Distant Reality Chapter One
GRID Traveler Trinity: Distant Reality
Author: J Carrell Jones
Table of Content
Chapter 1
In a person’s life-time decisions are made, some good, some bad, some of no immediate consequences. A person frets over some little unimportant detail when the big picture stares back. A choice is not always made under the best of circumstances. The only thing a person hopes for is an outcome that is remotely close to what is hoped for. Thus, a decision begets a consequence.
Chapter 1
Sean Blakemore stared blurrily at the picture in front of him. The picture frame weighted in his alcohol weakened arms. Why he kept the damn picture all these years was beyond him. Why he held it in his hand more so. He was an idiot for yet again torturing himself like this. Idiot, idiot, and idiot. He squinted once and sighed heavily. “Damn you!” he hissed. “God damn you to hell!” He screamed and flung the picture frame across the room. The frame broke and the glass cover shattered into small pieces. He slammed his glass at the shattered remains. Liquid spotted a torn photograph of a beautiful woman. He stood up and walked over to the bathroom sink. The remains of his last eaten meal still clogged the drain. He stared into the mirror. “You bastard! You ought to walk out in space right now.” Sean, at this moment hated himself and a decision he made years ago. The man in the mirror stared back with eyes that spoke of disappointment, pain, suffering and shame. Sean thought that if he were The Buddha his eyes would show him his duhkha. Instead, they reflected a man in deep pain.
“Excuse me Commander,” a disembodied voice said.
Sean looked over his shoulder. “What is it now?”
“Commander.” The computer said.
“I know my rank!”
“. . . You have a call coming in from headquarters.”
Sean stared at himself again and rubbed the day old growth on his chin. Not too long ago Sean enjoyed receiving calls. It was always that hint of the unknown that gave him a reason to serve GRID Command. Now . . . he didn’t feel one way or another. A call was just that: A call.
“I’ll take it in my Ready Room.”
“Yes Commander.” The computer said.
Sean walked the walk of a man trying not to show his inebriated state. He entered his Ready Room and sat heavily into his chair. He faced the computer terminal and pressed a ‘ready’ button on the keyboard. The screen sparkled a moment, then a shaped solidified. Sean blinked. He cleared his throat and said, “Yes, sir. What may I do for you?”
The man on the screen stared intently at Sean for a moment, as if he could literally read what was on the younger officer’s mind. Then he smiled. “Sean, you look like shit!”
“I feel like shit.” Sean smiled and raised an eyebrow, “A mission?”
“Yeah Sean, you got a mission and what a mission it is.”
Sean chuckled softly to himself, “Good, patrolling asteroids is not my idea of fun.”
The Admiral laughed. He knew all the details over the incident. When it happened he shook his head in astonishment. The man sacrificed a promotion for a fellow officer. Sean had been on the fast track to Commodore. Everyone he met believed it. Sean believed it. There was no stopping the progress. Except something did stop it. It was emotions, or if one was a direct witness to the events then it was lust. Maybe love, but lust, and loyalty, trust and belief. Sean put all that into a person. In letting his emotions steer him away from the main path he got side-swiped and it resulted in a very nasty ugly collision with an alternate destiny. Sean disobeyed a direct order from a commanding officer, a commanding officer with ties to the military measured in centuries. After the dust had settled and cleared, and the body count recorded, only one person stood. Unfortunately, it was not Sean. The fellow officer had won a commendation, a commission, and a promotion. GRID Command, in all its self-imposed wisdom, is an institution where discipline, duty, loyalty, and honor are held in high praise – when applied to the right side. Sean’s side lost and he was a casualty of a bruised ego. In one felled swoop ten dozen bodies littered the streets of revenge and embarrassment. He figured that as the walking wounded he’d be rescued. He wasn’t. His wound was deep.
Sean Blakemore walked onto Top Deck. He stepped just outside the elevator doorway as the doors hissed closed behind him. He stood for a moment listening to the beeps and low tones around the room. ‘Top Deck Chatter,’ Sean thought. The beeps, the hushed conversations, background noise and voices coming from the intercoms, the clicking sound from keyboards, all this was Deck chatter. It was a sound that all hands grew to believe, no felt, synonymous with the autonomous functions of the brain. Quiet the Deck chatter and the ship is dead. Rumor had it that if you silenced Deck chatter for a minute all hands would suffocate.
“This is the one thing she can’t take from me.”
“Commander?” A young ensign asked. “Are you alright?’”
“Nothing Ensign,” he smiled, “I’m okay.”
“Okay, sir.” The ensign said, turned and walked off to other assignments.
Sean walked over to the command chair and sat down. He swiveled over to look at a CRT on his right. He punched in his pass code and read the scrolling information on the screen. His eyes widened first with excitement, then narrowed with anger. His assignment was going to put his ship under HER command. “Damnit!”
The personnel on Top Deck turned to see their Commander in a foul mood. He ignored them for the moment; his only concern was the data scrolling across the screen. “Incredible! The Johnson is not some damned escort vessel!” Sean looked up suddenly and saw many startled faces. Deck chatter was an octave lower.
Sean sat for a full minute before he moved. ‘Damn,’ he thought, ‘God hates me.’
“Mr. Foster,” Sean said, “get us to the nearest GRID point, we’re going to Flashpoint.”
“Aye, aye sir.” The Lieutenant said. He fingers played over the control panel. “Course laid in, sir.”
Sean sat back and pressed the ‘Comm. button’. “All hands, all hands, travel stations, repeat, travel stations.” He pressed the button again. His second-in-command sat next to him in the XO chair. Sean swiveled to the left. “Well, number one. Ready?”
Dawn pressed several keys on her terminal, read the scrolling data on her CRT. “Yes, Commander.”
Sean Blakemore cleared his throat. “Mr. Foster, proceed!”
The GRID Ship Battlecruiser Reginald L. Johnson’s engines flared into action. Her destination: A GRID Point. An artificial point that created a measured amount of gravity within dark matter. GRavity InDuced points, in space, allowed a mobile object the ability to travel to another GRID point millions of miles to light years away. The Johnson jumped . . .
Sometime in the three-quarter 20th century scientist speculated about the fate of the Universe. Some said what was seen in the heavens was all there was. Others argued that the visible Universe was about 4% of what was really out there. Early in the 21st century “dark energy” was discovered. It was in complete contradiction to Einstein’s gut feeling that “there was no such thing as ether.” But, like all things scientific, some gut feelings must give way to observable facts. Succinctly put, the visible Universe was but a pinch in a hand full of existence. We lived in a place of great mystery as others called folly.
Sean sat back, watching the main viewer. The signal beacons bleeped on and off marking the boundaries of the GRID-point.
Mr. Foster said over his shoulder. “Ready to enter, sir.”
Sean stared. His mind was on the encounter he was about to face. Robin. It’s been a long time he thought. Do I greet you with civility, or spit in your face? Sean almost always had that thought whenever there was a chance encounter with his past friend, lover, and now superior officer.
Mr. Foster waited.
“Proceed, Mr. Foster.”
The huge ship labored forward into the GRID point. It accelerated, then vanished between two beacons that flashed on and off in a relentless job of signaling a GRID slot. The ship was gone, toward another grid-point to another point, to another point, to another point, until it reached its destination. This trip would be short and not require the crew to Trank. This trip also took the long ago and adjusted GRID points. The modulation on each point kept the crew sane and relatively comfortable.
Mr. Foster checked and rechecked the pattern flow across his CRT. He knew the drill: Pick a point, lock in on it, pick another, and lock in on that one also. Keep doing it until you were where you wanted to be. He knew the drill, but to make sure he checked and rechecked. “ETA in ten minutes, sir.”
Sean looked up from his CRT, “Noted Mr. Foster.” He swiveled his chair to the communications section. “Mr. Kirkland.”
Mr. Kirkland pulled the Comm. plug from his ear, “Yes, sir.”
“When we get to Flashpoint, contact the Webster. Let Webster know that we’re ready for rendezvous.”
“Aye, sir.” Kirkland placed the Comm. plug back in his ear. He listened intently on the comm. traffic over the GRIDnet. He picked up bits of messages from the Outlands. He dialed in a tighter signal. His panel beeped that his designated target was in communication range. He typed in a brief message and sent it to the Comm. Officer of the Webster, a friend.
Sean sat and stared those last ten minutes away. He snapped out of his dream state, “Mr. Kirkland . . .”
Kirkland looked up from reading a text message that flashed across his screen. His friend had just sent a message explaining that the crew was on edge. Webster’s Captain was going to command Johnson and she wasn’t too happy. “Yes, sir?”
“Are we in contact with the Webster?”
“Yes, sir. Just reading a message from the Comm. officer now . . .”
“Good, please ask their Captain to contact me at her earliest convenience.”
Sean got up and started walking. “I’ll be in the conference room. Dawn, please accompany me, I have things to tell you.”
Dawn followed Sean through the sliding door. To the Top Deck crew the door hissed closed rather tightly.
Kirkland began typing out the message to the Webster.
- Beginning of Message*
Commander of Johnson wishes Captain of Webster to contact him at earliest convenience.
- End of Message*
- Commander is in a bad mood - think maybe blood is still bad between them? ***
The reply came back,
- Response*
Commander of Webster acknowledges message. Information on rendezvous follows immediately.
- Yep, blood is still bad. The Captain cursed up a fit when she received the orders. ***
Sean sat down behind his desk. He turned the chair around so that the expanse of stars swept by the view wall. This was his place of ease, his escape. During most of the war, Sean and the crew spent travel time in a sleep that allowed them to retain sanity. Short trips and surface jumps, though travel time increased drastically, gave the crew rest and the ability to function normally. Dawn sat just in front of the desk and turned her chair likewise. She watched the stars streak by. She waited a few moments – Sean seemingly lost in awe with the view, cleared her throat.
“Sir, is there something wrong?”
Sean broke his gaze from the window and turned his chair to Dawn. “Yeah, very much wrong.” He paused.
Dawn waited.
“Captain Spaarin will be taking command of the Johnson for the duration of this mission.”
Three seconds ticked by.
“The fucking bitch!”
Sean fought the urge to laugh. Dawn knew all the details. She was absolutely loyal to him, he was certain of that. During that time Sean gave her an order to not fire and she followed it. She believed in that order; she still believed in the order and she felt Sean had been given a raw deal. It was absolutely political. Dawn had heard rumors that someone high up had taken a liking to Captain Spaarin. This someone had shielded her from all the meltdown that occurred from her disobeying an order and everyone else was collateral damage. The only good thing that came out of the whole mess was that Sean was given the command of the Johnson, but not the rank. It was the oldest ship in the fleet, but it was the fastest and he made the best of it. The Johnson had the best record in the entire GRID Fleet and that rubbed many folks the wrong way. When the SI war ended with humanity victorious many questioned what it really meant to be human. Many lost their lives – many commanding officers died. Ranks had to be filled. Sean had been skipped over three times. Dawn thought what better form of humiliation and punishment could be exacted on a person?
Dawn reiterated, “The fucking bitch!”
Sean nodded, “Wish it could be someone else.”
“Damn! What is GRID Command thinking?” Then Dawn frowned. “What is our mission?”
“Don’t know yet. I only know that Robin . . . Captain Spaarin will be commanding Johnson.”
“Bitch!”
“This is why we are talking right now.”
Dawn looked Sean straight in the eyes. Sean stared back and said, “I’ll effectively be her number one and . . . “
“That is total bull shit!”
Sean nodded. Dawn would have had to be temporarily reassigned. This mission sucked for everyone. He continued, “. . . and I’m keeping you as XO.”
Dawn clamped her jaws tight. “Yes, sir. I knew I wasn’t going to like this one bit.”
Sean nodded and understood. During the ‘fallout’ Dawn was up for court-martial. Sean took absolute responsibility over the incident. He tossed himself on top of the grenade and saved about a hundred personnel.
Dawn sighed, “Anything else, sir?”
Sean smiled, “Nope, I dropped that second shoe.”
Dawn smiled back, “By your leave then sir.”
He nodded and Dawn got up and walked out.
Sean sat there for a moment staring out the window. He remembered the first time he had been in space. It was an inescapable feeling of being free. A sense of awe, and wonderment mixed with fear, and anticipation. Even now, amidst this mission Sean still took in the expanse before him. Space, Sean told himself, was something to always be in awe.
“Commander . . .” Kirkland’s disembodied voice said.
“Yes?”
“Captain Spaarin is on comm. line three.”
“Thanks,” Sean replied, swung his chair around and hit a comm. button marked ‘three’ on the terminal on his desk, “Commander Blakemore here.” Sean listened. He stilled himself for the voice he knew would come.”
“Yes, Commander Blakemore . . .”
Sean’s heart skipped a beat.
“Put it on visual, Commander.”
Sean hesitated. He really didn’t want to see her face. Hearing her voice was painful enough. He hit the visual button. A beautiful face sparkled solid. A face he hadn’t seen in a couple of years, a face that reminded him of bad times – and good. He set his jaw, tensed, then relaxed. “Yes, Captain, do you see me now?”
The face was small and round, light hair, with pale eyes. The lips were full and every time Sean chanced the stare, emotions of lust would wash over him. He shook himself and remembered that this woman was the one who placed him where he is now, maybe not purposely, but nevertheless a result of the fallout from her actions. Sean never forgot, and for that he hated her.
Spaarin sat back and smiled thinly. She remembered Sean better looking the last time they encountered each other. She stared into his eyes, and wished he had been stronger about the whole ugly affair. It wasn’t her fault that he became too emotionally attached. She warned him, but by that time she was ready to make a career move. She used Sean as a stepping-stone and felt certain he hated her. She sighed and said, “Yes, I see you Commander. Nice to see you after all these years.” It was a lie, but she had a courtesy to lie, rank, position, and respect and all that in the service.
Sean nodded; he wasn’t going to make this easy.
“Sean, we have a problem . . .”
“Yes.”
Spaarin hesitated a moment, then, “I will be taking command of the Johnson . . .”
“The Johnson,” Sean snapped, “is my ship. Just tell me what to do . . .”
“No Commander, I will be coming aboard. We will then proceed with the mission.” She saw that Sean was grinding his teeth and clenching his jaw.
Sean stared intensely at her. He knew he couldn’t fight it. His orders had been specific, ‘Follow the orders of Captain Spaarin.’ “Yes . . .”
She dared to push, “Yes what?”
“Yes . . . Captain Spaarin . . . I will make arrangements.” He wanted to scream ‘you bitch I’ll arrange my boot up your ass! You messed up my career, and I took the fall for you.’ But he stilled his tongue and swallowed his pride. He hit the off button, turned his chair to the view wall and lost himself in space. She, at least, can’t take his last moments as commander of his own ship, the last moments that would allow him to be alone.
Captain Robin Spaarin looked at the now blank screen. She bit her lower lip and swore, “Damn!” She was not going to like this assignment, not one bit.
She was taking his ship away from him and he couldn’t do a damn legal thing.
Captain Spaarin sat in her chair. She stared at the contents on the desk in front of her. The assorted mish-mash of stuff lay upon it. She reached out and picked up a picture frame. She held it close to her heart and sighed heavily. “I’m so sorry Sean, it had to be done.” She looked at the photo and pursed her lips together. She laid the photo down face up.