The Discovery Phase

By Francis W. Porretto

Loren was good looking, well mannered, and highly intelligent. He was broadly competent in applied mathematics, the physical sciences, and computer technology. He could fix almost anything, and would do so happily. Yet for years he’d spent most of his days doing janitorial work at a state college. While at age forty-eight he had never known love, he was reasonably happy...but his past included a darkness over which he still brooded.

Sylvie was a lawyer, and radiantly beautiful. Yet at age forty-two she’d been celibate for more than twenty years. After sixteen years at Weems, Farkas, interviewing prospective clients, drafting motions and memoranda, and filtering out those applicants the firm couldn’t profitably assist, she’d become the firm’s senior associate...but when she learned that the senior partners expected to use her as a party favor for their wealthiest clients, she became disheartened and angry.

They met in a blue-collar bar on a Monday evening. Despite their professional, financial, and religious differences, they seemed perfect for one another...but their pasts and unforeseeable events would have their say.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Francis W. Porretto
• Release date: Apr 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005047733

Francis W. Porretto

Francis W. Porretto was born in 1952. Things went steadily downhill from there.Fran is an engineer and fictioneer who lives on the east end of Long Island, New York. He's short, bald, homely, has bad acne and crooked teeth. His neighbors hold him personally responsible for the decline in local property values. His life is graced by one wife, two stepdaughters, two dogs, four cats, too many power tools to list, and an old ranch house furnished in Early Mesozoic style. His 13,000 volume (and growing) personal library is considered a major threat to the stability of the North American tectonic plate.Publishing industry professionals describe Fran's novels as "Unpublishable. Horrible, but unpublishable all the same." (They don't think much of his short stories, either.) He's thought of trying bribery, but isn't sure he can afford the $3.95.Fran's novels "Chosen One," "On Broken Wings," "Shadow Of A Sword," "The Sledgehammer Concerto," "Which Art In Hope," "Freedom's Scion," "Freedom's Fury," and "Priestesses" are also available as paperbacks, through Amazon. Check the specific pages for those books for details.Wallow in his insane ranting on politics, culture, and faith at "Liberty's Torch:" http://www.libertystorch.info/And of course, write to him, on whatever subject tickles your fancy, at [e-mail]

Book preview

Foreword

The novel you’re reading is a branch of an existing tree of considerable size. I call it the Onteora Canon. It concerns a fictional county in continental New York—Onteora County, of course—among whose populace are many persons distant from the human norm. Heroes and villains, the fortunate and the unfortunate, the beautiful and the grotesque, and many others live, ply their trades, and have assorted adventures in Onteora County. It’s a lively place.

But for a writer to create such a place has drawbacks as well as benefits. Over time, it can rise to mythic status, and thus to complete incredibility. Like the series hero who never loses a battle, the people and events there can become wholly implausible. The writer must carefully ponder the risks before setting out on such a course.

I didn’t. For my sins, there are now a great many tales set in Onteora County: fourteen novels and a great many shorter stories. Some are a kind of contemporary fantasy. Others are near-future science fiction. Several, including this one, are romances. And the characters in them interact with one another freely, over and over.

One consequence is that none of the Onteora Canon tales stand completely apart from the others. Events, characters, and the historical backdrop I crafted for them affect them all, albeit in different ways and to different degrees. The breadth of the Canon makes a what has gone before prologue impossible. Trust me, I’ve tried.

You will encounter in this novel many characters from other Canon novels and stories. Indeed, most characters of importance in The Discovery Phase appear in at least one other Canon tale. There’s nothing much to be done about it, except to forewarn you, dear reader—and to provide you with a set of pointers to where you can learn more about them. And so, in order by appearance:

Loren Eisenbud first appears in Antiquities.

Sylvie Yngstrom first appears in Polymath.

Pat Costigan and Costigan’s Pub first appear in Priestesses.

Celia Pryor first appears in The Athene Academy Collection.

Father Raymond Altomare, the pastor of Onteora parish, first appears in On Broken Wings.

Father Anthony Baldaserra first appears in Chosen One.

Police Chief John Ashford first appears in On Broken Wings as Captain John Ashford.

Schuyler Clarke first appears in the novella Farm Girl, which is included in Romance A La Mode.

Lieutenant Larry Sokoloff of Integral Security first appears in Shadow of a Sword.

Christine D’Alessandro first appears in On Broken Wings.

Journalists Dave Pargeter and Diane Loiselle first appear in Experiences.

Todd Iverson first appears in Polymath.

The events mentioned in Chapter 16 and Chapter 22 are narrated in Statesman.

Any characters not mentioned above either appear for the first time in this novel, or are too minor to merit mention.

I’m in the process of preparing a reading guide to the Onteora Canon, as well. It will be made available wherever my novels and stories are sold. Until then, I hope you enjoy the tale of Loren and Sylvie and their unusual romance.

Francis W. Porretto

Mount Sinai, New York

December 4, 2021

Chapter 1

On the evening of his forty-eighth birthday, Loren Eisenbud couldn’t compel himself to stay home. His mood was too good, his house was too empty, and his impulse to celebrate was too strong. However, he wasn’t interested in going out to eat alone, and Onteora County didn’t offer a wide choice of weeknight entertainments to an unaccompanied man. So, shortly after he’d returned home from his job interview, he shed his suit and tie, donned a clean sweatshirt and jeans, loosed his ponytail and brushed out his long gray hair, and headed to the Black Grape for a celebratory stein.

Maybe two. I might not be a laborer for much longer.

Unsurprisingly for six PM on a Monday evening, the big tavern was very lightly populated. No one was seated around the bar. Two customers were playing the bowling machine. Two were throwing darts in the back. One was peering into the juke box. The bartender, a large, ruggedly built man he knew only as Brad, was desultorily polishing glassware and peering now and then at the others as if hoping to prompt an order.

Loren seated himself at the end of the bar nearest the kitchen. Evenin’, Brad.

The bartender smiled. And to you... Loren, right? Loren nodded. What’ll it be this evening?

Your coldest Bud in your frostiest mug, if you please.

Coming right up. The bartender drew a long-necked bottle from the fridge and opened it, plucked a mug from under the bar, poured the beer into it and presented it to Loren with a flourish. Loren slid a twenty across the bar, saluted the bartender with the mug, and sipped. Thanks, Brad. Slow night?

The bartender shrugged. It’s Monday. I’ve never had a busy one.

Well, you know what they say, Loren said. ‘Work is the curse—

‘Of the drinking class,’ the bartender finished.

Yeah. Loren sipped again. Someday I’ve got to look up this ‘they’ guy and buy him a round.

What if he’s soused already? the bartender said.

Loren shrugged. Then I’ll offer him a ride home.

So what brings you out on a Monday? You’re not here that often even on weekends.

Loren started to speak of his job interview at Arcologics, but stopped himself.

That belongs in the unhatched-chickens category.

Mostly just feeling good, wanted a little company.

The bartender smirked. Very little, if this is enough.

Loren shrugged. It’ll do.

They were still bantering when an unaccompanied woman, the first woman Loren had seen there in some time, came through the swinging inner door of the tavern. She immediately had his attention.

From her tailored cream skirt suit, her mid-heeled pumps, and her carriage, he guessed her to be middle-aged, not far from his own age. The years did not lie heavily upon her. No lines were visible in her face, though her makeup might have had something to do with that. She had a beautiful, pinup-quality figure that she’d clearly taken care to maintain. Her blonde hair was bright, gently waved, and flowed smoothly past her shoulders. It showed no signs of discoloration or brittleness. Her looks, outfit, and elegantly simple leather purse put her in the professional class.

Mid-life beauty. The hardest kind to hold on to. The kind that sooner or later slips away from you no matter how hard you try to keep it.

All the same, clearly out of my league.

He returned his gaze to his mug. She surprised him by taking the stool next to him. He smiled formally at her.

Good evening, Miss.

She returned the smile. Good evening, and to you, Brad. May I have a Sea Breeze, please?

Coming right up. The bartender set to the task.

She offered Loren her hand. Sylvie.

He took it and shook it gently. Loren. Having a pleasant evening?

Her lips compressed briefly. No disasters so far. Yourself?

About the same. The bartender set a Sea Breeze before her. She saluted him with it and sipped, and he retreated to the middle of the bar. Loren returned his gaze to his mug.

What brings you out tonight, Loren?

Hm? Oh, just wanted to be around other people for an hour or two.

Do you live alone?

He nodded.

So do I, she said. Peaceful, but boring.

It can be, yes. Are you just back from work?

She nodded. Lawyer. What about you?

I’m in the maintenance crew at SUC Onteora. Janitorial work mostly, though not today.

Ah. What was special about today?

He grinned. Birthday number forty-eight.

Oh! She extended her hand again, and he clasped it softly. Many happy returns!

Thank you.

He thought the conversation would lapse at that point. He had little to say to anyone. He couldn’t talk about his researches, and he knew nothing about the world of law and lawyers. He couldn’t expect a woman in the professions to take an interest in the day-to-day life of a manual laborer.

Loren? she said.

Hm? Yes, Sylvie?

Were you ever a rock musician?

It startled him. Yes, I was, a while back. He grinned. What tipped you off?

Your hair, she said. You’ve got rock-and-roll hair. Were you a member of a group?

He nodded. We called ourselves Dreamcastle.

What kind of music?

Prog-rock. You probably wouldn’t have heard of us, though. We didn’t really make it.

Once again, he expected the conversation to lapse, but she was plainly determined to keep it alive.

What’s prog-rock?

He started to explain, but she held up a hand, and he halted. Her expression had acquired a tinge of resignation.

Forgive me, Loren, she said. I can tell you’re not into this.

It sent a pang through him. Why do you think so?

Well, she said, you’re not holding up your end.

Of the conversation, you mean?

Yes, that.

He winced.

"Actually, Sylvie, I am ‘into this.’ I’d like to keep it going. It’s just that I don’t have a lot to talk about. Very little that a beautiful professional woman would find interesting."

She smiled ruefully.

You might be surprised, but let it go. What do brand new acquaintances usually talk about?

He shrugged. Sports? Politics?

Stuff that doesn’t interest you?

Not very much. Sports are just time-killers, and as for politics... well, if I thought any power on Earth could change it... He shook his head.

She chuckled. Well, then I have a suggestion.

Hm?

She drained her Sea Breeze, set the glass down on the bar, and faced him squarely.

You finish your beer, she said softly, and then we’ll go to your place, where I can get to know you better. Maybe you can show me what prog-rock is instead of trying to explain it in words.

He peered at her. Are you sure about that, Sylvie?

She nodded, apparently perfectly serious.

No fear of going home with a complete stranger after less than fifteen minutes’ acquaintance—and to the stranger’s home, at that?

He glanced at furtively Brad. The bartender showed no sign of having noticed.

He did as she’d requested.

#

Loren fought to retain his sangfroid as he fumbled through his fistful of keys for the one to the front door of his Oakleigh bungalow. Sylvie stood just behind him, perfectly silent. He sensed that something for which he was unprepared was in motion. It had started at the Black Grape. It reached its zenith as Sylvie pulled her Mercedes sports car into his driveway and parked it behind his little Hyundai.

It’s been a long time since I last saw a Mercedes anywhere in Oakleigh. Looks pretty odd next to my econobox.

Why is she doing this?

Why am I?

It was massively unlikely that Sylvie was there for an education in progressive rock. Yet she hadn’t touched him apart from their handshakes. Despite her unusual friendliness and her obvious attractions, he wouldn’t have dreamed of putting a move on her. The two of them lived in wholly different worlds.

I suppose high-status women get itches they need scratched just as often as do we of the hoi polloi. But why a working-class hangout like the Grape? And why me?

He found the key, slipped it into the deadbolt lock, and twisted. The door swung smoothly open. He turned to his unexpected guest, smiled at her through the evening gloom, and gestured that she should enter. She smiled in response, preceded him into the little foyer, and turned to face him.

Welcome to 4619 Oak Knoll Drive, where I lay my weary head, he said.

Thank you, Loren, she said. It looks comfortable.

It suits me. Most of the time, anyway.

He led her into his little living room, lit the overhead lights and set them to half intensity, and bade her be seated.

Half a minute, while I select a little prog-rock to go on the music machine.

He opened the cabinet beneath his bookshelf stereo, pondered his collection of CDs, and hesitated. He had a little of everything that could even remotely be called progressive. He rejected most of it as too challenging for a new acquaintance to enjoy, especially as the backdrop to conversation. Presently he selected a Kansas CD, popped it into the stereo, set the volume to an appropriate level, and turned to face his guest.

May I get you anything? I’m afraid I don’t have the fixings for a Sea Breeze.

She shrugged. That’s all right. Do you have white wine?

That made him smile. But of course, my dear. This is New York. Would a dry Riesling suit you?

She nodded, and he went to his kitchen. A few minutes later he returned with two stemmed glasses, a bottle of Riesling, and a platter of sliced cheese and crackers. Sylvie’s eyebrows rose in pleased surprise as he set it all down on his little coffee table and filled their glasses.

Well! she said. Very nice, Loren. Do you entertain often?

He chuckled. Hardly ever. You’re my first guest in a long time, in fact. But I know how to do the basics, I’m usually prepared for them, and I don’t stint them when the occasion warrants. He hoisted his wine glass. To your health.

And to yours, she answered. They clinked and sipped.

What are we listening to? she said. I like it so far.

I hoped you would. It’s by an old band called Kansas. They were one of the earliest prog-rock bands. Popular for a while, in the Seventies and Eighties.

What makes it prog-rock, instead of just, you know, rock? she said.

He considered for a moment.

Well, he said, most rock tracks are in a simple rhythm and key structure. Four-four and three-four time are the most common. A typical song will stay in one key throughout. Prog is different. It’s deliberately complex rhythmically, often changing time signatures several times in a single piece. Some prog also moves among keys as the rhythm changes. And some inserts, ah, non-musical passages as a kind of punctuation.

Non-musical passages? She cocked an eyebrow at him. You mean what we civilians would call noise?

He chuckled. Well, yeah. Sometimes.

And this was the kind of music Dreamcastle made?

Yeah, pretty much.

He sat back, sipped from his glass, and regarded her with heightened interest.

She really wanted to know. I wouldn’t have guessed. Glad I didn’t do anything forward straight off.

But if she was sincere about that, what about... the other thing?

It made him hesitate briefly.

Take the plunge, hero. She said she wants to know you better. What have you got to lose?

So, he said, as he turned to look directly at her, now that you’ve heard a little prog, what would you like to know about... me?

Her expression became curiously serious.

Everything, dear. Absolutely everything.

#

Loren would never forget the strangeness of the hours that followed. He took Sylvie’s invitation at face value and told her everything about himself.

He told her about his parents’ dismay at his post-high-school decision to enlist in the Army rather than apply to college. He spoke briefly of his service in the Middle East, and a very little of what he experienced there. As he was growing to like her and didn’t want to be responsible for her nightmares, he kept the most memorable parts to himself.

He told her about the coalescence of Dreamcastle, as four demobilized and mustered-out veterans disclosed their respective talents, learned that they shared the same tastes and ambitions, and decided to take a long chance on musical achievement. Then came their years on tour, motoring around the Northeast on a shoestring, subsisting on bulk cheese and ramen, stretching every dollar they earned to the breaking point, often sleeping in their bus between engagements. He spoke sadly of their grudging acceptance of reality, the admission that despite all their efforts, they had no future as a performing act. Finally he told her of the group’s decision to dissolve, and the departure of his three colleagues to work and homes that separated them by continental distances.

He told her of his decision to earn his living through physical labor rather than to seek a place in the white-collar world. He was good with his hands and had never minded using them, and he found the work agreeable despite his family’s disdain for it. Construction for a time, then an apprenticeship to a master plumber, then, when he realized that his mentor had no intention of creating a competitor, his transition to a position with SUC Onteora as a jack-of-all-trades maintenance man.

His parents took each of his decisions as a personal affront. They had imagined a much brighter future for their eldest child, and were insulted by his lack of ambition and drive. His siblings disparaged the work he chose as menial labor, a verdict of personal failure for one who’d once been regarded as among the brightest lights of his community. He shrugged and went his own way.

From early in life he’d taken pleasure from making things work properly, bringing order out of chaos. Doing it for an hourly wage did not diminish it. Keeping his domain clean and orderly and running smoothly made him happy. It brought him a sense of fulfillment he cherished, even if it meant that cleaning bathrooms and mopping floors would occupy most of his usual working day.

He spoke of his pastimes, his entertainments, his gradual, informal acquisition of an advanced education, and more. He showed her his assortment of musical instruments and told of his efforts to master them. He took her down to his basement and showed her the computer network he’d built for his researches. He even said a little about his explorations of compelling combinations of light and sound rhythms.

Through two and a half hours and three CDs—one Kansas, one Strawbs, and one Glass Hammer—he never felt the least inclination to shade the truth or censor himself.

Sylvie listened without saying a word. Her attention seemed absolute. Her eyes never left his face. She remained riveted throughout his recital. He kept on until, having edged close to matters he felt he must not disclose, he forced himself to cease.

He felt his face reddening in the sudden silence. She smiled gently.

Thank you, Loren.

But for what? he said.

Trusting me with all that.

He frowned. A lot of boring personal crap about the life and times of a laborer and failed performer.

She shook her head. Not boring, dear. Not to me.

He took a moment to gather himself.

How could that be?

Her smile acquired a hint of sadness. I did mention that I’m a lawyer, didn’t I? He nodded. Well, what do you think my life is like?

I haven’t any idea, Sylvie, he said. Why don’t you tell me?

Her lips compressed momentarily.

I’m an associate in a large firm in Ithaca, she said. "I spend three-quarters of my work day listening to other people lie. People who want something, usually something they’re not entitled to.