Deep magic second coll.., p.63
Deep Magic - Second Collection, page 63
part #2 of Deep Magic Collection Series
Coltrain smiled, “The land is recovering, but almost nobody knows this. Flight over the ten dead states is restricted to essential military trips – most of which are flown at high altitude and supersonic speeds. By limiting testing to this land and limiting the numbers of subjects initially allowed, I can further my research unimpeded. I am truly excited by the projections for splicing insect DNA and aquatic DNA. We are going to accomplish amazing things.”
The copter finished its loop around the valley, and its thrusters kicked in once more, jetting them back toward New Mexico.
Haskie drank the rest of his water. One last sand painting was beginning to come into focus, fitting into place like the final piece in a puzzle. He acted as though he was focused on the land below as he sent a text message to Zonnie with some flicking eye movements. Return in 30 minutes. Remember my video appointment in Shreveport at 6. He doubted his messages were being intercepted but knew they would be archived and could be obtained with public records requests in the future. He hoped Zonnie understood.
Roger.
“Will your test subjects be Native Americans?” Haskie asked.
“Only those who volunteer, but yes,” Coltrain said. “The splicing works far better on your people.”
“Do you know why that is?” Haskie’s eyes locked on Coltrain’s
“We have several theories but have not isolated the genetic markers that show why yet.”
“I have a theory if you’d like to hear it,” Haskie said, and he waited until Coltrain nodded before continuing. “Have you heard the stories of the Navajo Skinwalkers?”
“Yes, but I know very little of the traditional beliefs of your people.”
“You know little about that legend because Navajos don’t like to talk about skin walkers – mostly out of respect for our traditions, but also out of fear. We believe skin walkers have the power to turn into animals – and that the power is gained from dark places and practices. I believe Navajos are receptive to the DNA splicing with animals because we already have that potential in our genetic code.” The air temperature seemed to drop as Haskie spoke.
“I have not heard you embrace your tribal traditions before.” Coltrain’s hands trembled. “Are you saying that you think my work is evil?”
Haskie looked closer, expecting to smell fear, but the emotions coming from Coltrain were mixed. He smelled anger as strongly as fear. Haskie said, “Not exactly. But, I think my theory explains why your experiments work on Navajos much better than on other races. Then again, you spliced your own DNA, and I don’t know of any native blood in you.” His mind lingered on another veiled piece of advice from his Hatalii. A Yee Naaldlooshii, or skin walker, would return the tribes to their lands. Haskie had chilled at the mention of the name but had frozen to his core at the idea of a Yee Naaldlooshii being a blessing to his people.
“Are you going to sign the bill?” Coltrain asked, avoiding eye contact.
“I haven’t even read it yet.”
“Most senators I know rarely read the legislation they propose. You know what’s in it – I just told you.”
“I would like to read it, all the same.”
Coltrain leaned slightly away from Haskie. “Timing in these matters can be important. You are riding a popular wave having just been elected. Your chances of making change are much greater if you move quickly. I wanted to go over this with you the week before your swearing in, but you were unreachable for 10 days. What were you doing?”
“I wanted the blessing of my people, so I spent time with the tribal leaders. Without them, I would not have been elected.” Haskie gave Coltrain a long look before continuing. “I may be inclined to sign this act, but I want to add provisions that will help my people. First, the genetic coding restricting reproduction among hybrids will be phased out. I also want the dead states land where your testing occurs to be declared Navajo Land.”
“If the reproduction restriction is phased out, hybrid dogs’ maturity and reproduction rates would enable them to become the majority of U.S. citizens within three decades. If you think the small band of protestors you saw this morning was bad, wait until the seeds of fear are planted throughout society.”
“What if we include provisions for limited populations to have the restrictions removed in the dead states in conjunction with your testing?”
“That might work.” Coltrain nodded. “Our best bet is if we strike now, while you are in everyone’s mind. I will have my staff add the language with limited phasing out of reproduction restrictions and reservation status for the land under out labs in the dead states. But first, let’s have you sign the act before we land. I will run video of it, and we will land this bird with a leading story to release to the press. You can explain the compromise to the Haskie Act on video and we will release the final version of it, including your changes, on Monday.”
Haskie smelled a hint of nerves as Coltrain finished speaking, but he nodded his agreement. Coltrain’s concessions came easily, but perhaps the man was desperate to continue his research and would double-cross him before the bill became law. Coltrain tapped on the control screen, and soon, the green light of the video icon illuminated. Haskie recounted the amendments and made a dignified show of signing the act, then shaking Coltrain’s hand.
When Haskie finished, Coltrain clicked the video off and touched the audio link. “Notify the press that we will have an announcement when we land in 10 minutes.” He tapped the audio icon once more to close the connection.
“I have another question,” Haskie said. “If your work is truly designed to cure cancer, why are you using Navajo subjects? You know we have had almost no increase in cancer incidents since Yellowstone, yes?”
“That is precisely why I use Navajo subjects. If I can see why you’re resistant, and strengthen that resistance through animal splicing, then I can replicate the DNA coding in all races.”
Haskie chuckled, but it was under-toned with a growl. “That sounds convincing, but I think in your heart, you like to play god. The real truth is the protestor was right – you are like Dr. Moreau.”
Coltrain pulled away as Haskie’s words cut. The copter approached the compound, swinging around the heliport toward the crowd at the gates.
“How do you plan to get the votes in the Senate?” Haskie asked.
“I told you,” Coltrain said, hands clasping but not able to halt the tremble. “By having the experiments happen in the dead states.”
“Those dead states are sacred land to the tribes. I never much cared for the term dead states. But, even with that protection, you won’t have the votes.” Haskie scanned out the window and located the two drones flying above the crowd. “My Hatalii believes Yellowstone blew because it was the best way to return land and freedom to our people.”
The copter flew down toward the ground, aiming for an open area secured by Secret Service agents. The doors opened as it lowered to touch down.
Haskie saw the last sand painting image in his mind – himself, with perpendicular lines converging on his chest. Crosshairs. “To get the votes, you would need a precipitating event, such as an assassination of a popular figure – say a war hero newly elected to the senate.”
Coltrain shook his head but said nothing.
“That explains the crowd. Witnesses. Protestors to blame for my death.” Haskie looked down and saw a red dot on his chest beaming down from one of the drones. “That’s okay, boss. I too will need the death of a popular figure to provide the momentum needed for my legislation to pass.” He yelled out as loudly as he could, “Sniper!”
Haskie spun and leaned toward Coltrain, wrapping arms around the thin man. Haskie’s physique changed around his shoulder, shedding the human structure to become a dog’s shoulder. No. A wolf’s. The laser sight jerked to the spot on his shoulder where a laser magnet was sewn into the uniform. The senator positioned himself so that his shoulder was aligned with Coltrain’s chest just before the bullet ripped through his shoulder blade, and into the ambassador’s heart. Haskie cried out, “We’ve been shot!” His back and shoulders shifted again, transforming back into the dog/Navajo hybrid. The wound burned like a red ember lodged under the skin, but Haskie could already feel the sinews knitting together.
Zonnie leaned across the trunk of the Chrysler, sighting his .50 caliber sniping rifle upon the drone that had shot Haskie. The magnet on his friend’s shoulder would only draw the laser sight once. If the drone got off another shot, Haskie might die. Zonnie measured a breath and squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out, echoing off the Organ Mountains, and the drone lurched, bellowing a line of dark smoke as it fell to the ground. He sighed at having guessed right when he had received the message. Shreveport was the site of a drone ambush and the “6” in the time meant to turn back. Shouldering the rifle in case of another strike, he sprinted toward the helicopter and the chaos surrounding it.
* * *
The following Monday, Senator Ahiga Haskie stood at a podium in front of the Las Cruces Memorial Hospital with his right arm in a sling. Agents Zonnie and Jacoby flanked him from behind, and an elderly Navajo in traditional buckskin clothes stood at his side. His Hatalii. The crowd numbered over three thousand, a third of which were reporters. Haskie looked out and saw the red-haired young man who had thrown the dog toy among those gathered.
The senator raised the blood-stained front page of the “Haskie Act” and announced, “My dear friend, mentor, and the man responsible for making me who I am, Ambassador Coltrain Peters, died at the hands of a cruel assassin who sought to stop this Native American/Dog from serving the people who elected him. Ambassador Peters and I wanted my first proposed legislation to right wrongs that happened centuries ago. The Haskie Act returns the land of the ten dead states to the Native American Tribes. We had hoped to make this announcement together, but I will present this to the U.S. Senate as my first official action and in memory of my fallen friend.”
ABOUT BRENDON TAYLOR
Brendon is an attorney during the workweek, a writer when he can find time, a food and camping enthusiast often, a frustrated Miami Dolphins fan each fall, and a loving husband and father all of the time. He has been at Merrill & Merrill, Chartered in Pocatello, Idaho since he became an attorney in 1999, after graduating from Washburn Law School in Topeka, Kansas. He was an original founder of Deep Magic in 2002 and has written many articles, short stories and contracts since its inception.
STARMAN AND ZUKI
By Jeff Wheeler | 5,500 Words
Prompt (Wulf Moon): You awaken from a drugged stupor. You are in a space suit, strapped in a Tesla roadster. The communication screen is flashing “Don’t Panic” and David Bowie is singing about space through speakers in your helmet. You look beyond the car, still shaking off the haze, trying to remember where you were last, how you got in the car. As you see the earth turning slowly beyond, and darkness all round you, Bowie quits singing and erupts in maniacal laughter....
WHEN CONSCIOUSNESS CAME, it arrived in a lightning bolt of awareness and Alex Strong started screaming. His arms and legs wouldn’t move, a horrible song from David Bowie grated in his ears, and his blurry eyes could barely make out the blinking ‘Don’t Panic’ on the screen mounted to the dashboard in front of him. His sudden frantic breaths then steamed up the faceplate of a helmet dome inches from his face.
Cold. He was so cold. The disorientation was catastrophic. Blackness filled the windshield of a…car? He blinked, and the muscle movement from his eyelids hurt. It dawned on him that everything hurt. He forced himself to breathe deeply, to regulate his pulse. The panic-attack slowly began to subside. His left shoulder ached, slowly becoming aware of the pain as the grogginess continued to lift. He tried to turn his neck and couldn’t. Blackness, except for the glowing light of the flashing screen, the words now obscured by the fog on his helmet. His head ached from the constant barrage of music. It was a David Bowie song…Starman? Why that song? Why was that familiar? He hadn’t listened to it in decades.
The steering wheel showed the symbol of the car’s manufacturer. He stared at in, incredulous. Then color came into view, brilliant color from a sphere, part in shadow. He was staring at the earth. As in—planet Earth. As in, he was no longer on it. Alex started hyperventilating again, the fog misting up the round faceplate of the helmet even more. Just as the shadowed earth came to view, the song abruptly ended, the sound of maniacal laughter ringing in both ears. Of course. The speakers were embedded in his helmet. Music didn’t work in the void of space. There were no airwaves to carry them.
Then Starman began again, repeating from the opening chords that grated down his nerves until it was over, ending in that chilling laughter. And then it started up yet again.
How long had he been unconscious? How long had he been in orbit? The vision of earth rotated out of view again and he faced the black void of space once more. He tried to move his left arm to ease the throbbing in his shoulder, but it wouldn’t budge. His arm had been connected onto the doorframe of the vehicle. He couldn’t see what bound it, but he was trapped. His right arm moved slightly when he tried to wriggle it.
The music wouldn’t stop. He took a chance that it was being piped in from AI device, like the one he had in his Colorado home.
“Alexa, end song,” he croaked after the third round of the infernal music.
A familiar blue circle lit up from beneath the passenger seat.
“I’m sorry, I can’t do that. You didn’t say please.” The music resumed.
He blinked again, still overwhelmed by the feeling of utter helplessness. How had he gotten here? Memories were hazy but he’d always had excellent recall. He remembered that the billionaire Elliot Musgrove was going to launch a car into outer space. Alex remembered seeing it in the Wall Street Journal. The launch date was scheduled for February 6, 2018, No one in NASA or the Department of Defense or even a satellite company wanted to risk a payload on the billionaire’s test rocket. Basically, the car had been hurtled into outer space because it was considered junk. How had Alex Strong, a career planetary scientist, ended up as part of the cargo?
Alex had always wanted to be an astronaut. He’d been rejected as an applicant because of a detached retina in this twenties. As a baby, his first word was moon. He was leading a project in NASA to send probes to the Kuiper belt. A hazy memory began to stir, the drugs were definitely wearing off. What was the last thing he remembered? A UPS driver delivering an Amazon box to his front door. He’d thanked the driver and had bent over to big up the box when he’d felt a sting in his neck. Judging by his hunger, thirst, and excruciatingly poor blood circulation, that had happened a while ago.
“Alexa, please stop the song,” he said after the maniacal laughter broke his reverie.
“Playing from your library,” came the cheerfully pleasant voice.
Starman started up again. It was probably the only song in the library.
“Alexa, stop playing music. Please.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve lost connection to the internet.”
“Alexa, what time is it?”
A tone chimed. “Sorry, I can’t answer that.”
He raked his memory for details of the launch plans. He had read about them, of course, from e-mails he’d receive from the agency he worked for. Musgrove and another tech billionaire had a grudge match going on regarding space technology development. Alex was a consultant for the rival’s team. Wasn’t he? He couldn’t remember anything after the stinging sensation in his neck.
So he’d been drugged. But his memory was still prodigious in many, if not all, other areas. The electric vehicle wasn’t coming back to earth any time soon. It was in an orbit that would bring it to Mars. There was a six percent chance the roadster he was strapped in would collide with earth…the most likely time being in the year 2091. Alex knew he probably wouldn’t last that long. His mind was still pretty sharp, even though he was suffering dehydration, starvation, and a demanding need to purge.
That left murder as the prime reason for his predicament.
It was the most likely cause. Occam’s razor held that when solving a problem with multiple hypothetical answers, the simplest one was usually right. Musgrove’s rival was making some serious headway into their research into alternative rocket designs. Alex was a key part of that secret team. Remove the spark plug and the car doesn’t…well, that analogy didn’t work very well with the type vehicle he was in.
A famous NASA scientist might disappear one dark evening. But no one would ever think to look for him in orbit. He had no family—his career had been his entire life.
It dawned on Alex that the remainder of that life could now be counted in hours. There was no booster rocket strapped to the bottom of the electric car that would bring him home again. He glanced and saw the black faceplate in the rearview mirror of the Tesla. He looked like an astronaut at least. He would die fulfilling his dream. Was there a camera mounted of the front of the hood? What sort of selfie had been taken of him after the rocket had delivered its payload? He tried squeezing his hand into a fist and was just able to twitch a few fingers. He was freezing to death too. The spacesuit provided some insulation, but over time, the chill of deep space would freeze even his heart.
Then the roadster bumped into something.
Had a small asteroid struck it?
“What was that?” Alex said aloud.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” replied the blue spinning circle.
“Shut up,” Alex said to it. He felt the Roadster slowing down and his breathing increased. Then brightness, so bright it burned his eyeballs. The car shuddered and he heard a loud hissing sound, wondering if the last cannister of oxygen had been pierced. How could he hear sound in space? His pupils were responding to the light, but not quickly enough. He tried to move but he’d been strapped into the seat of the roadster. The feeling of weightlessness ended, and he sank into the cushions of the seat. Gravity. He was experiencing gravity. How was that even possible?
