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Overview
“I am Aaron Lee Fairfax. I am forty‑three years old. I am married to Janessa, but she wants a divorce. I work for Thagg, Morgan, and Edwards Brokerage Group in Kansas City, Missouri. I own a Maserati.” It all sounded so false, these big words coming out of a boy’s mouth. He sat alone, small in the adult‑size chair, clad only in shortie pajamas with Peanuts characters rampant. His feet did not even reach the floor. “Why did you go on the Holn ship?” “Because I was curious.” “What happened in the Holn ship on June 10?” He stopped, stared at the floor. He took a breath, let it out. “They did something to us.”
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781497627024 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 05/27/2014 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 340 |
| Sales rank: | 237,349 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
Terry D. England is a journalist and lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Rewind is his first novel.
Terry D. England is a journalist and lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Rewind is his first novel.
Read an Excerpt
Rewind
By Terry England
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1997 Terry EnglandAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-2702-4
CHAPTER 1
June 11, 2008
"I am Aaron Lee Fairfax. I am forty-three years old. I am married to Janessa, but she wants a divorce. I work for Thagg, Morgan, and Edwards Brokerage Group in Kansas City, Missouri. I own a Maserati."
It all sounded false, these big words coming out of a boy's mouth. He sat alone, small in an adult-sized chair, clad only in shortie pajamas with Peanuts characters rampant. His bare feet did not even reach the floor. On the other side of a glass partition, formless adults sat in shadows.
"What were you doing in Santa Fe?"
He could not tell who asked the questions. "The firm wants to open a Southwest branch, Phoenix, Tucson or Albuquerque. We had visited the other cities and it was Albuquerque's turn."
"Just yourself?"
"No, four officers from the firm."
"They did not go to the Holn ship?" The intercom suggested a feminine voice.
"No. I was the only one who wanted to see it. I was curious."
"You went alone?"
"I drove our rented car to the site." He looked down at his pale, thin legs. "A small car. I was too tall for it."
* * *
[["We have reports that the children are claiming to be the missing people. Authorities are skeptical because the medical bulletins from St. Vincent Hospital say these are definitely children, all in excellent health.
"We asked Jack Theodoric, FBI agent in charge, about the coincidence that seventeen adults are missing yet seventeen children were found after the ship left yesterday."
"Very coincidental, don't you think?"
"That's all he would say. Meanwhile, authorities are trying to find parents or other relatives of these children. A source, asking not to be named, told me absolutely no one has stepped forward.
"Marinka Svoboda, CNN, Santa Fe."]]
* * *
And so it went:
Up on this table, please, take your top off, breathe deep, please, as hands encased in thin latex touch a stethoscope along his back, his chest. Open your mouth, please, an eye peeking through a hood peers in, then into nostrils, ears. Lay on your stomach, please, thump, thump, thump; over please, thump, thump, thump. Remove your bottoms, please, as rubberized hands prod, push, separate. Stand still, please, and huge adult hands press childlike fingers into ink and then onto cards. Human faces anonymous behind swaths of green cloth say little to him but much to each other.
To X-ray: lie on the table, please, as he's turned, rolled and twisted into every conceivable position (don't move, please). In a white room, more poses for less penetrating photos, but naked again: front, back, sides, chest, legs, face, arms, feet, hands— every inch photographed from every angle.
"Am I posing for child porn or something?"
No one laughs.
No one says a word.
* * *
[["Twenty minutes after departure from the New Mexico desert, the Arianespace DS1 satellite captured these images of the Holn lander linking with its deep-space engine array orbiting the Earth. Within five minutes, attitude control jets turned the linked ships and the massive nuclear engines roared to life. Scientists say the acceleration must be immense.
"All efforts to contact the ship have failed. The Holn have not answered, and the ship continues on a course away from Earth. One scientist suggests the occupants might already be in biological stasis for the trip back to the mother ship, which could take up to twenty years.
"Kinsea Lee, NBC News, Santa Fe."]]
* * *
"What happened in the Holn ship on June fifth?"
"We were inside, looking around at the displays. No warning or anything. I mean, no lights, no buzzers. The last thing I remember was looking at a holo of the Holn mother ship. Then I woke up on the hill, naked." He ran his hands down his thin chest, feeling ribs under cloth. "And—and ... smaller."
"Do you remember anything in between?"
He stopped, stared at the floor. "Vague things. Shapes and forms. Long ... tentacles, or wires. No one talking. Light overhead, soft sounds in the background. A curved wall, ceiling, overhead, I think.... Memory is a gap." He took a breath, let it out. "First thing I really remember is seeing an ant crawling along the ground. Then the ground started vibrating. I could barely get to my feet."
The anonymous green people later stuck his body into a dark tunnel. As he lay listening to the whirrings and poppings, he wondered if he would come out even smaller....
* * *
[["Dr. Rolstein, why, after six years of exchanging information, did the Holn do this?"
"The question of the decade don't you think? Only the decade, though. The question of the century is, why did they come in the first place?"
"You don't have any idea after six years?"
"We can give one answer, of course, the same answer to the question of why we went to the Moon. To beat the Soviets — I mean, to find out what's there. We did sort of advertise our presence, did we not, by beaming our TV signals all across the galaxy. Hogan's Heroes, Gilligan's Island, Howdy Doody. I wonder what they think of a wooden doll on strings pushing Nestle's chocolate, eh? So they came to find out what the Sam Hill was going on over here. Gave them an earful, I must say."
"What did we get in return?"
"The answer to Enrico Fermi's question: Where are they? Right there, Dr. Fermi, with a lot more out there, we now know. On a more prosaic level, some information on new metal alloys and rocket engines. No warp drive, sorry Captain Kirk. Their engines are practical examples of technology we've already thought about. Nice computers, though, machines that'll make ol' von Neumann green with envy. New polymers, some other stuff making DuPont go nuts. No cure for cancer, though, I'm afraid. Their physiology is much too different."
"What did we give them?"
"Ah, an interesting question. On the surface, not too much, no? I find it a wonder they didn't leave after — or during — the Millennium Riots of ought-4. Maybe they found tear gas tasty. Or perhaps they found it all amusing."
"In all the exchanges of information between Earth scientists and the Holn, there was no suggestion they would kidnap seventeen humans for experiments?"
"Not unless we missed something in the fine print. Besides, we don't know they did experiments. Maybe they offered them a ride. 'Come wiz me to the Kochab.' And the humans said 'Why not?'"
"How do you explain the children?"
"I have an idea about that, but for now, I am keeping my mouth shut."
"Unfortunately, we cannot pursue that line of thought. We switch now to Rolf Treadwell in Washington where the president's spokesman is about to issue a statement. Perhaps later we can discuss your theory, doctor. This is Marinka—"
"If you pursue it too far, young lady, you'll be burned as a heretic."]]
* * *
"Aaron Lee Fairfax." The words swiftly faded to nothing.
He sat alone, legs dangling over the edge of the bed. Ages had passed since the day on the hill, but hospital staff kept telling him the rocket had left only yesterday. Now this day was fading to black ... another night of terror ahead ...
He glanced at the wrinkled paper in his hand, a photocopy of his driver's license. In one corner, an image of a man: strong chin, no folds of fat underneath; broad face; set mouth; receding hairline; looking out with confidence, perhaps a touch of arrogance. Vital statistics deemed necessary to know by the State of Missouri — Date of birth: 2-27-65; Height: six feet, two inches; Weight: 197; Eyes: brown; Hair: black; Physical Disabilities: none; Glasses: no.
"You continue to insist this man is you?" The gargoyle in the sterile gown had held the photocopy two inches in front of his face. "Look at yourself in the mirror, and tell me again: Is this man you?"
"Yes, sir." Meekly.
The gargoyle made a sound deep inside the mask.
"Look at yourself." A gloved hand thrust open his pajama top. "Where'd your muscles go? Look." He poked with a finger. "Nothing there, just a kid's skinny chest. Your biceps." He pulled an arm out, squeezed with his other hand. "Nothing. Weak as a kitten." He pushed Aaron back, yanked down his bottoms. "Look at this. You call this a man's penis? And these genitals. These aren't a man's equipment, they've never been used. And not a hair on them, slick as a newborn's." He leaned forward until his masked face was inches away. Aaron could see only brown eyes glaring at him. "You still say you were once a man?"
"Y-yes. Yes. I was a man once."
"Shit." The gargoyle crumpled the photocopy, threw it down. "Get dressed." He stomped away.
Now alone in the cold, sterile hospital room, the boy wrapped his arms around himself, bent forward and took deep breaths.
I am Aaron Lee Fairfax, 43 years old; I own a Maserati. I am an adult.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
I will not cry. I will not.
"They did something to us."
A tear slipped out from beneath an eyelid and down a cheek, paused a moment at the edge of the jaw, then fell to oblivion.
CHAPTER 2June 12
Miranda Sena had the distinct feeling she was arguing a lost cause. "I'm just a bit, uh, surprised to be asked."
"We've got to get order out of chaos, it's that simple." The sharp greenish eyes of Avram Rolstein, a prime mover in the Holn Contact and Study Group, remained fixed on her. "And we need your help."
"I'm only here a couple of days to gather a little more data on Holn brain configuration. I'm scheduled to present a paper at the neurological congress next month."
Avram smiled. "All I want you to do is listen and make suggestions if you see fit. I was very glad Franklyn told me you were here, and it goes beyond the artistic thing."
Miranda tapped a foot on the floor of the carpet and looked out of the window. Once again, the Holn were throwing everything out of whack. Her first word about them came from a fellow graduate student crashing into a lecture in the late '90s, shouting about an odd blip that had shown up in sky images and how this blip had changed course. Then the blip began sending messages ...
Can you imagine what would've happened if they'd just announced themselves in a blaze of light and pulsating music?" one of many scientists netted by TV had said during the ship's transit across the solar system. "They're giving us a chance to get used to them. If we can."
The calm voices of scientists (in public, anyway) did little to smooth the hysteria on the planet. Miranda's studies served to steady her own nerves as she followed the transit daily like a soap opera addict. She was in transit herself, from graduate student to postgraduate status and thus tried to bear down on her future. But the Holn had changed that paradigm forever ...
And the pulse of fear that had surged through her the first time Hubble telescope pictures came in of the ship shocked her so much she had to switch off the TV. Once the ship had landed, though, data about an alien physiology started trickling in. She dropped the line of study she'd pursued for six years like so much scrap paper and joined the tumult of scientists begging, pleading, conniving to get a piece of Holn research. When her number finally came up in the "contact lottery," she played a hunch — and it paid off spectacularly.
Now this new twist ...
With an inner voice warning she'd regret it, she turned to Avram. "Dr. Nakai warned me about you." She began stuffing wallet, hotel key, and change into pockets.
"Did he, now? I'll take that as a compliment."
Miranda followed the slight figure — she stood a head taller than he did — out of the room. Avram, now stuffing tobacco into his pipe as they walked down the three flights of stairs, had been the first scientist on the site. Not by design, though.
"You came up here just to get me?" She said as they crossed the lobby. She had to scramble to keep up.
"I'm surprised you got a room here. La Fonda is usually booked solid in summer."
"Luck," she said as he pushed a wooden door with glass panes open, held it for her. "I called, they'd just had a cancellation."
Avram nodded as he scurried down a short flight of steps and got into position to hold another, heavier wooden door for her. He was supposed to be closer to seventy than sixty, but his pace made Miranda wonder what he'd been like at twenty-five. He crossed a street in the middle of the block, seemingly oblivious to the crawling traffic.
"Holn physiology," she started as they headed down a sidewalk under a long roof supported by upright logs, "is much different than human. So how could they pull this off?"
Avram swerved to avoid a camera-toting tourist. Indeed, weaving became essential in order to get around slow-walking people gawking into store windows. She caught her own reflection, a slim woman with dark hair cut at her collar, dressed in T-shirt, khaki shorts, and sport sandals.
"That question is number one." Avram went left to get around a coven of youths in red T-shirts; Miranda swerved right but other knots of bag-laden shoppers kept them apart for another quarter-block. "We don't have the faintest idea how or why it was done," he said when they could rejoin.
"I just don't know what I can add—"
He grabbed her left arm, pulled her around and pointed with his pipe stem at a newspaper vending machine in front of a Woolworth's store. WHO ARE THESE CHILDREN? blared USA Today's headline with an image below it of the children as they had been found on the hillside but with parts of their anatomies fuzzed over. SCIENTIST: CHILDREN "ALIEN" said the headline on The Santa Fe New Mexican, the local paper.
"That's what we're up against," Avram said, as a man in a straw hat and yellow shirt stepped up and dropped in a dollar coin to buy the USA Today. "Rumors, speculation, fantasy, spreading at the speed of light all over the world. Much faster than we bumbling scientists can keep up with. And this," he gestured at the customer's copy as he walked away, "is mild compared to some of the other stuff. We need ideas, direction, and we need them now from anyone we can grab. Your mistake, I'm afraid, was being within my reach."
At a newer — and to Miranda, uglier — hotel, milling people crowded into the meeting room. Some were from the contact group, others she recognized from television appearances. She felt self-conscious among the suits and skirts until she noticed a tall, broad-shouldered man.
"Greetings, Dr. Gunnarson, I believe," she said as the man filled a plastic foam cup with cold tea. "Glad to see someone else is casual."
The man turned to her, smiled. His eyes were bluer and hair blacker than had been promised by video color. "Name's Matt. Almost twins, I'd say, although you seem to have more refined tastes in T-shirts."
"Umm, maybe." Hers said "Santa Fe Opera," his "Old Santa Fe Trail Run." "I'm Miranda Sena, of UCLA—"
"Ah, yes, the one who discovered the Holn have an aesthetic side."
Miranda sighed, reached for a cup. "I guess that's what I'm going to be known for."
"Nothing to be ashamed of. You shot up in esteem at Princeton just for that one discovery."
Miranda shrugged as she plopped a couple of ice cubes into her tea. "It just seemed a natural quest—"
"Can we get everyone to settle down, please?" a man in a suit called out. "Chairs around the table are first-come, first-seated. Otherwise grab what you can."
Matt's muscular build helped clear a path to the long conference table. Through the introductions and reviews, Miranda just sipped her tea. Almost immediately, complaints started flying about restrictions.
"You Americans have been hogging the good stuff all along, anyway," said an accented voice. Miranda knew the Australian Jake Skettles because he'd had the slot for the Holn audience right behind hers. "Now your FBI and your soldiers are telling us to bugger off—"
"All operations have switched back to the chaos and confused modes," said a sandyhaired man in his late thirties. "I'm Ben Danthen of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory and I'm here to tell you the situation is just like the days of first contact."
Ben took off his glasses, rubbed an eye, put the glasses back on. "The Holn breathe poison, methane and ammonia. They didn't poke their noses — such as they are — out in six years. For them, oxygen is both toxic and caustic. Indeed, they were quite shocked at the O2 levels on this planet. So we had not a clue, not an inkling, not a warning, a premonition, anything, they would pull humans in beyond the museum. That's why we sent out the SOS."
"After the fact," said Skettles.
Miranda accepted a laptop Matt passed to her containing preliminary reports about the children.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Rewind by Terry England. Copyright © 1997 Terry England. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Prologue,Part I: Inception,
Part II: Diaspora,
About the Author,
Related Subjects
Customer Reviews
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