Eden M51

By G. R. Paskoff

Eden exists, tucked away in a remote corner of the universe.

In the year 2283, overpopulation, resource depletion, and climate change have pushed global civilization to the brink of collapse. Colonies on the moon and beneath the oceans, despite years of development, are struggling to survive. As international tensions escalate, and humanity faces an impending crisis for subsistence, a new race has quietly begun, one to find a habitable planet for human expansion outside the solar system. Thus far, however, every expedition sent has resulted in monumental disappointment, and occasionally, tragedy.

But all is not lost.

A U.S. interstellar probe, launched decades earlier, unexpectedly transmits a burst of tantalizing figures on a remote alien world in the M51 galaxy, yielding the first promising data scientists have seen in years. In response, an international team of experts is hastily assembled to investigate the prospective planet over thirty million light years away. Each with their own set of hopes and agendas, what they discover upon arrival is more than any of them imagined – something that forces them to confront the shadows of their past and to reevaluate their choices for Man’s future.

Commander Nathaniel Hawke, a renowned pilot in the United States Department of Space Defense, is selected to lead the mission. Approaching middle age and driven by inner demons, he views the expedition to M51 as one last opportunity for redemption. But in the end, will the journey offer the salvation he seeks, or cast him further into despair?

• Language: English
• Publisher: G. R. Paskoff
• Release date: Apr 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476015385

G. R. Paskoff

Mr. Paskoff has a Bachelor of Science in Mechanical Engineering and a Master of Science in Biomedical Engineering. He has authored and co-authored numerous technical journal articles. "Eden M51" represents his first serious work of fiction, with others planned, as time allows. He is currently working on the sequel to "Eden M51" and a light-hearted middle-grade fantasy series. He lives in Maryland with his wife and two children.

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EDEN M51

By G. R. Paskoff

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Published by

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Copyright 2012 G. R. Paskoff

Copyright Information

Cover photo credits belong to NASA, the Space Telescope Science Institute (STScI), and the Hubble Heritage Team. The M51 Galaxy was first discovered in 1773 by Charles Messier.

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This book and any portion thereof may not be re-sold, reproduced or given away to other people. It is intended to be used solely for the personal enjoyment of the reader. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

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The characters in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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ISBN 978-0-9883923-0-4 (print)

ISBN 978-0-9883923-1-1 (epub)

ISBN 978-0-9883923-2-8 (mobi)

ISBN 978-0-9883923-3-5 (pdf)

ISBN 978-0-9883923-4-2 (lrf)

Acknowledgments

First and foremost, I'd like to thank all my friends, family, and coworkers who, at my request, agreed to not only read this novel in its earliest and most incomplete stages but to put down their thoughts and insights in writing. I realize how much this takes the fun out of reading a story, kind of like having to write a book report in school, so this is to express to you all how much I appreciated your time and inputs.

Special thanks also go to Wendy for being the first one to encourage me to just write the damn thing. I don't think it ever would have made it to paper if not for that simple advice. To Barry, for being the first to tell me that I write like an engineer. He was right, but that was because I am one. And to Bryan, whose knowledge of astrophysics far exceeded my own, for his creative and technical suggestions on what is now the final product.

Finally, but very importantly, I would like to dedicate this book to my wife, Joanne, who provides me inspiration every day of my life, and to my two children, in whom she and I have successfully instilled the joy of reading. Creativity without motivation is a wasted talent.

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October 6, 2016: Author's Update. So it has been over four years since I first published this story. During that time I've gotten some great reviews but also some very honest critique which I take to heart. And so I've decided to address some of the criticisms. Why? Because I want my product to be the best it possibly can. But this means that some of the reviews out there won't be entirely up to date. Well, I can live with that.

So what did I change? To answer that, these were some of the comments:

The timeline seems unrealistic for there to be intergalactic travel. Easy enough. I added two centuries to the timeline.

The antagonist is too black and white. A little trickier since he was intended to be, but in retrospect I agree he was too childish in his outbursts given his role so I have toned them down.

Dialogue could use some refinement. Well, I did what I could.

Too many acronyms. There is a detailed list of the acronyms spelled out at the back of the book. Look at the Table of Contents.

Some people were also not happy with the latter half of the novel, calling it too theological. I find that disappointing. Eden M51 is meant to be a metaphysical story, one that questions our purpose and existence in the universe, not a religious one, though by necessity the two are inextricably linked. Still, in the creation of this story I tried not to offend anyone's religious beliefs.

But my dreams, they aren’t as empty, as my conscience seems to be.

Behind Blue Eyes, The Who

Contents

Title Page

Copyright Information

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1: Discovery

Chapter 2: Vacation

Chapter 3: The Mission

Chapter 4: Accidents

Chapter 5: The VX-90

Chapter 6: Formalities

Chapter 7: Preparations

Chapter 8: Lift Off

Chapter 9: Bugs in Space

Chapter 10: Suspicions

Chapter 11: The Black Hole

Chapter 12: Distress

Chapter 13: DSR

Chapter 14: The European Team

Chapter 15: Arrival

Chapter 16: Hacked

Chapter 17: Clues

Chapter 18: The Mole

Chapter 19: The Landing Party

Chapter 20: Eden

Chapter 21: Treason

Chapter 22: Myng'h

Chapter 23: Darda'Ja

Chapter 24: First Analysis

Chapter 25: Camping

Chapter 26: Confrontations

Chapter 27: First Conversation

Chapter 28: Second Conversation

Chapter 29: Judgment

Chapter 30: Conflicts of Interest

Chapter 31: The Execution

Chapter 32: Truth and Consequence

Chapter 33: Ceremonies

Chapter 34: Plots

Chapter 35: Betrayal

Chapter 36: Final Conversation

Acronyms

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

Discovery

EARTH, 2283 A.D.

When questioned in the days following the incident by police, and observed by men in dark suits who said nothing at all, those who knew Howard DeWitt tactfully admitted that he was a quiet man who kept to himself since his divorce; although, when the suits disappeared, several people, under conditions of anonymity, changed their account to describe him as an overbearing, condescending jerkweed. In truth, if he had a singular flaw it was that he perceived his own cleverness to be equally matched by his brilliant intellect and a hubris that would not allow him to be persuaded otherwise. After all, he had been exceedingly careful not to do anything that would cast even a hint of suspicion upon him. And even on the night of his death, the way he yanked up the collar of his overcoat and scrunched into it like a turtle would have been seen as natural, for the gale winds and rain cascading slantwise in surging waves across the rows of slickened parked cars presented a daunting gauntlet to run.

His eyes darted over the lit parking lot, once, twice, finally, a third time. He gripped his collar with one hand so that it nearly completely covered his face before dashing out from the overhang. The rain hammered at him and the dampness penetrated the crevices where the coat bunched against his skin, saturating him in the short time it took to slip across from the building's exit – to the darkened street – to the relative shelter of the communication terminal on the other side. A glass and plexi partition, its sides lined with active noise dampers, afforded some measure of privacy from the other booths; the 'omelet maker,' the name given to the many-tentacled device straddling the enclosure, ensured that every transmission was sufficiently shrouded in unbreakable encryption and scrambled from signal interception technologies. Despite the hour, he was surprised, pleasantly, to find it deserted. Of course, that was why this forgotten derelict area in the warehouse district had been chosen as the site for the Project in the first place. He ran his fingers through soggy hair and placed his palm over the infra-red scanner whispering the number he had committed to memory.

It was answered immediately. Yes?

It was impossible to determine from the detached tone of the speaker whether a man or a woman was on the other end. Nevertheless, he was fairly certain it was always the same person to whom he spoke.

We've discovered Eden.

There was a pause. Where are you?

Never mind. Did you hear what I said?

Where are you? the question was repeated.

At a booth. Across the street from the Center.

You should not have called us from there, the voice admonished.

Well, I couldn't call you on my cell. Besides, you've assured me your end of the call is secure.

This was not the arranged time. Will your absence be noticed?

"By them? Hardly. They're drunk. They've been celebrating for the last hour."

Still...

Don't worry, I'll come up with an excuse if I need one. But since we don't have much time I'll get right down to business.

The voice clucked, The terms of your payment have already been negotiated.

It's not enough.

We have been more than generous for your services.

Yeah, well, this is big. When word gets out there's going to be much tighter security, much higher scrutiny of public records.

Do not concern yourself. We have handled such things before.

That's what you say but I'm the one sticking my neck out.

What is it you want?

Triple. And not a wire this time. If you're not interested I can find others… Seconds ticked by. His smug bravado melted with each moment of silence and a damp shiver ran down his spine between his shoulders. Are you still there?

I was relaying your request to my superiors.

And? he asked, cursing himself for the eagerness that crept into his voice.

You are certain you can deliver the data?

Of course!

Another silence. I have been instructed to tell you to remain where you are. A courier is being dispatched.

His brow furrowed. Now? Here?

Yes.

DeWitt craned his neck, surveying the street and darkened buildings. A couple taxis cruised by. He felt exposed, a lone figure standing by the COM terminals in the middle of the night. How long? he asked.

Not long. Ten, maybe twelve minutes.

Alright. Then what?

The courier will provide you with instructions. Goodbye.

Wait... The line went dead. Crap. There was no point in dialing again. There would be no answer this time, he was certain. He considered, mouth curling in half a frown. He'd never actually met with a courier before. The only direct communication he'd had was the voice on the phone. Always he'd receive directives to drop the data at a specified location: under a bench or indiscriminately on a window ledge, even in an out of service W2E converter that had long since been disconnected from the metro power grid. Then, in a couple of days the money would turn up in his ex-mother-in-law's account. She was senile and wouldn't know if she'd pissed herself, much less notice that half a million credits had been deposited in her name. His ex-wife didn't know about the account or she'd have taken the money herself and asked no questions, the scheming bitch. Given the chance she'd drain him dry.

He stood where he'd been told, eyes roving up and down the street for any sign of the person who was going to be delivering what could very well be his last payment. Of course, once he'd made one copy of the data, it would be simple to make another. He contemplated it, hands thrust into the recesses of his overcoat. He wrinkled his nose. Despite the rain, the air reeked with a noisome, chemical smell. Yet another reason to get himself off the Project and find another job, preferably in a better location with better pay.

Another taxi drove by, engine humming. It slowed. The ghost of a face peered through the window, the driver hoping to pick up a quick fare. When he made no effort to hail the cab it sped up again, disappearing around the corner.

How many minutes has it been? Nine? Ten? He wasn't planning on being away this long. If he didn't get back to the office someone might discover he was nowhere in the building. Excuses would need to be made. Just then, headlights came careening up the road. The car's engine had a noisier pitch to it that he was familiar with, fuller, throatier. He couldn't be certain of the make or model but it was definitely an ElectroSport coupe of some kind. Expensive. He himself had owned several in the past. This had to be the courier.

He'd taken only a single step toward the curb when he heard the unmistakable sound of laughter and saw the skinny, waving arms of a boy as he leaned halfway out of the window despite the pelting rain. He frowned. Just some damn kids playing around in Daddy's car. Probably drunk. Or high. A wind-gusted piece of trash thumped against his leg and DeWitt shook it off with irritation, scowling at the dark splotch it made on his tailored pants. Disdain mixing with impatience, he stepped back into the shelter of the terminal. The car zig-zagged wildly up the street crossing over into the other lane and veering back again. The cold rain hitting the warm ground produced a mist that distorted the twin beams of light into living things, writhing in parallel unison. The adolescent driver opened up the throttle, the whine of the engine buzzing, the sports car soaring two feet above the ground propelled by an invisible field on electromagnetic wings.

At that moment, the sound of another engine caught his ears. He turned his head just as the massive behemoth loomed from the depths of inky darkness and into the small pool of diodic light that illuminated the terminal. Eyes wide, there was time only for a low moan to escape his lips, a feeble acceptance of the inevitable. Glass shattered and metal screeched as the six-ton ElectroFreighter, its headlights off, slammed into the booth where he stood. Without slowing it continued down the street taking the corner at break-neck speed. A horn blared from another vehicle, its driver angered by the truck's illegal turn.

*****

The phone rang at 4:15 AM. Despite the ungodly hour, the man stumbled out of bed and lumbered to the adjoining room to answer it. Few people had access to his classified number and most of those who did were not ones he could lightly ignore. Not without consequence, anyway. He pressed a button and the door slid closed with a muffled whoosh! Additional privacy was prudent but in reality he didn't want to disturb his wife. She could be trying even with a full night's rest but she was downright insufferable when her sleep had been interrupted. Mahogany paneling hid thick walls of noise-dampening foam within and acoustic buzzers. The private study had been painstakingly constructed to prevent eavesdropping, electronic or otherwise.

The man turned his attention to the phone, catching a glimpse of his face in the mirror over the desk as he did so. The flashing red light highlighted his features, exaggerating the creases and lines in his face. What hair remained on his head stuck straight out like needles in a pincushion. I don't need anyone seeing me like this. He flipped the switch for 'audio only' with a flick of his wrist. The flashing red LED was replaced by a steady blue one. Groggy, he did not answer right away.

Sir? Hello? asked a tentative voice, one the man on the other end recognized immediately even without the voice analyzer that displayed the speaker's name on the text screen.

It's me, Sam. What's so urgent that you needed to call me this early? And on Saturday, too.

Sir, they've found it. I've seen the evidence myself.

"Found what, Commander?" the man asked, trying not to let the irritation he felt be apparent to the man on the other end. He ground his palms into his eyes to dispel the redness from them through sheer force.

A habitable planet, sir. One of our probes was picked up by NASA.

Where?

In a galaxy called M51. I have to say, I'm pretty optimistic, Admiral. The Project Tech Director is insisting we put together an expedition at once.

Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We've been down this road before.

I know but this one's different. From what I've seen there's no doubt in my mind.

There'd better not be. I'm not going to go in front of Congress and the President asking for a pot of gold for another fool's errand.

Understood, sir. But, there is one problem, hedged the commander.

What is it? the Admiral said, steeling himself for the worst.

"The Chinese and the Republic of India. They know. They're clamoring for a joint international effort.

What? How did they...? Well, fuck 'em, the Admiral said, fully awake now. It doesn't matter. If we found it, it's ours by virtue of discovery.

I'm afraid it's not that simple, sir. Their embassies phoned the State Department more than an hour ago.

The Admiral swore. Do we at least know how they found out so fast?

We're not sure. We believe the Indians discovered it through sophisticated signal interception technology. They're ahead of us in that department.

Jesus! Can't we keep a secret secret anymore? What about the Chinese?

We're pretty certain they had a mole in the EDEN Project.

Who?

DeWitt. We know he placed a call from a public terminal the night of the discovery.

Well, have you questioned him?

I'm afraid that's not possible, sir.

Why not?

They found most of his body on Ridge Street. The rest was on Fifth. We believe it was a bad information exchange.

Oh, God. The Admiral drew a hand slowly down his stubbly cheeks. He always was a pompous asshole but I never thought he'd...well...

It's still conjecture at this point. They've just begun the investigation but we can't ignore the coincidence. NSA is having trouble tracing where the call went. In any event, the good news is we're pretty sure they don't know where the planet is, only that we've found it. Otherwise, it would be a race to see who gets there first, a race we'd probably lose. The Chinese make the best StarCruisers out there. And the Indian military moonbase is equipped with several space freighters capable of making long-range flights.

You're right, Sam, you're right. Maybe it's for the best then. Any chance of spillage?

Of the coordinates? Unlikely. DeWitt didn't have the information on him, though he'd managed to lift it directly from the probe's CPU onto a portable drive they found in his office. Only two others had direct access to the coordinates and they've been thoroughly screened and sequestered. For safe-keeping the coordinates are being stored solely in the Well.

Good. The Well was a maximum security computer database and the Admiral was fairly confident that its security level hadn't been compromised by any foreign agencies. At least, not yet. What else?

Silence crackled over the audio line. With all due respect, sir, I would prefer not to say over this communication.

"This is an encrypted frequency!"

I understand, sir, but no system is totally secure. And given the sensitive nature of this information... his voice trailed off.

The Admiral sighed. Very well. I'll be in the office as soon as I can. And then I expect a full briefing.

Yes, sir.

The Admiral made to get up, then plopped back in his chair. Jennings could be enthusiastic to the point of seeming over-eager but he generally knew his stuff. Why not? If he's right, the occasion certainly calls for it, he said with a grin. With a conspiratorial glance at the door separating his sealed study from the bedroom, Admiral Martin Langolier swiped his thumb across the centimeter-long scanner. There was a soft click as the drawer unlocked. He reached into the very back and pulled out a thick cigar. He twirled it lovingly between his fingers. Holding it under his nose, he inhaled deeply, relishing the musky scent before snipping the end and lighting it with a lighter from the same hiding spot. It wasn't one of the synthetic ones that were all you could get on the market these days but a real tobacco-filled original, complete with cancer-causing tar and nicotine. Rank hath its privileges. Still, if his wife found out he'd have more grief to deal with than being set upon by a swarm of Congressional staffers. She'd enjoy telling his doctor, too. He groaned inwardly at the notion of having to endure another one of the physician's lectures about diet and exercise.

The Admiral punched a button on the wall. A thin hiss from an overhead vent and the subtle smell of ozone assured him the odor from the illegal contraband was effectively being sanitized. Satisfied, he stretched back in his chair and puffed away. With a smug smile, he wrapped his arms contentedly across his belly.

*****

On the wall was a projection of the M51 galaxy. It was a spiral galaxy – coincidentally, the first spiral galaxy to ever be discovered, or so the Admiral was told, by an astronomer named Charles Messier in 1773. A second galaxy named NGC 5195 could be seen interacting with the M51. The outer regions of the two galaxies touched one another like delicately woven cosmic fingers holding hands.

So you see, sir, explained Commander Jennings, The spectragraphs, the thermal images, the photonic measurements, all indicate a habitable planet.

The Commander used the device in his hand to zoom in on a specific star. Seven planets of varying size orbited the star. The fourth planet in the display window was highlighted and enlarged multiple times with rainbow-colored thermal graphs. The exact meaning behind these lines and colors was not apparent to the Admiral; for that, he relied on the scientific analyses of his staff. And Jennings, his Chief Science and Technology Officer.

Admiral Langolier leaned back in his faux leather executive chair, his thick fingers clasped behind his head. The synthetic material crinkled as he shifted his weight one buttock at a time. The chronograph on the wall showed just past six o'clock in the morning.

What about life-forms?

"The scientists aren't sure. The data so far are inconclusive. But before the probe passed out of range the sensors detected unusual readings dotted over the equatorial region of the surface that could indicate a planned energy distribution grid. It might possibly be a dense band of high gamma-level radiation, but another field surrounds the entire planet about two hundred miles into the atmosphere which the sensors had difficulty penetrating beyond superficial measurements. The field's uniform intensity has the scientists puzzled."

Hmm, that could suggest a highly advanced species.

Or it could just be some type of natural phenomenon. It's not clear. After all, the M51 galaxy is over thirty million light years away. Ordinarily, light traveling from a star system just one million light years away means any information we receive would be one million years in the past. Geologically speaking that may not sound like much but on an evolutionary scale a lot can happen in that time.

Admiral Langolier grunted and waved the back of his hand. "I understand that. That's why we sent out hundreds of those damn probes decades ago."

Correct, sir. The quantum tunneling technology the probes use is outdated by today's standards but they have proven reliable in gathering the data on planetary bodies from distant galaxies. The first wave of them has been returning from their pre-programmed orbits within the last fifteen years, with more coming every few months.

So how trustworthy is the data?

The probe came within a few thousand light years so the analysis is credible.

Even so, it's not impossible for a technologically advanced species to have evolved.

There is always that possibility.

The Admiral leaned forward across his desk, steepling his fingers. His words were slow and measured. The importance of this discovery is vital to the interests of the American people. I want to be clear, Commander. You may have already heard some of the top level chatter about recalling settlers from the Moon Colonies, not that it'll ever happen. Where would we put them? Here? The Admiral snorted. No. We've got our own resource issues. The factories can't keep up with the demand. And our other planetary bases are nowhere near completion. Too much time and money has been invested in the EDEN Project. If this doesn't pan out, it'll make the whole affair seem like a monumental failure. A stick up our asses waving us about. But if something drastic isn't done soon, especially after the Mars Holocaust...

Yes, sir. I understand completely.

The Admiral sat back again, rocking. Good. Now, tell me about the climate and such.

Sam cleared his throat. The planet has two moons sharing a common orbit which is really its most obvious distinction from Earth as we can determine based on the data. Its location from the nearest star is comparable to our own, and that star is very much like ours in size and solar output. At just over ninety million miles it's reasonable to assume the planet's climate would be within the 'go zone.' It has a less elliptical orbit than ours but revolves more slowly resulting in an extended calendar year. I believe the scientists estimated one full revolution to be the equivalent of three hundred and seventy to three hundred and eighty of our days. They've even determined it has a north-south pole like ours, suggesting it is geologically active with a molten core. Who knows what elements might be buried beneath its crust? ExxEon and TerraGroup, and who knows how many other megacorporations, will be very excited about the prospects of new natural resources.

You bet your ass they will be! But they better keep their grubby hands to themselves. This is going to be a Government funded expedition. There'll be plenty of opportunity later for those vultures to move in.

Yes, sir, but their lobbyists are sure to place heavy pressure on Congress.

Let them try. Even the dirtiest politician on the Hill would loathe making concessions to the corporate sector until we know exactly what we're dealing with. They won't make any back-room deals until they've seen the booty.

They may try another tack. Sending someone to represent their interests…

Forget it. I still have a few high-placed favors to cash. Every member of the U.S. team is strictly going to be on Uncle Sam's payroll, and I'll personally blacklist any international members that aren't on the up-and-up.

You may have the mission's best intentions at heart, sir, but you can be sure big businesses will be relentless. Once the identities of the team members become public knowledge...well. Any advance information would give a corporation a supreme advantage over its competitors. Trillions of trillions in potential profits will be at stake. Can you vouch for the character of all those individuals?

The Admiral made no reply. No, but for the man I plan to put in charge of this insanity...yes. Yes, I can.

CHAPTER TWO

Vacation

Commander Nathaniel Hawke took a sip of his Jack Daniels on the rocks thinking about what he would do when he retired from the military. The notion occupied more and more of his time. A bad sign. Without family, the Command was all he had. As he stared at the glass, beads of condensation trickled down its icy sides staining a perfect crescent moon on the napkin.

With considerable effort he shifted the direction of his thoughts before they spiraled down that dark road, a path he was all too familiar with. This was supposed to be his R & R, his one yearly opportunity to escape the bullshit and relax and unwind. Four lethargic ceiling fans suspended from the thatched palm leaf roof failed to stir the heavy, humid air. It looked quaint and authentic but underneath the braided palm fronds and imitation bamboo poles was a stainless steel structure engineered to withstand the fury of the tropical storms and hurricanes that bombarded the island every year.

Besides the bartender a few local patrons sat at tables, drinking and talking among themselves. A petite Latino waitress busied herself with restocking cocktail napkins and straws when not attending to her customers. No one looked his way.

While he decided whether to order something solid to go with his liquid lunch, a raucous banging of the swinging doors made him turn his head. Three men entered. The one in front surveyed the room nonchalantly adjusting the belt buckle under his protruding belly. His eyes immediately settled on Hawke sitting alone at the bar. He hocked and spat onto the floor.

Hawke turned back, absently swirling the cubes in the glass, a half smile curling up one side.

Hey, José! Why's this pale-face sittin' on my favorite stool, eh? The two men behind him sniggered.

The bartender raised his hands in supplication, a dirty rag clenched between his thumb and palm. Please, Manuel, I don' want no trouble today.

Manuel ignored him and thumped over to the bar. "You got some cojones, pale-face." Hawke's blonde hair and ice blue eyes made him an oddity in the region.

"Hey, gringo! You hard of hearing? I'm talking to you."

Hawke put down his drink and swiveled on the stool. The man facing him was a real gorilla, complete with protruding brow. With thick arms folded over his chest, tufts of black hair sprouted from under his half-buttoned shirt and from the armpits of his torn sleeves. A corded gold chain hung around his neck. His bulbous nose looked to have been broken many times. Yellow, discolored teeth marked him as a frequent user of Chewbacco, a synthetic version of chewing tobacco common in poorer areas. Even substandard grades of the mild stimulant contained active cultures that negated the unsightly dental effects of long term use but this man obviously used a locally grown variety of the stuff...that, or he didn't clean his teeth regularly. Or both.

I said, yer sittin' in my seat. Manuel looked over his shoulder toward his mates, their toothless smirks giving him all the encouragement he needed.

Though outweighed by at least seventy or eighty pounds, Hawke figured to have a good three inches over the bulky islander. Well, then it seems you have a problem. Hawke casually shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet.

Yeah? Manuel's nostrils flared in anticipation.

You're obviously looking for a fight so I'd like to oblige by making some smart, witty insult about you. Perhaps something about your rancid breath or your lack of fashion sense, or hygiene, for that matter. But a man of your intelligence wouldn't realize he'd been offended so I'd just be wasting my breath.

Manuel stared for a few seconds, mouth hanging open. His puzzled expression confirmed Hawke's opinion of the man's underpowered intellect. But then Manuel's features twisted darkly and he lunged forward swinging a fist the size of a basketball at Hawke's head. Hawke easily leaned back out of reach and darted forward, jabbing his arm over the clumsy throw.

His fist hit squarely in the nose but Manuel merely grunted without so much as blinking. Hawke guessed his adversary didn't win many fights on technique. Hawke stepped lightly away from the bar so he wouldn't be cornered. Manuel advanced in a grappler's stance, careful not to overreach with his arms again. Hawke planted a sudden roundhouse kick directly on his jaw splitting his lip and causing several yellow teeth to crack and scatter, plinking onto the ground like ivory raindrops. This time Manuel did go down but only to his knees.

The man howled, spattering blood from his torn lips. He came at Hawke again, veins in his temple bulging. Hawke stayed loose, his body ready to dart in any direction. He feinted to his left and Manuel fell for it, charging. Hawke deftly scooped up a stool and brought it down so hard on Manuel's head that the wicker bindings holding it together came apart.

The bully shrugged off the blow and twisted his arm, managing to his glee to snag one of Hawke's wrists in his melon-sized hands. Hawke brought his knee up firmly into the man's gut. Manuel gasped as the compressed fat was shoved deep into his diaphragm. Hawke followed with an uppercut to the throat.

Manuel made a violent gurgling noise and let go of Hawke's wrist. Then he doubled over and vomited on the floor. When he finished he wiped the bile from his mouth across his knuckles and glared savagely at Hawke.

Hawke didn't see him pull out a weapon but the way Manuel protectively cupped his hand made him instantly wary. Manuel's leg muscles tensed and he sprang, simultaneously reaching with one hand while making a slashing motion with the other. Hawke sidestepped the blade and pivoted, lashing out with his foot. He grunted with satisfaction as he connected on a solid kick to the side of the head. The impact made a sound like splitting wood. Manuel's eyes rolled up into the back of his skull; he was unconscious before his body smacked onto the floor like a slab of meat. A wickedly curved knife slipped from between his fingers.

Hawke faced the two locals who'd accompanied the bully. They took one look at Manuel before hastily retreating from the bar, ignominiously leaving their fallen leader lying on the floor in his own blood and vomit. Hawke went to the bar and downed the rest of his Jack Daniels. The few customers who had remained when the fight started broke into a cheer and toasted him.

Hawke reached into his pocket and threw some money on the counter. Here, José. Hopefully this will pay for the damages.

The bartender grinned, the gold filling in his front tooth glinting. "Awww, Hawke, you don' have to do that, mon. It was worth it just to see you wipe the floor with that macañema's face. He been comin' in here bullying the customers for three months now."

Well, take it. You can buy María something nice. Maybe she'll let you move back in. Hawke winked.

José laughed loudly. You a funny man, Hawke. You come back, okay?

You know I'd never give up my favorite watering hole. Where else can I get this view? He gestured to the open expanse of the Atlantic Ocean.

José pocketed the credits with the practiced ease of a man who'd spent a lot of time around unscrupulous customers. Why do you think I stay, eh? It's not just for the money, y'know? Then he sobered. You take care.

Without a specific destination in mind Hawke strolled along the docks. He felt the thrum beneath his feet of the hydraulic lifts designed to raise and lower them according to the ebb and flow of the tide. During a severe storm the lifts were capable of raising the docks – stores, bars, seedy hotels, and all – a total of twenty-five feet above sea level. This was generally sufficient for them to weather all but the most severe storms with minimal damage.

The people he passed stared overtly at him, some curious, some hostile, but no one confronted him. From his clothes and complexion they assumed he was a Fed, and standing at six-foot-three and two hundred and thirty pounds he presented an intimidating figure. Nevertheless, he wasn't kidding himself. The locals were more leery of the pirates who roamed these waters than any government officials.

With three days before his leave was up he pondered browsing the black market district again. It was one of his favorite places – a place where you might find relics from past centuries – things like parts of combustion engines, or books made out of paper – and at prices he could afford. He had a fondness for these kinds of antiquities; his favorite items to look for were music compact discs. He even had a machine that a buddy of his had refurbished to play them. His rare collection of Jimmy Buffett CDs was his most valuable possession. He had many artists from that bygone era: the Beatles, the Doors, the Who, but Jimmy Buffett was his favorite. There was something enchanting about the way Buffett's songs ranged from sad and melancholy to fun and whimsical. Most of his friends just thought he was crazy.

Suddenly, his military-issue cellular buzzed in his pocket. What the hell? Thought I'd turned the damn thing off. According to regulations he was supposed to wear it on his person at all times, even on leave, but wearing it about openly at a place like this would get him killed. He slipped it out but didn't answer it. Instead, he set it to text and read the transcript as it scrolled across his corneal implants. He knew he'd catch flak from his superiors about that later. Damn. Priority CAT-1. So much for my vacation.

For just a moment, Hawke considered ignoring it, knowing the Admiral would have his hide if he did. He wasn't in the mood to endure one of Langolier's tirades so Hawke pocketed the UCD and turned back in the direction of his hotel, such as it was. Really, it was just a place for locals to have affairs with their mistresses and for the prostitutes who worked the docks to conduct their business. The hotel staff was more likely to give you a second look if you asked to pay by the day than the hour. Hawke grabbed his backpack (he made it a rule to travel light) from his room. As an afterthought, he left a few credits for the elderly woman who straightened his room each morning even though he was certain she'd never see them – the hotel's miserly manager swept the room for 'souvenirs' first.

Hawke scanned the docks for a suitable mode of transportation. There were no teleport terminals on the island. It was one of the main reasons he enjoyed coming here. The pristine beaches and hotels tourists flocked to decades ago had long since been washed away. Without