Mu Arae

By E. R. Mason

Legend told of a rogue planetoid once inhabited by an extremely advanced society that vanished without explanation. It was said that anyone bold enough to find this runaway planet might be rewarded with technology beyond imagination. But, this ghost planet was traveling at nearly the speed of light and only known to pass through a single set of coordinates once every thousand years. It would take a dangerous rendezvous in warped time and space just to confirm the legend, and trying to set foot on a deserted future world promised even greater peril. Join Adrian Tarn and R.J. Smith as they dare to tempt fate on a mission filled with mysteries from the future and dangers from the present. (standalone, Adrian Tarn series #5)

• Language: English
• Publisher: E. R. Mason
• Release date: Jul 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9780692757604

E. R. Mason

This is the place where many people write their profile in the third person so it sounds like someone else is writing about them. I'm just not comfortable with that. Instead, let's assume that you are the literary authority, (which you are) and I your applicant. Here are my qualifications; As far back as childhood, my passion for space travel, and flight was so strong it was nearly painful. In contrast, I grew up on a horse ranch in Connecticut. It was a rough and ready place. We participated in horse shows and rodeos. My friend Bill Larson rode with us. Somewhere around sixth grade, Bill discovered rock and roll, and dragged me into it, thereby ruining my life forever. We began developing bands around grade six, an addiction that remains strong to this day. Bill is presently lead guitarist for the rock band Road Work, based in Connecticut. http://theroadworkband.com/fr_intro.cfm Bill also introduced me to an even wider range of adventures such as swinging out over a cliff on a knotted rope, climbing Mt. Washington in the freezing rain, and sailing a small boat in the tail end of a hurricane. Two of those did not end well. We attended The Norwich Free Academy High School which is larger than many college campuses, and still reminds me of Hogwarts. There I became completely enamored with a gifted English teacher named Janice MacIntyre. She will always be a part of my inspiration. Somewhere along the way, I found the works of John D. MacDonald. He has remained my favorite author ever since. There I also began writing screen plays and fiction. I began my study of the martial arts at NFA and that continued for many, many years until I finally became a black belt student instructor at a Merritt Island, Florida Taekwondo Center under Masters Walter Simpson, Michael Raney, and half a dozen other gifted instructors. When I was nineteen, I finally got a chance to fly a Piper Cherokee, and have been flying ever since. Because SCUBA diving is much like an EVA, I also became a certified diver and have done quite a bit of salt water, fresh water, and cave diving. The currents of life, which we only think we control, eventually carried me to the Kennedy Space Center. I worked there as a Coordinator for twenty-five years, mostly on the Eastern Range side. I have innumerable rocket stories. I struggled to find the time to write The Empty Door and The Virtual Dead in that period. There I also met bassist-extraordinaire, Stormi ...

Book preview

MU ARAE

by

E.R. Mason

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2016 by E.R. Mason

All rights reserved

Editor

Sam Thornton, PE PhD

https://www.facebook.com/SamThorntonPE

[e-mail]

All characters in this book are fictional

and any resemblance to persons living

or dead is purely coincidental

ISBN: 978-0-692-75760-4

Chapter 1

She was a frail, dark silhouette against a silver sea. It was a typical Cocoa Beach early evening when dull blue patches lace the fading stratus sky, and the gently-breaking surf leaves patchworks of white foam as it withdraws across the shimmering sand. Stilt-legged herons stood among the breakers for a late dinner dragging blue bioluminescent trails in the water as they moved. It is a traditional sendoff provided daily by Mother Nature, the withdrawal of her colorful world work to that of shades of gray.

I would not have noticed the lonely figure had it not been for the infuriating sandspur attached to my left, bare foot. Mosquitoes were just beginning to hasten my departure. My fishing gear was stowed neatly in the Vette, catch box empty, stomach growling. I looked up at the fading sky to curse as I pulled out the spike and spotted her out of the corner of my eye. It is not unusual to see people taking in the evening seascape on Cocoa Beach, but something made me look again.

Something in the vision of her did not feel right. There was a finality about her aura. I brushed away another mosquito from my bare leg and watched. She began small steps forward until the surf was breaking around her ankles, soaking her pants suit up to the knees. A few more staggered steps made me straighten up with concern. Her arms remained dead at her side, no joy apparent as the sea washed in around her.

I closed the Vette’s hatch and looked again, hoping the lone figure had turned back to the land of the living. She was up to her waist, pushing along side to side, casually headed for North Africa. It became one of those moments when you argue with yourself not to get involved. Fear of making a fool of yourself argues the con, while the what-if voice eggs you on. By the time she was up to her chest and having trouble pushing through the cresting waves, I’d begun a brisk walk her way. I could make out her gray dress coat, trailing behind her on the water, and by the time I reached water’s edge, she was up to her neck. I paused again in doubt and thought to call out about the undertow, but she disappeared under the water just beyond the beakers. Cursing my bad luck, I ran high stepping and dived in, fighting my way out.

The tide was outgoing; the undertow wicked. At the point where she had disappeared there was no sign of her. Several dives brought nothing but my own entrapment in the undertow. The water was already too deep to stand. I scanned the surface in the fading light but there was still empty water. The shoreline was already too far away for comfort. Two more dives in chaotic circles found only a strong current of sand and salt. I began treading water, deciding how to swim parallel to the shore to lose the undertow when my right hand became wrapped up in shoal grass going out with the tide. A quick yank revealed something heavy was attached to the mop of weed. Suddenly I realized it was not weed wrapped around my wrist. It was hair with a body attached to it. I pulled her in and jockeyed around to get the head above water. It was easy to see breathing had stopped. With some twisting and turning I managed to clutch her behind the neck with my right hand and turn her face toward me. With an awkward grab of the nose and scissor kicks to keep us both up, one good blow into the mouth brought an immediate gag after which she threw up salt water in my face followed by semiconscious gasping.

We were way out now. Only the silhouettes of treetops were visible against a gray sky line. Behind us, a full moon was rising. It took ten minutes of sidestroke dragging her along parallel to the tree line before the undertow faded. From there, I had to ride the waves, keeping her head above water, until the washout gave way to rising sand under my feet. A staggered march through the breakers took me and my prize to the beach.

As soon as we were clear of the tide’s edge, I lowered her down and rested on one knee to catch my breath. She arched over and once again began vomiting salt water, the body still dutifully trying to save itself even though the person within no longer cared.

It was a quarter mile walk up the beach to the car. One arm under her knees, the other hooked under her shoulder, head bobbing along. She showed no sign of coming to. Keeping to the wet sand made the struggle a bit easier. Moonlight made the foam fluoresce. The wet sand sparkled.

Back at the Vette, it took superhuman skill to work the soaked body into the passenger compartment. With the seat tilted back she fit nicely enough, head down to one side.

I stood and carefully closed the door and began to consider whether a hospital was the right thing to do. Before a decision could be weighed, a gruff voice behind me interrupted.

I’ll take her from here.

Moonlit darkness had arrived. It took a second for my eyes to recover from the Vette’s interior light. He was dressed in dark slacks, a white silk shirt under an expensive brown sports jacket. His dark hair was cut short and was receding on the sides. Low eyebrows and a pudgy face gave him the air of goon. He was probably six-feet and had big hands that did not bear the signs of physical labor. My first impressions of people are almost always wrong. I did not like this man.

Who are you?

You don’t need to know that, fella. Just step aside.

That was strike one. I have this problem with strangers giving me orders especially when they won’t introduce themselves. I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. She’s had a bad night. She’s pretty beat up.

The bruises were an accident. Don’t make this any more difficult than it needs to be.

Strike two.

As casually as possible, I moved around to face him and took a partial ready stance. Just where were you when she was taking her little swim?

So that’s the way it’s gonna be, huh? I’m gonna have to explain it to you the hard way.

He stepped into my space and reached out with his left hand for my throat. That was strike three. He was belligerent and self-assured, but not smart. Too many people had buckled under for him. All his weight was back on his right leg. I swept his arm off to the right with my right arm, took a step to the left and tapped him behind that load bearing right knee with my bare foot.

Down he went onto his back in the bushes.

He shook his head, waved a naughty-naughty finger at me, smiled and pushed back up, undeterred.

There was a quick brush off of the clothes once he was standing. Next came the second classic mistake. He reached around behind and inside his jacket. It was the standard move for drawing a weapon, one that we’ve all practiced hundreds of times in the martial arts arena. I was so far ahead of him on the move I had to wait momentarily for the Berretta to appear. As he tried to bring the weapon up, I grabbed the barrel just behind the muzzle and twisted it back in his grip. One skip step forward and my right palm heel met his chin. His teeth clacked shut and down he went once again. The gun stayed with me.

He was at least not completely stupid. He gave a quick regretful look at his Beretta in my hand, pushed up and took off. His car was parked on the grass not far away. Under the glow of rising moon, the damn fool spun his wheels and pulled blindly out onto Ridgewood Avenue without headlights just in time to catch a cement truck headed in the opposite direction. With a bloodcurdling bang it caught his sedan in the driver’s door and bent that compact rental into a horseshoe, space left only for one seat where there had once been two. There was the chattering and chirping of dump truck brakes along with the gruesome screaming of twisting metal as the mangled pair continued down the road.

Though not everyone would agree there are times when, to do the right thing, is not the right thing to do. I could stay and wait for the police and explain, yes he attacked me because he wanted the girl. She was trying to commit suicide. She’s over there in my car. No, I don’t know who she is. It was just a coincidence that I was here. No, I don’t know why he wanted her so badly. No, I don’t know why the girl wanted to commit suicide. No, I did not chase him into the street. He ran away. Yes, he had a gun but I took it away from him.

Having given the matter all due thought, I hurried over to the Vette, and in my haste to open the driver’s door promptly stepped on another sandspur and cried out. Backing out needed to be done gently so as not to give the impression of someone running from the scene of a crime.

On the road, she began to groan and move her head. The smeared mascara eyes fluttered big dark lashes. Her soaked, dark red bangs came down to the eyebrows bordered by long straight hair past the neckline. She had lost her black suit coat revealing a white silk blouse with ruffled collar and black buttons. The top three had come loose showing a healthy, toned body beneath. Her suit slacks were of such fine material they had torn in several places. One thick-heeled black shoe was missing.

We had almost reached my humble section of quadplex home when more salt water erupted out of her causing her to flail around blindly so that she got caught up in the fishing gear sticking out between the seats. She became lucid for a moment, looked at the gear, looked at me, and declared, Oh for god’s sake! Throw myself in the ocean only to be rescued by Captain Nemo. Of course! How exquisitely humiliating!

More salt water from the mouth forced her over and forward. She gagged, coughed, choked, and fell back unconscious, more because she could bear reality even less than any trauma sustained.

At my place I was able to walk her into the spare bedroom. As soon as the toweling off began she decided it was time to resume some level of cognizance. She came alive and pawed at the towel, finally opening her eyes wide to survey me.

I think I can take it from here, she said dejectedly. Thank you so much for ruining a perfectly good plan.

Most people swept out to sea are grateful to be rescued.

Who are you? she asked, ignoring the commentary. Wait, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I’ll just keep calling you Captain Nemo and let’s leave it at that.

I’m not sure Jules would approve, but okay. You may not be completely up to speed about everything that just happened.

There was a man after me. Did you see him on the shore?

He will bother you no more.

Why do you say that?

He was in too much of a hurry pulling out onto the road. He has now taken the shape of the grill of a large cement truck.

He’s dead?

If he was lucky.

But can you…

Madam, if you don’t mind, I’d like to peel off this wet T-shirt and change into something more comfortable. In those bottom dresser drawers over there you will find a large assortment of women’s apparel. Take anything you need and please keep what ever you use.

Trophy’s from your conquests? Don’t expect me to swoon over you, Captain.

Discards from good friends. I’ll bring you some hot coffee as soon as you’re decent.

She emerged into the living room a short time later wearing baggy gray pants and a tan pull over V-neck blouse. She had used the makeup kit from the same drawer and tied her hair back behind. She surprised me by not looking sheepish. Without rising from the couch, I handed her a steaming hot cup of coffee which she accepted and warmed her hands on. She seemed to be in no rush to explain anything at all.

I pushed the issue. Will you be telling me your name at some point?

I would prefer you not know it and would be grateful if you would forget me and everything that happened.

I can be discreet, but I’ll never forget.

Why haven’t you phoned the police, or have you?

I considered the question and answer period that would follow, and decided it was not in my best interest.

If you’d be so kind as to call me a taxi, I’ll just be on my way.

To the beach?

For just a fraction of a second there was a tinge of embarrassment. No. I promise you there is no reason now to repeat that fiasco.

Who was the gentleman so intent on taking you home with him?

It would be better if you don’t ask. Like I said, none of it ever happened. Okay? Are you certain he was killed?

I’m getting the impression this was more than a simple case of spouse abuse.

She laughed for just a second then quickly caught herself. If you’d call me that taxi, you could get on with your life.

So no more evening swims for you, but will you be safe?

I’ll tell you this much. I’m going where no one can ever follow me. So, yes. I’ll be safe.

So I did as she asked, and thirty minutes later watched her stare stolidly through the taxi window at me as it pulled away. The entire episode was now no more than a memory, except for one thing: the new Beretta under the driver’s seat of my car.

Chapter 2

The upcoming mission to Altair was making people nervous, me included. Since Altair was more myth than fact, the entire mission outline was based entirely on guesswork and theoretical computer simulations. I'd secretly learned of the proposal from an admiral friend who claimed the mission name had been coined by an elderly research scientist who loved old science fiction movies.

The payoff was supposed to be big; very big. Altair by legend had once been inhabited by an extremely advanced race, so advanced in fact that the planetoid had continue to operate for thousands of years after its inhabitants vanished. Supposedly Altair had escaped its normal orbit and was now traveling at a very high fraction of light speed. The body passed near the Mu Arae system every thousand years, but was so inhospitable and traveling so fast no one had ever been able to cash in.

Then came the refit Electra with its four shiny new stellar drive engines, one of the few ships fast enough to actually intercept and catch up with Altair in sub light. But a fast ship was not enough. A crazy man was needed who would be willing to command her. For some odd reason, there was a strong consensus that I was that man. It may be that the many medical reports detailing the scars and tears on various parts of my six-foot, two-inch frame contribute to that reputation even though most of those disfigurements were mementoes from unlikely escapes in no-win scenarios. I have broken so many rules, and offended so many dignitaries over the years it is a wonder I remain a free man at all. My small family of close friends would all readily attest to that.

The big dog and pony show was this afternoon. It was intended more to demonstrate how much was not known than to show how ready we were. It was a meeting I was not looking forward to. At some point there would be the choice of accepting the damn foolish plan whatever it was, or agreeing to turn command of the starship Electra and her crew over to some other idiot willing to do the deed. I wondered if the running shoes and hooded black sweats I was wearing would be an adequate expression of irreverence.

Suddenly it occurred to me I’d been seated on my couch staring into oblivion for too long. My coffee was cold. As I stood to refill it, the door chimed. Who would be at my door this early? R.J. Smith, my best partner in infamy would be the only good guess, but he was supposed to be shopping with his better half.

At the door I abruptly went back into a blank stare at the sight of two unfamiliar men in rumpled gray suits smiling at me with flipped open wallets revealing shiny Brevard County Detective badges. The older of the two was bald except for some failing brown hair on the sides. His partner had a crew cut and looked like he had just checked out of the United States Marine Corps.

Mr. Tarn, I’m Detective Morris, this is my partner Dan McRoy. Would you mind terribly if we came in for a few minutes?

There were other uniformed people behind the two. They seemed ready and anxious to do something. Little alarms began sounding in my head. May I ask why you want to come in, Detective?

Morris held up a folded sheet of very official looking paper and let in fall open in front of me. Because this search warrant says I can, he replied with a practiced smile.

I stood aside and watched the entourage come bursting in. Morris and McRoy stood looking around while keeping a close eye on me as their lab techs spread out through the apartment. It was all so unexpected, it took a moment to recover. I stood in a daze still holding my cup of cold coffee.

Detective can you give me some idea of what’s going on? I asked.

Is there a place we can sit down and ask you a few questions, Mr. Tarn?

I led them to the kitchen table. A lab tech was searching my cabinets. We sat. The two detectives kept scanning. I waited.

Morris finally focused on me, took out an e-cigarette and switched it on. He took a drag and sat back. Mr. Tarn, do you know a man named Mort Delany?

Never heard of him.

He stopped a cement truck the hard way on Ridgewood Avenue last night.

What does that have to do with me, Detective?

We had an anonymous tip that you were involved. Is that true, Mr. Tarn? You do know our conversation is being recorded automatically at the home office…

I was in that area last night.

Why?

I was fishing from the beach.

The detective took another drag on his cigarette. His partner did not seem to be paying attention, instead playing with a blue flip open notebook he had taken from his pocket. Before the detective could ask his next question, a lab tech carrying something wrapped in a white cloth hurried in. He opened it for Morris. It was the Beretta from under the Vette’s driver’s seat.

Does this belong to you, Mr. Tarn?

No.

How did it come to be in your possession then?

That’s a long story, Detective.

Yes, it usually is. I think it’s time we took a little ride to headquarters so we can work out the details. Would you come with us please, Mr. Tarn?

Morris rose. His partner rose, looked around, and said, So this is how famous astronauts live, eh? He looked at me for a reply.

They don’t use that term any more, Dan. That’s from the experimental days.

Well, what do they call you guys then?

It’s whatever position we hold, like Helmsman or EVA specialist.

Oh, okay.

It was my first ride in the back of an unmarked police car and I was not enjoying it. The highly classified meeting at Kennedy Space Center’s Headquarters building was beginning to seem unlikely. They brought me south along A1A to the office near Minuteman Causeway, and parked near a side entrance where I assume the criminals are brought in. There was a long, motorized ramp leading up to the entrance, there so as not to make the handicapped criminals feel left out.

I was led down a well-worn tiled hallway to an interrogation room complete with two-way mirror and a long oak table bolted to the floor. We sat in metal chairs with no cushions. The light from ceiling mounted LEDs was bright. The air temperature was kept just short of too warm.

Shall we start at the beginning, as they say, Mr. Tarn? said Morris, and out came his electronic cigarette once more. His partner had found something on his keychain to amuse himself with.

Detective, I need to tell you, I’m supposed to be at KSC at 1:00 and there will be hell to pay if I’m not.

That’s a standard response to my question, Adrian. Is it okay if I call you Adrian? he replied.

Detective, I mentioned that for your sake, not mine. May I ask how long you’ve been a detective?

He paused to evaluate if the question was impertinence and quickly decided to play along. Fifteen years, Adrian. Before that, ten as a patrol cop. Why do you ask?

Because now I know I’m all right. Any cop with enough time gets an instinct of who’s lying and who’s guilty. I’m betting you already know I had nothing to do with your victim, at least nothing criminal. I’d guess you already know I’m not that type.

Being a famous spaceman won’t get you off around here, Adrian, he replied.

At the risk of sounding condescending, Detective Morris, I salute you and stand in awe of you. People who carry the badge don’t get enough respect these days. I’ve really had it with the spitters, the foul language, and the runners.

He stared for a moment and just a slip of knowing gratitude escaped his eye. He leaned back and drew on his e-cigarette.

I took a deep breath. Detective, how did you come up with my name?

An anonymous tip. Called in. We don’t know who.

Please tell me it wasn’t a woman.

It was indeed a woman.

Son of a bitch!

Why don’t you start at the beginning, Adrian? You have a 1:00 meeting, but Officer McRoy and I have plenty of time.

So I did my best and as I unraveled the strange tale, it sounded even less believable to me the farther along I got. When I was done, there was a very long period of silence, punctuated by puffs of vapor from the detective’s cigarette.

Finally, Morris spoke. So after rescuing the mysterious woman from her suicide, you were approached by a man you’d never seen before. He drew down on you but you took the gun away from him and he was so scared he ran away and pulled out in front of that cement truck. You decided not to call anyone, bundled the girl up and took her home, gave her fresh clothes, and called her a taxi without even finding out her name. Did I miss anything?

There’s something lost in your telling of it Dan, but that’s essentially it.

Why didn’t you call us?

Because I knew I’d have to tell you the story I just told you.

Before he could respond, an attractive secretary in too short a skirt entered the room, dropped a form on the table in front of him, and left. Morris read the report and pushed it over to his partner.

"We tested that Berretta and the Interpol world-wide database system has already matched the bullet to three murders. We’re going to find your