fi·nal·i·ty

The X-77 streaked through the sky with Death’s Embrace IX painted across the fuselage like the unauthorized graffiti it was. But it was more than a simple boast. It was a challenge to an unwitting prophecy hanging over a world always in a state of conflict far beyond its terrestrial origins. 

 

Despite all evidence pointing to rockets and vertical takeoffs being far superior in both efficiency and cost, NASA and many privateers just had to prove a spaceplane could be done The X-77 was a technological marvel, to be sure. Sporting a thrust-to-weight ratio of an unfathomable two-to-one, it was in a class of its own. Prior models never got anywhere even remotely close to that mark but thanks to too many coffees and a typo, the nuclear fusion engine was born. 

 

Hell, this GQ-styled space plane even had an escape pod and rotating engines not just for vertical take-off, but they could invert for what the engineers liked to call ‘reentry braking.’ Only a lunatic would choose this ride, and his name was Colonel John Baker. He was never one to shy away from a challenge and today was no different. For up ahead lay the silent expanse and a defiant reach for destiny – and a reckoning with the fates. 

 

“Slim, trim, and heading to the rim,” he boasted. At the ripe age of forty, he’d been put through the wringer for most of his life and cheated death more than a few times between his combat deployments and legendary run as a test pilot. His current benchmark was affectionately hailed as the first submersible to almost reach space. He had survived a whopping twenty-four minutes underwater in the X-74 thanks to the suction power of mud limiting the water intake. 

 

His long-time wingman was Simi Holt. She was appropriately named since Simi meant little wind cloud in her Native American Chumash language, and she sure liked to talk. These two had been through nearly everything together since they were teenagers, and she prided herself on being the first one to call him out for his crap.

 

“Hey genius, you do realize slim and trim mean the same thing,” she countered while flying beside him in an F-22 Raptor at a cozy Mach two. 

 

“But it rhymes, baby, but it rhymes.” You didn’t have to see his face to know he was grinning from ear to ear, but you can bet your ass it was there beneath his slick-looking helmet with a tinted visor. His space suit itself was just about as hi-tech as the plane. It not only performed better than the bulky beasts of the past, but one could easily suspect a fashion designer was consulted during its creation. 

 

She couldn’t help but chuckle. “Copy that, Cowboy, copy that.” After a glance at her instruments, she continued, “Houston, this is Indian, approaching sixty-k, ready to commence.” 

 

“Copy that Indian, sixty-k confirmed. Level off at sixty-two and stand by,” came back over her com system. “How ya feeling up there, Cowboy? We’re all green down here.”

 

“Ready to cross the prairie, Houston,” Baker replied.

 

“Godspeed, Colonel, Houston standing by.” 

 

Godspeed indeed, he thought. “Kicking the spurs,” he quipped, then flipped a switch. 

 

If nuclear fusion engines had an afterburner, this was it. Mach two became Mach three, then four, five, six, and seven in such succession that it may very well have skipped one. At Mach ten, he pulled back on the stick.

 

Baker studied the instrument panel while pinned to his seat, watching the speed and altitude indicators in a heated race. When he reached Mach twenty-five at around two hundred and sixty thousand feet, he called out “Mach twenty-five. Heading into the therm, please confirm.”

 

“Confirm, Cowboy, Houston’s with you.”

 

Faster and higher. Mach twenty-five turned to thirty and the altitude approached three hundred thousand.

 

Reaching escape velocity before the Kármán Line at around three hundred and thirty thousand feet was Baker’s only concern. Come on, sweetheart, just a little bit more. Don’t let me down again.

 

Mach thirty-three. Three hundred twenty thousand feet. Go time.

 

The X-77 breached outer space and in doing so was setting a new altitude record with each foot gained. The engines cut back, rotated to a reverse position, and re-fired, til the X-77 came to a near halt at four hundred freaking thousand feet.

 

Baker lifted his tinted visor and nudged some controls. Maneuvering thrusters fired, bringing the front of the ship around for a clear view of Earth. His eyes were filled with wonder, like only seeing the Earth from outer space that first time can do. From the majestic, snow-capped mountains splitting the land masses to the vast expanse of the oceans, and to the realization that he was no longer there. That at this very moment, he was but a neighbor to everything that was happening below. 

 

He couldn’t help but recall the words of Edgar Mitchell after the Apollo 14 mission in 1971. You develop an instant global consciousness, a people orientation, an intense dissatisfaction with the state of the world, and a compulsion to do something about it. From out there on the moon, international politics look so petty. You want to grab a politician by the scruff of the neck and drag him a quarter of a million miles out and say, ‘Look at that, you son of a bitch.

 

Baker chuckled. “Houston, you’ve never looked more beautiful.”

 

“You’re not too shabby yourself, Cowboy.”

 

Simi chimed in, “What am I, chopped liver?”

 

“You’re a peach. Me, on the other hand,” he jested, then he reached for an MP3 player duct taped overhead and hit play. “The Joker” by The Steve Miller Band filled the cockpit and played loud and clear for Simi and all of Houston to hear. Baker even sang along.

 

Simi piped in over the coms, “Why am I not surprised?”

 

Houston joined in the fun, “Cowboy, are you officially requesting a call sign?”

 

Baker turned down the volume to a near whisper.

 

“Call me what you will, Houston, but this Space Cowboy’s living the dream.” The grin on his face was the contagious kind. He always could control a room with that smile.

 

“Copy that, Space Cowboy. Initiate maneuvers as you will.”

 

Baker put all the various thrusters to work. He looked like a rookie pilot in one of the Vipers from Battlestar Galactica flipping this way and that. He thrusted forward, flipped, and in an instant, he was moving in the same direction, but the X-77 was facing the other direction.

 

With a hearty “Yeehaw,” Baker was having the time of his life. “Wish you were here, Seems.”

 

“Me, too, Cowboy, but I don’t think there’s room up there for three of us.”

 

Baker’s unbridled enthusiasm abruptly reigned in. He lowered his gaze to a picture taped to the console of a Native American woman with long black hair pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a green sundress and had both hands on her belly amid a fit of laughter. You are here… aren’t you, Rach?

 

In a way, she had been his first test flight, his first big risk; notwithstanding his career as a fighter pilot, of course. It’d been over a decade since her death, and not a day had gone by when he didn’t blame himself. If he had been there, things would have been different. That’s what he kept telling himself, but more likely he’d have just died as well.

 

“She’d be so proud of you, John,” Simi added. “But it’s time to come home.”

 

“Houston concurs, Cowboy. We’ll get the champagne ready.”

 

Baker shook his way out of the memory.

 

“Cowboy copies. Preparing for re-en–” Baker cut himself off as a hard stare of disbelief swept across his face. Being the seasoned pro he was, he kept his outer cool despite his brain working overtime. “Uhhh, Houston?”

 

“Something wrong, Cowboy?”

 

“What’s the protocol to make sure I’m not hallucinating?”

 

“Why do you ask? You seeing stars or something?” Houston joked.

 

“I got eyes on a derelict shuttle, and I ain’t never seen anything like this baby before. Not in real at least, at least.” Baker was staring at what best could be described as a space shuttle from any number of sci-fi movies he had seen. There were no wings, just a series of exhaust ports along the sides from what he could see. “Any scuttlebutt on other countries testing new spacecraft?”

 

“Negative, Cowboy. We’re in the dark as much as you. Your feed is coming through clear and I hate to say it, but you’re not hallucinating.”

 

He maneuvered around it getting a look at every side. “I can see the pilot, he looks unconscious. Or dead. Most likely dead. There’s what looks like a… torpedo blast hole in the side. There was no explosion, but something tore through the side at least half a meter wide. I’m gonna get a closer look at the damage.”

 

Baker thrusted around the side until he was lined up. “I’m doubling down on what the damage looks like. It also has scorch marks and what I can only guess is a patch job from the inside that defies physics.” The patch job, as he called it, looked like rippling, molten silver that conformed to every jagged edge of the blast hole.

 

“We’re getting word out to various governments and installations to see if anyone knows anything. Satellites didn’t pick this up so if it wasn’t for your feed, we wouldn’t believe it ourselves.”

 

The patch seemed to shift from its near-solid state to a liquid. It took the form of a ball and the vacuum of space launched it directly at the X-77. His fighter pilot’s instincts kicked in and he made some emergency maneuvers. The sound of metal smacking metal vibrated through the bottom of his plane.

 

“Did you see that?” Baker asked. “The patch sort of melted and broke off – gave me a glancing blow, but all seems well.”

 

“Copy that. Get behind it and match its speed and course if you can,” Houston advised. “We’re gonna use your telemetry to project its course for follow-up then get you back home. Don’t want fuel to become a problem.”

 

“If I can, Houston?” Baker chuckled, then added, “getting into position.” He played with the thrusters like it was a video game til he got it just right. “Houston, speed and course are matched.”

 

Baker made micro adjustments as needed and while he waited for Houston to finish their calculations, a thought occurred to him. “Houston, even a tiny difference and we can lose this thing forever, so what do you think about me getting in front and slowing it down?”

 

“Say again, Cowboy. It sounded like you’re suggesting to use the X-77 as a braking module.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Houston.”

 

“Negative, Cowboy. The risk is unacceptable. We have what we need. Time to come home.”

 

“I’m telling you, I can do it.”

 

“And I’m telling you General Terral is right behind me grinding his molars.”

 

Baker chewed his lip, debating whether to beg for forgiveness after violating the order since he obviously wasn’t going to get permission.

 

Simi piped in after accurately predicting what was going on in his mind. “Don’t do it, Cowboy.”

 

“Don’t do what?” he protested in almost believable innocence.

 

“Yeah, exactly. Get your ass down here. We got a date, or have you forgotten?” It wasn’t a date date, just a planned outing of two friends to commemorate the occasion. She knew Baker thought of her as a little sister and he still hadn’t gotten over Rachel… and probably never would.

 

“You’ve been up there long enough and we’re starting to get a little worried about the fuel situation,” Houston added.

 

“Beginning descent procedures,” Baker conceded without trying to hide his resentment. He gave the shuttle a few moments additional thought, then lowered his visor, and with a few buttons pushed and switches flipped, the X-77 was pointed nose down at Earth. He gave it just enough thrust to get moving and once he felt the pull of gravity, he inverted the fusion engines to moderate the descent.

 

#

 

Two spaceships shaped like birds of prey approached the derelict shuttle. They had a pair of landing gear with razor-sharp, claw-like feet at the end of jointed legs. When the X-77 began re-entry, one stalked it like a predator while the other approached the derelict shuttle.

 

#

 

Baker’s eyes flitted between the altitude and speed indicators with brief glimpses at the fuel gauge, making sure to stay below Mach five.

 

The air grew thicker once he got below two hundred and fifty thousand feet, so he started to level out bit by bit while still making sure to keep speeds at a minimum. Two hundred thousand. One hundred and fifty. One hundred thousand feet and Mach 4. Eighty thousand – mach 3 – fuel still in the green.

 

Simi was waiting at sixty-two thousand feet, and they once again super cruised side by side at the cozy Mach 2. 

 

Baker led with the classic line, “Of all the gin joints in all the world…”

 

“Houston, you’ll never guess who I just ran into.”

 

“Well then, why don’t you bring our wayward boy home? We got some celebrating to do, not to mention the debriefing on that shuttle.”

 

“Will do Houston, will do. Cowboy, what was going on–” she cut off short when she spotted a piece of metal break off from the underside of Baker’s plane. “Belay that. Hold course Cowboy, we might have a problem.” Simi swooped underneath the X-77 and saw another piece of the skin about to break loose. “Oh, crap.”  The piece broke off and nearly smashed into Simi’s canopy.

 

She moved her F-22 out of harm’s way and called it in. “Houston, we have parts breaking off directly beneath the pod. So far it just looks like the skin.”

 

“Copy that, Indian. Cowboy, throttle back and descend as safely as you can, and tell us what you’re feeling.”

 

“Copy, Houston, throttling down. I got a bit of vibration but nothing more than–” He sniffed once – twice – curious. “Houston, I might be on fire.”

 

Simi watched a trail of liquid fly out from the damaged area, followed by more skin and an internal component. Before she could call it in, she noticed it. “Houston, Cowboy, I see flames.”

 

“Initiating fire suppression,” Baker added with a definitive voice devoid of fear.

 

A small explosion shook the X-77, showering debris into the sky. Flames spread throughout the undercarriage. 

 

“Houston, Cowboy, more pieces of skin and internals have blown off and the fire is spreading. Recommend autopilot and getting Cowboy in the coffin.”

 

Houston’s response showed faith in their man. “Your call, Cowboy, how’s she handling?

 

“Vibration is worse but despite that and the smoke, I still have full control. Let’s ride it out a bit. Executing emergency descent.” He pushed the nose forward. 

 

“Do your best. Houston standing by.” 

 

Baker smelled something foul. He took several sniffs to figure it out and once he did, fear spread across his face. He started pushing buttons like a madman. “Mayday mayday. Securing fusion engines, shutting down all power, glide control engaged, and entering the pod.” Baker stuffed Rachel’s picture into his pocket before pulling a lever. His seat reclined, then lowered into the escape pod, but the door wouldn’t shut. “Shit.” Then he saw it – a piece of debris was blocking the pod door down by the knees. “Double shit.”

 

Simi watched as a pair of emergency wings slipped out from the fuselage just behind the cockpit, which helped to stabilize the automated glide descent. Then the fusion engines shut down and jettisoned. Everything seemed to be going as well as expected during an emergency. All that was left was for the escape pod to blow free. At fifty thousand feet and still faster than Mach 1, it was Baker’s only chance at survival. “Where are you, John?”

 

Baker released his harness and tried to worm his way into a position to remove the blockage. In such confined quarters, it was not going well. He took off his helmet and swung it like a hammer, knocking the debris clear. 

 

Just as he slipped his helmet back on, a stream of silvery liquid metal flowed into the pod like an oozing swarm, worming its way under Baker’s helmet before he could get it secured. The molten flow flooded into his mouth, nose, eyes, and ears. His body convulsed and his eyes rolled into the back of his head as oblivion welcomed him into the deep.

 

 #

 

Microscopic sarchio invaded Baker’s bloodstream, spreading throughout his body and latching on to his muscles, bones, organs, and brain. Three of them attached themselves where the brain stem met the spine.

 

“Male. Suboptimal. Past its prime,” Bulla said in a gravelly, alien tongue. 

 

Dezrey added in the same language,” That may work to our advantage.” Her voice was void of anything resembling emotion. It was flat-out cold and calculating.

 

“If he survives… Auxcius, you will be the voice.”

 

“Agreed,” Auxcius replied in a soothing, feminine tone.

 

The three issued a joint command via Baker’s central nervous system and the sarchio on the receiving end zapped Baker’s heart with electric jolts that sizzled the flesh.

 

#

 

Simi watched her altitude cross fifty thousand and still no escape pod. “Houston, we’re under fifty-k and the pod has not ejected. I repeat; the pod has not ejected. What are you seeing down there?”

 

“Telemetry is down, Indian. You’re the only eyes we got.”

 

An internal explosion forced the X-77 into an uncontrollable hard right bank, sending it far off the planned course in a matter of seconds.

 

Simi chased it down, then gawked in horror as a second explosion doomed the X-77. She put her Raptor into a near-vertical descent both dodging and scouring through the free-falling wreckage. She finally spotted the escape pod with its door wide open and Baker nowhere to be found. Her breath caught in her throat. “Houston, he’s not in the pod.”

 

“Did you say he’s not in the pod?”

 

The fear in her voice was unmistakable. “Affirmative.” As the debris spread out, making it easier to see, she found him. “Oh, God.”

 

***

 

Baker fought the air currents but was finally able to settle on his back free-falling ass-down having already reached terminal velocity. He fought for all he’s worth to secure his helmet. Unaware that his suit had also been torn, it didn’t take long for his twenty-minute oxygen supply to run out.

 

Simi positioned herself within twenty feet of him and matched the speed of his descent. God bless the F-22 Raptor. “Houston, he’s conscious, but his helmet isn’t secure. He’s running out of air.” She checked her altimeter.

 

Forty-five thousand feet. That’s over ninety seconds til the barest minimum level of oxygen might help. Another 45 seconds to reach safe oxygen levels. And another minute til his body smashes into the water far below. Just over three minutes left in the life and times of Colonel John Baker.

 

He finally secured his helmet and checked a pair of gauges on his wrist. The oxygen level was already near zero and still dropping – with the altimeter nearing forty thousand feet. He rolled over and saw Simi, so he directed his flight, aiming for her.

 

Simi realized what he was doing and followed along. She slowed her Raptor’s descent just enough, giving him a chance to reach her.  

 

Baker landed across the nose of her plane with his face inches from the canopy and showed her his gauges.

 

 She broke out in tears just as his oxygen level struck midnight. “No, John, no no no no.”

 

Baker lifted his tinted visor and gave her a warm smile despite the short, choppy breaths, and his eyes having started to glaze over. He was speaking but she couldn’t hear him, so she wiped the tears from her eyes and read his lips. Don’t be sad, he was saying. I get to see Rachel.

 

Simi’s cries doubled but between sobs, she uttered, “Give her my love.”   

 

He kissed his fingers and pressed them against the canopy, then he closed his visor. Baker’s body went limp, then slid off the nose of Simi’s plane. 

 

Unconscious at thirty-five thousand feet, he couldn’t hear her screams.

 

 

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