
Had the house shrunk while he’d been gone?
Was he losing his mind?
“Erica! Where the hell—”
He hurried to their bedroom.
No Erica.
Looked in her closet.
Empty.
Went to his closet.
Clothes.
Spun around to the bed.
There were no pictures of either himself nor Erica. The bedroom was sparse, only basic nightstands, lamps, and a phone. No pictures. No closet full of women’s clothing.
No Erica!
Cherko left the room and hurried back down the hallway, down both sets of stairs, past the still blinking answering machine, and out into the garage.
And no 2001 Honda.
Only his vehicle.
His legs buckled and he grabbed hold of the railing. Slowly backing out of the garage he reentered the basement living room.
“What... what have I... what’s—”
But the words didn’t form... wouldn’t form. Wouldn’t leave his brain nor reach his mouth. Forming them—giving his crazy thoughts validity—would mean there was something wrong. Not right. That there was—and most probably never had been—any Erica at all.
“But I remember her... met her at the apartment complex...”
Cherko closed the door as he continued to slowly back into the living room.
The answering machine’s message light continued to blink.
Who used these things anymore?
He did.
He went to the machine and hit play. It beeped twice, then clicked off. No message.
Cherko stabbed “Erase.” Stared at the machine.
Erase.
He closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck.
That bump was still there.
Was his life being erased?
What had happened at that shrink’s office? What the hell had been done to him?
Cherko snatched the cordless phone, hit “Talk,” and put it to his ear.
Silence.
“Who’s there?” he asked. “Who’s out there, goddammit?”
More silence.
He tossed the phone onto the stand. Looked to his office.
His manuscript. His story. He had a manuscript to finish.
Was the story real?
That’s what the shrink implied.
Were UFOs real?
He’d supposedly just been in one, though he’d been barreling down Austin Bluffs like everyone else. Almost hit another car. Had pulled into the garage alongside his wife’s car. A car that no longer existed and that had belonged to a woman who also no longer—if ever—existed.
Except for his story.
He entered his office.
That was still there.
His laptop was on.
Cherko sat behind the desk.
What was his manuscript about?
Right. A guy who never quite got what he wanted out of life, but who seemed to have gotten into some very big trouble with the government. A guy who was supposed to be in his future.
A guy... who seemed to be him.
If any of this was true... even a little patch of it... and he was writing it... could he change things? Write how he wanted things to turn out? Hadn’t that been what he’d been doing all this time?
It wasn’t like he’d been writing about this with the thought—the intent—to change the outcome of his life. He’d just been doing what had come naturally... an organic science fiction creation using events from his own life.
Or had it been his life that had been using events from his manuscript?
Cherko began typing....
“I’m afraid.”
“Of what?” Eurphraeus asked.
“I don’t know. There’s something about what happens next... I’m not sure I want to find out.”
“It has already occurred, has it not?”
“Yes.”
“You are who you are, where you are—now—correct?”
“Am I?”
“Then what is there to fear? What is done... is done. You are where you are—”
“Does this place seem smaller to you?”
“It possesses the same dimensions it has always possessed. It is what it is.”
Cherko shivered.
“That race, the one of... She... they are in our future?”
“They are.”
“Were they really just trying to help?”
“Yes.”
“How do you fit into all this?”
“You must first go where you fear to go, James.”
“No one calls me that.”
“No, no one does.”
“I’m feeling rather claustrophobic.”
“It will pass.”
Cherko looked nervously about the module.
“Something isn’t right in here.”
“No, something is not.”
Captain Cherko lay on a narrow slab composed of deep blue flecks within some weirdly translucent material. All worry, all stress immediately evaporated from him. He felt something very much like a magnet running throughout his body, and at a cellular-level. It was extremely prickly, almost painful, like a severely cranked ultrasound machine. Colors assaulted him, shades of colors he’d never known existed, symbols and numbers. Good God, he saw it all...
Just before he blacked out.
* * *
Cherko stood in a chamber that seemed all too familiar. A table was off to his right, a prone form upon it. An open drawer was at his feet at the base of a nearby wall.
Something just didn’t feeeel right.
He looked around the dimly lit chamber. Images... so much more intense, brighter. He felt... different. Not bad different, just... different different.
Not all there.
Light... wispy... agile. Had a severe case of feeling quite beside himself. A disquieting sensation of feeling... unseated. Loose, as if he wore clothing several sizes too large—
This will pass.
He turned.
That will pass, She again said.
My hands feel—
Cherko froze. His hands—there were only four digits!
Cherko brought the hands—his hands!—up before him.
Hands that only had four digits and were thin and slender and greenish gray!
What have you done to me!
Cherko advanced on She. Clumsy and dizzy, he almost tripped over the open drawer.
We are in the process of completing your training, Captain.
What training?
As Cherko moved he felt his limbs flop about as if they’d fallen asleep. Cherko—at least he thought he was Cherko—bumped up against the wall.
We have incorporated your consciousness into the form we wear. The form we use in exploring your corporeal existence.
Cherko jumped back. As clumsy as he behaved, he was amazed at the agility he now possessed. There was all this speed with hardly any mass.
She continued. We have been training your mind since before you were born. In utero.
Cherko looked to his arms, his legs; looked to them as if separated from them... fascinated at the—pardon the pun—alien feel to them. Waved them in the air about him, “testing” them. He still felt as if he were trying to control sleep-deadened limbs in apparel two-sizes too large, but was now more fascinated by the experience than afraid. The tingling sensations quickly gave way to feeling and control. He touched his face with the long, slender, four-digit, appendages. Looked to the mesh-like composition of his new skin.
How is this possible?
What we are is far more than corporeal composition, but to travel within your framework requires such a form. A physical form. This is what we use, as you use clothing. Our state of existence is so dissimilar from your own that this form assists us to better interrelate to your state of existence on many levels beyond the obviously physically humanoid appearance.
Where is my body? Cherko asked.
It is in a stasis condition similar to that of sleep, She stood aside and directed a hand to the prone form on the narrow table.
For all practical purposes—to him.
Cherko, still somewhat clumsily, approached his body.
It is held under a localized energy field that allows it to exist while your consciousness travels elsewhere.
How do you do this? Cherko asked. He looked to his form. On the table.
Him.
Like a curious dog he cocked his head side to side. It lent a peculiar out-of-body sensation as he looked to his sleeping form. “He” breathed slowly, very slowly, rhythmically, in his olive drab flight suit. The name “Cherko” on his flight suit felt nostalgically distant. He looked to the senior space badge insignia sewn over his left-chest pocket (and unconsciously touched his current left breast area), and his silver-pipinged blue flight cap stuffed into his flight-suit pocket at his left calf.
This is me? Cherko asked.
To be precise, it is the form you wore.
Cherko brought his face closer to his sleeping body. His shell. Touched the body before him.
This was him... yet not....
He brought the same hand to his new body.
His mind felt a longing attachment to that prone form before him, but felt a part of the form he was currently inhabiting as well. A bastardized definition of bilocation. His mind still felt the attachment to the him on the slab—the only lifelong intimacy of flesh he’d ever known—but also couldn’t deny the experience of standing outside himself, in this other... existence.
Gave new meaning to out-of-body experiences.
That is what this really was. A Frankenstein’s monster transfer in the oddest of parodies. He looked to the hand that had touched both forms. That four-fingered appliance.
Yes, appliance.
The shift in consciousness into your current form is much more than a physical bilocation, She said. As you are discovering—or rediscovering—it is a far more foundational paradigm shift. It involves, in your terms, a mental, emotional, and psychic shift. A creation of additional neuronal pathways not only in the form you are inhabiting, but also upon your return into your indigenous casing. When you return you will be—as you are now—more than you were when you first departed.
Cherko looked to She.
I’m not sure I—
You will assimilate as you experience.
Cherko stepped away from the table. Gave himself a really good once over, twisting and examining arms, legs... feeling his head and neck. Though the neck was slender in appearance, it was more than adequate in function. There was little mass to these bodies, but quite enough strength. The oversized feeling of wearing “clothing” too large for him was now all but gone. He began to feel more comfortable in his own... skin.
Clichés.
He looked down between his legs.
There is no need for genitalia. Nor will you find a digestive system. Our forms have no need for either.
Then how do they work? Bodies—as I, we Humans, understand them—require energy sources of some kind, assimilation of energy, its elimination. How do they operate if they don’t “eat” in some form—
Part of the difficulty in our two Races communicating is the fact that we communicate in completely different baselines—alphabets, if you will. There are certain things we cannot adequately communicate to your Race, because your Race does not yet possess the necessary neural structure and development to conceptualize our responses. There is no... “Rosetta Stone”... for which your Race can relate... translate. In the most simplest of responses, our forms operate off the energy of life itself, much like your Earth is heated not only from your Sun but through the internal heat of your planet’s molten core. Think of our energy as a battery. The life of each of your Race’s cells operate on the same level, if you remove the consumable structure of food and water. This appears contradictory, but it is the closest I can come to describing our form’s function. Some in your world are approaching this concept, calling it hyperdimensional physics.
It almost makes sense. Cherko felt what equated to a smile from She.
So, if you are so advanced why do you even need a body?
We do not require use of corporeal composition, it is an option to our existence and better focuses our consciousness. Consciousness and form—matter—are different forms of the same energy. Taking on the physical “suit” of the body better focuses our consciousness into corporeal existence. We use it to certain advantages previously described, mainly as a cooperative mechanism in which to interface with your Race. But as we use this form, we also use forms you cannot see, due to your specifically focused perceptions.
You’re doing other things in other forms as we speak?
Our interaction necessitates addressing these other forms in order to co-operate. It is like you looking at yourself, but also looking at an x-ray, or thermal view of yourself as well. It’s all you, but you only perceive a specific wavelength of view.
Can you—slip, as you call it—other humans into your form like this?
We have guided you through your life in an attempt to expand your growth. It takes careful... instruction... to perform in this manner. It is not something that is entered into lightly, to use your terms. Human composition—its mind, on the whole—is not prepared, nor structured for what we have performed with you. You are... an exception. An engineered consideration. What we have chosen to do is dangerous if not properly, meticulously, performed. It has never been performed on anyone else of your Race. We have done this to you once before, have erased its memory for obvious reasons. This is your second time in this form. You are performing remarkably well, but your mind has been carefully groomed over the course of your lifetime. We have given you increased... attention. We could not do this to just anyone in your line of consciousness. But, when something is done to any of your Race, all of your Race benefit. There are subtle levels of communication performed, new neurological pathways opened and addressed. Shared.
Now... please follow us.
The screen—or false—memory to Colonel “Buzz” Hanscomb, as he piloted the X-30 trans-atmospheric vehicle toward orbit injection, was that he and Major Bill, “Skunk,” Anderson were about to execute an experimental sequence of events: piloting an air-breathing aircraft into space. Clad in their silvery pressurized astronaut suits, they cross-checked and verified all system configurations against checklists. Major Anderson, strapped in behind Hanscomb, confirmed all systems were a “go” for orbit injection. Hanscomb radioed Groom Lake.
At least that was what Colonel Hanscomb remembered.
What had actually occurred, however, was that Colonel Hanscomb had been alone in that TAV’s cockpit.
He’d made that trans-atmospheric trajectory into orbit solo, and had been ready to deliver a payload secreted away in the belly of his hybrid platform. A payload that contained Major Bill Anderson, and to which Colonel Hanscomb had had no knowledge. The payload, an unmanned space vehicle, was anything but unmanned. The USV—this USV—was an X-variant. A manned mini-capsule that was moments short of destruction. Faulty engine design would have been the destruction’s cause. This USV configuration was designed to insert a human into orbit, specifically, to the ERO manned orbiting laboratory.
“Roger, Star Bright, you’re cleared for injection,” had been Ground Control’s response.
“Copy.”
Hanscomb flicked up the red-guarded switch protection cap on his fly-by-wire stick that would have activated orbit injection. Once in orbit, he was to release his payload.
Hanscomb flicked the switch and was slammed back into his seat. Before he knew it, blue sky had been replaced with black space, and Hanscomb was able to see on-orbit air glow.
“Ground, orbit injection confirmed,” Hanscomb relayed.
Hanscomb looked outside his suddenly hushed cockpit.
“Control, Star Bright; preparing payload release.”
“Roger, Star Bright.”
Hanscomb was just about to initiate payload release when all the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
Both Buzz and Skunk should have gone up in a brilliant star light, star bright silent flash had not something else also been watching and tracking their progress—and inhibiting their memories.
* * *
Cherko-as-alien was led through the ship by She and the attendant. Its curved corridors were narrow and small... perfectly sized for the alien form, a form, Cherko also noticed, that glided surprisingly quick and gracefully. And as he was guided through the ship, he noticed feeling much more at ease within his new form. And he still felt a curious link back to his other body.
Okay, that last thought was just weird.
His real body. A part of his mind objected, while another part seemed to accept this new form as uniquely “his.” It was an unnerving psychic construct.
There is, indeed, a link back to your body, She assured as they walked.
Link?
Each inhabited body is uniquely attuned to the consciousness in which it inhabits. The mind and body both work on each other to focus each other. It is a universal constant, if you will. Each cell possesses a cellular consciousness. There are no “dead” cells. It is an impossibility. When your consciousness inhabits a form, yours or any other, it merges with that consciousness and forever changes it. Matter’s consciousness changes the consciousness that inhabits it. It is unavoidable and natural. Like any other event you experience in your Human line of consciousness, you are never the same after any experience. All things change all things, and change is constant. In all multiverses.
Why are you—why all this—me?
Cherko felt an amused avoidance of the question. They came to a door and stopped. She and attendant turned to Cherko.
In this room is yet another experience. You are to remain quiet. Merely observe. Reasons for this encounter may not appear immediately evident, but you must trust us. You will find that one of the abilities of inhabiting our form is its immediate continence. You can direct yourself to perform a function and it is much more easily regulated. We ask that you regulate yourself in this manner.
Understood.
She and attendant approached the door, which opened by a sudden decomposition of sorts, as parts of the door pulled apart to open and they all passed through. Cherko-as-alien looked back to the door as it closed behind them and watched it recompose, as those same parts came back together again.
Inside, Cherko found a darkened room and an immediate sense of relief. There was an incredible sense of calm and relaxation.
And there were forms in this room.
Upright and on narrow tables similar to that which his other form currently resided.
Human forms.
Cherko remained behind She and attendant. What was the attendant’s name, Cherko wondered, and was immediately supplied a name that was best represented as “Qxuill.”
Cherko followed She and Qxuill into the room, passing the humans lying on the narrow slabs. As Cherko passed them, he looked to them. One stared straight up into the chamber’s ceiling, but as Cherko’s alien eyes diverted to the other, the one closest to him, a female, he was surprised to see she looked directly at him. Tracked him as he made his way past her.
“Help me....”
Cherko sensed her fear. He extended an alien hand to the woman, and with it, found (since he wasn’t supposed to speak) he directed an additional sense of calm to her. A feeling that everything would be all right, and that there was no need to worry. No need to fear.
Then he touched her.
He saw the woman close her eyes; felt her settle into an even more tranquil state of mind.
Cherko continued onward with She and Qxuill, who, he also noticed, had observed his actions.
I said nothing, Cherko sent, amused with himself. He sensed a translated feeling of “okay” return from She.
They came upon the other Humans who sat toward the rear of the chamber. They sat on blocks—seats—that extended from the walls themselves. They all appeared slowed... confused. Cherko recognized two men in silver astronaut suits. She and Qxuill stopped before these two. Cherko saw images of the two men flying an experimental aircraft... no, it was more than an aircraft... it was a trans-atmospheric platform.
We trust you are both well, She addressed.
The colonel, “Buzz” Hanscomb, Cherko discovered, got to his feet.
“We are.”
The other officer, Major Bill Anderson, remained seated, staring off into space.
We are sorry about your vehicle’s destruction, She continued. Your engine and payload designs were faulty.
“Payload? What payload?” Hanscomb said. “I was the pilot, I’d know if something was—”
There was a payload installed the previous night?
Hanscomb paused. “Yes... a laser range finder package. But that was an experimental package... to range satellites on-orbit.” Hanscomb looked to Cherko. Cherko found he knew all kinds of things about the Colonel. That he had been top of his Elizabethtown, N.Y. high school class, had been in the Civil Air Patrol as a kid. Top of his class at the Air Force Academy. Top ratings as both a pilot and test pilot. Had a huge love for biplanes. Father had flown B-17s in WWII, his grandfather had flown Nieuport 28s in WWI. Twice divorced. Three kids. Flying was his life’s blood.
Cherko then directed his attention to Anderson. The Major was a different story. He was a bookworm, a religious man. A Flight Engineer. Flying was a necessary part of his job—which he loved—but he was into the engineering end of things, not so much piloting. He’d also been at the top of his schooling, including Flight Test school and engineering operations. But he identified more with slide rules and engineering schema than flying. Flying was not his life’s blood.
And he was scared.
He also loved baseball, an avid Red Sox fan (the Sox... founded in 1901, originally known as the Boston Americans... played the first World Series against the Pittsburgh Pirates in 1903—and won... took the World Series in 1912, 1915, 1916, and 1918... since then—and largely attributed to the “Curse of the Bambino”—have been in one of the longest championship droughts in history...).
Yes, he knew baseball.
It was told to you that it was, She continued to Hanscomb, But it was actually a test delivery platform to an orbiting spy observatory.
“A spy space station?”
Yes. An agency of which you have no knowledge.
Cherko picked up on this agency. He was very familiar with it.
Hanscomb looked to Cherko. Cherko felt that Hanscomb sensed a familiarity about him. Cherko knew they didn’t know each other, but what Hanscomb was sensing, was, indeed, Cherko. The human Cherko... the part of him that was human. Hanscomb kept looking between She and Qxuill and Cherko as they conversed.
“Why should I believe you? You’re the one holding me prisoner,” Hanscomb quipped.
You are not a prisoner. We are holding you because your vessel was destroyed. We could have allowed you both to perish with its destruction.
Hanscomb paused. Looked back to Anderson, who continued to stare at the floor.
“What have you done to him?” Hanscomb asked.
He is having difficulty assimilating where he is and what’s happened. He is certain he must have died. There is no other logical solution in his mind. Because of his religious faith, he feels that he must be in some kind of a purgatory because he can’t possibly believe all this has happened as it has been experienced.
Hanscomb continued to stare at who he’d thought had been his Flight Engineer. On the ground. Cherko could feel Hanscomb’s gears turning. The practical Test Pilot weighing all the data and making decisions. Instantaneous, life-changing decisions. That was his life. Risks and decision-making.
“So, if you aren’t going to kill us—what’s next? I don’t suppose you can just send us back, huh?”
Unfortunately we cannot. Among other reasons are that it would bring about obvious and justifiable alarm within your government, since your total destruction was observed and recorded. But we will return you.
“How?”
We will reinsert you into your world... but the price is that you will not remember any of this, because we will insert you before any of this occurred.
“Time travel? For real? I’ll get to live my life over again?”
Cherko noted the excitement in Hanscomb’s voice. He was ready and willing to live his entire life over again in an instant, even if it meant going back through all he’d just been through.
We have already done that.
Not only did Hanscomb pause in mid thought—so did Cherko.
“Already done that?” Hanscomb looked between Cherko and Anderson.
She nodded. That is part of your Flight Engineer’s conundrum. Part of him remembers this as much as he denies the experience. In his terms, “it does not compute.” He is having great difficulty dealing with it. We allowed the original reinsertion. It was necessary for other reasons.
“It doesn’t make sense—”
It is hard to perfectly convey the true temporal aspects of reality without sounding contradictory in your terms.
Here Cherko picked up on one of those reasons She implied.
Him.
This was necessary, in no small part, as an instructional mechanism for him, Cherko saw. To see this. Be a part of this. Learn. He also picked up on that there were necessary links to both of the flight crew members for their own reasons, the threads of which he felt himself able to follow... but he instead returned to the conversation. This was another very interesting ability... the ability to follow lines of consciousness to their actual sources. A veritable mental—psychic—library.
“You really can travel though time?” Hanscomb asked.
This time we need to reinsert you both to another continuum. Another probability. We give you your choice as long as it does not impose upon the events that brought you here.
“Choice? Different continuums?”
Anderson looked up.
She, Qxuill, and Cherko observed the flyers.
You can pick an earlier or later future probability, an entirely different life path than you have currently followed. Anything that does not lead to the current time continuum.
“But... how is that possible? You can really do that?”
That, in your terms, you have no need-to-know. Please, make your decision, Colonel.
She looked to Anderson.
Major.
Hanscomb turned away and paced the chamber. Anderson looked back down to the floor, then to Hanscomb. Cherko knew Anderson wouldn’t pick a flying career. Twice was more than enough for him.
What would Cherko do if he had a chance to re-live life over again, let alone a third time? These two had lived their lives testing dangerous, experimental aircraft and “died” doing it. And when given a second chance, had done the exact same thing over again. Lived their lives twice. It was an incredible testament to their spirit.
And now they were being given that precious gift again.
Hanscomb came back to them. There was a fire and surety in his step.
“The future, well, for some strange reason, I’ve felt I’ve already lived as far into that as I care to go. And who’s to say, at that point, when you drop me off, that I didn’t originate back then and just got to visit now?
“High technology,” Hanscomb continued, “is exciting... but I want to fly. Really fly. Not the technology flying the craft, but me. I want gears and fabric, the feel of the wind in my face. I’ve lived more lives than any man should be allowed to.”
He looked to Anderson, who still stared at the floor.
Major? She asked.
“Baseball,” he said, still staring at the floor. He looked up to them. “I want to sell peanuts... and beer. At Fenway Park. I don’t ever want to fly again.”
She nodded. Without looking to Cherko, She and Qxuill turned and left. Cherko remained a moment longer, looking to Anderson then Hanscomb. Hanscomb looked excited. Paced with a look of epiphany on his face. When he saw Cherko still observing him, he approached.
“I feel as if I know you. You feel... familiar...,” Hanscomb said. Cherko stared back with his huge, deep, dark eyes.
Then left the room.