Missed a chapter? Go to the Table of Contents to catch up.
Chapter 8
Zach Croft: 2053
Carver had lied right to his face.
As Zach shakily brought his coffee to his lips, he felt a tightness in his throat. Why would Carver do that?
Zach wanted to believe Carver knew just as little as he did. He needed to believe it. That Ryker Gagarin hadn’t been intentionally abandoned.
Zach pulled out his phone and called Cora.
“Yep?” she said.
Zach sat down at his computer and leaned forward. “Found anything?” He tapped a pen against his desk.
Cora sighed on the other line. “Nope.”
“Damn it.” Zach returned a groan of his own. “Nothing from the Prescott Commission?”
“Nothing.”
“How about the OSE Inspector General—”
“Zach, there’s nothing. All the official sources say the same thing Carver told you: OSE checked the Gateway’s systems and found no signs of life.”
Zach ran his fingers through his hair, feeling defeated. Then, something occurred to him. “What about unofficial sources?”
“What do you mean?”
“People. Individual people. Who was around back then?” Zach asked. “Maybe someone else has a different story.”
Cora huffed and suggested, “I can ask my mom if she still has contact with any of my dad’s old colleagues.”
“That’s a good start.” Zach paused for a moment, then said, “I wonder…” He opened the OSE website and began navigating through the menus.
“Wonder what?” Cora asked.
“Just hang on. I’m checking something.”
He clicked on a History tab, then scrolled down to an image of the old Prescott logo and clicked that. After a few more clicks through a photo gallery, he found what he was looking for: photos from the Big Bear retreat where the Prescott mission was first announced.
In one of the pictures, Victor sat at a picnic table with a beer thrust in the air. To his left, a much younger-looking Carver leaned over his shoulder. His lips were slanted in something resembling a smile. Get it over with! Zach could imagine Carver thinking.
To Victor’s right, there was Quinton. He, unlike Carver, smiled brightly. Bits of confetti stuck to his jacket, the remnants of an earlier party. Zach took a second to admire his father’s cheerful grin. The moment the photo was taken—that retreat—was essentially the last normal day they had before things changed.
When Zach’s eyes finally pulled away from Quinton, they landed on a man lurking in the background. His hands were thrust into his pockets, and his eyes seemed reddened by all the smoke. Zach couldn’t tell whether the man hadn’t known the photo was being taken or if he had simply not cared. Nonetheless, something about him registered with Zach.
Two out of the four people in the photo were dead. The third was Carver. That meant the fourth person could be one of his only chances. But who was he? A glance at the caption below the picture told Zach the man’s name was Wilford Owen, Head of Communications. Splendid. If anyone knew what happened to Ryker, it would be the person who was supposed to communicate with him.
“Check this out.” Zach sent the link to Cora. “What about that Wilford guy? You know him?”
“Wilford Owen?” Cora dismissed Zach with a laugh. “If you’re worried about people lying to you, he’s the wrong person to talk to.”
“Why?”
“He stole tons of data from OSE, then started his own company on the back of my dad’s hard work.”
“Perfect.”
“What?” Cora’s voice pinched into something between confusion and disgust.
“Maybe he has something on Ryker.”
“I doubt it. He stole, like, satellite data. Stuff about Mars.”
Zach looked at the photo again. “It’s worth a shot, though, right?” He highlighted Wilford’s name, copied it, then pasted it into the search bar.
“I guess…”
“It might be our only chance to figure out what’s going on. And look, if Carver was lying, that means someone wanted Ryker dead. They may have wanted me dead too.”
After locating Wilford’s phone number, Zach dialed it, held the phone up to his ear, and prepared for Wilford Owen to ignore his call.
But surprisingly, he didn’t.
There was a loud beep before someone on the other line cleared their throat and spoke groggily. “Hello?”
Running up to his home desk, Zach leaned forward. “Yeah, hello? Is this Wilford Owen?”
“That’s right. And you are?”
Zach took a seat and attempted to steady his trembling hands. “My name is Zach Croft. I was a survivor of the Prescott mission.”
“Yes, I know who you are.” Wilford’s tone was icy. Zach could hear a coffee maker beeping on the other side of the phone. Some liquid dripped into a cup.
Zach took a deep breath and continued. “I don’t know if you remember, but there were originally two survivors of the mission: me and a boy named Ryker Gagarin.” He listened for any acknowledgment from Wilford, but there was just silence. “I made it home, but Ryker was left on the Gateway. OSE thought he was dead, but he isn’t.”
“What makes you say that?” Wilford gulped his coffee and let out a satisfied ahh.
Zach clenched his jaw, rested his palms against the table, and looked at his feet. “Because he came back.” He could hear Wilford pulling in a sharp breath. He added, “I don’t understand it either. But I was hoping you knew something that could help.”
The phone hissed with hollow static. Finally, Wilford said, “Why would I?”
“Well… you were the Head of Communications at the time—”
“Look, I left years ago, and I have no intention of ever dealing with that dysfunctional agency again. I can’t help you.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I understand that you left OSE under difficult circumstances, and you must hate them after what happened. But whatever bad blood exists between you and Carver—”
“Hate had nothing to do with my departure, Mr. Croft.”
“Well, whatever happened, that’s all in the past as far as I’m concerned. I don’t care about any of that. But if there’s anything in the files that might be from Prescott—”
“I didn’t take any files.”
Zach could sense the anger rising in Wilford’s voice. He decided to back off. “I’m just going off what I was told.”
“Well, you were told wrong,” Wilford snapped.
“What matters is that Ryker is alive.” Zach gripped the carpet between his toes, fidgeting to calm his pounding heart.
“I don’t know what you want me to say. I wasn’t involved.”
Even if he wasn’t involved, he still had to know something! Zach couldn’t just accept that the Head of Communications hadn’t done any communicating. It didn’t sound right. “I understand, but… Mr. Owen, a child was left to fend for himself on a space station for over two decades. If there’s any information at all that you might have…”
“Command told us he was dead. That’s all I know.”
Zach wished the bastard would stop cutting him off. “Alright. Well, if you think of anything else—”
“Goodbye, Mr. Croft.”
And Wilford was gone.
Ryker Gagarin: 2053
Two main thoughts occupied Ryker’s head as he walked down the asphalt road: where to get some food and where to stay the night.
Ryker pulled out the wad of cash Zach had given him and thumbed through the newly minted bills. Huh. Even the money was different. Where there had previously been an image of a president or important figure, forms of printed artwork occupied the space instead. The bills added up to one-hundred-eighty-five dollars, which Ryker figured could get him through a few days. After that, well… he hadn’t gotten that far.
Ryker fixed his bomber jacket and fell in step behind a group of college students. They turned at the next corner, and Ryker went the opposite way. Up the road, the number of people on the sidewalks began to thin out. Thank God. Having so many people around should have left Ryker elated, but it just put him on edge.
And it was hot. So hot. Too hot. Ryker took off his bomber jacket and rolled it up in a ball, shoving it in the crook of his arm.
Then, at the sight of a sandwich shop across the street, Ryker began to salivate. The Gateway had supplies to make sandwiches, but it was all that disgusting dehydrated shit he had to soak in water to make edible. It was about time he had a decent sandwich. His first sandwich back on Earth. Yes! He’d remember this moment for the rest of his life.
With the money in his fist, Ryker stepped off the curb and walked straight into the street. A beetle-like car swerved around him, coming within inches of running him over. The driver spewed a string of obscenities as he passed.
“Sorry, sorry!” Ryker shouted. He quickly ran to the opposite side of the street, nearly colliding with a swarm of passing pedestrians.
“Watch it!”
“Sorry!” he said again.
As Ryker walked into the shop, the cashier crinkled her nose at his rough appearance. “What can I get started for you?”
Ryker raised his finger idly in the air, scanning the menu. There were so many things to choose from. So many things he didn’t have on the Gateway. “Can I get a Number Three with cheese?” Cheese! Oh, cheese. That was something he hadn’t had since he was a kid. He loved cheese.
The woman tapped a screen on the register. “Will that be all, sir?”
“Can I get a soda? A large soda?” Ryker planted his hands on the counter, glancing at the fountain machine on the other side of the room.
“Anything else?”
What else did Ryker want? Everything. He wanted everything. The works. “Do you have chips? Just plain potato chips? Or no— do you have tortilla chips?”
“We have both…”
“Great. I’ll get both.” He drummed his fingers on the edge of the counter. “That’s it.”
The cashier gave a faint sigh of relief, then added up the price. “It’ll be—”
“Wait. Actually, can I get a Number Two with double turkey?”
The woman grunted, then gave him a frustrated smile. “Yes, you can. Should I void your previous order or just add it on?”
Ryker considered it for a moment, picking at his lip. “Ah, what the hell? Add it on.”
The cashier raised her eyebrows with a judging tilt of her head. “Okay. That’ll be one-hundred-nine dollars and thirty-nine cents.”
Ryker choked on his spit. “A hundred dollars?”
“A hundred-and-nine. Will that be cash or card?”
“Cash. Cash.” As Ryker unfolded Zach’s money, he shook his head disapprovingly. When did things become so damn expensive? He couldn’t imagine paying that kind of money just for some sandwiches! Still, he counted the necessary funds and handed them to the cashier. “You might as well rob me while you’re at it.” Ryker smiled awkwardly.
The woman didn’t laugh. She took the money, placed it in the register, then wiped her hand on her apron. She handed Ryker his change, then shouted, “Next!”
Two minutes later, Ryker received his food and sat in the corner of the restaurant, away from other people. There, he thought about the cashier’s hand-wipe. Was he really that dirty? She could have at least had the decency to not do that in front of him, but apparently, Ryker didn’t understand much about this new world. Maybe manners were different now. Maybe it was normal to be a steaming asshole.
Ryker carefully unwrapped his two sandwiches and looked at them like a prospector who had just found gold. He didn’t know which to eat first, though he knew they’d both be gone in approximately three minutes. Ryker decided to start with the cheese.
Picking it up, he sank his teeth into the end of the sandwich, sending a buckshot of tomato juice to the back of his throat.
It didn’t taste like metal! That was a development. He was eating a sandwich that didn’t taste like the Tin Man took a shit in it!
He took another bite. And another. And another. The sauces clung to his lips. The juices ran down his fingers. Even though every set of eyes had shifted to Ryker, he took little notice of the other patrons.
As he started his second sandwich, he glanced at a TV above the front window. It was a broadcast of the news, with an emboldened headline reading: TRAGEDY IN GUATEMALA, FLARE KILLS THOUSANDS.
“Hey, what’s the deal with that?” Ryker asked the closest person.
The man sipped his coffee and shrugged. “Another flare. Looks like a bad one.” His eyes stayed glued to the screen on his table.
“Why didn’t we feel it here?”
“Same as always. Hit at a different angle.”
Ryker wiped his mouth, then took three quick bites of his sandwich, rendering the napkin’s efforts futile. “And it just made things catch on fire?” he asked as he chewed.
The man glanced up from his tablet. “You been living under a rock, or what?”
“Something like that,” Ryker mumbled. He scarfed down another bite. “While I have you, do you know where I can get a place to stay the night?”
“There are plenty of hotels in the area. What’s your budget?”
Ryker reached into his pocket and shuffled through his remaining cash. “About seventy-six bucks.”
The man adjusted his glasses and laughed. “A park bench will cost you more than that. Not to mention the medical bills.”
“Medical bills?”
“For the skin grafts,” the man explained. Ryker squinted in confusion. The man pointed at the TV. “The flares? You’ll end up cooked like a chicken if one hits while you’re out there.”
“Ah. Right.” So, homelessness wasn’t an option either. Great. Ryker would have to figure something else out. He stood and got his trash together in a pile. “Do I just leave this here, or…?”
“What are you—six? Throw your garbage away.”
“Right.” Ryker disposed of his sandwich wrappers and headed for the exit, giving a curt nod to the cashier at the front. On his way out the door, the man with glasses whistled at him.
“Hey. You got any family you can stay with?”
Oh, sure. He could give his parents a call. Maybe their phones would still work six feet beneath the Martian surface. “Nope.”
“You’ve gotta have someone who’s looking out for you, though.”
Ryker snorted. He didn’t need anyone looking out for him, nor did he need unsolicited advice from a stranger. He had survived for over twenty years by himself, with no help from anyone. Surely, he could make it on Earth, with its endless resources and opportunities. He just needed some time to adjust. To figure things out. To come up with a plan.
As lonely as life on the Gateway had been, there was one advantage that Ryker had never considered before: everything was free for the taking. He could eat what he wanted, sleep where he wanted, do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. He didn’t have any responsibilities to anyone but himself. But on Earth, none of that was true. He would need money. To get money, he would need a job. Doing what? He had a fourth-grade education. Sure, he had taught himself plenty on the Gateway, but nothing that exactly prepared him to enter the workforce for the first time. He was sure he could learn to do something that would make him employable, but that would take time. A few days, at least, if not weeks. Or months.
In the meantime, he was stuck.
Ryker suddenly felt ashamed. He had literally plummeted from the sky that morning, and yet this was the farthest he had ever fallen. He was sure of it. As much as he hated to admit it, he did need help. For a little while, at least.
The man persisted with his questions. “Do you have a friend? Anyone who’d be willing to lend a hand?”
Ryker hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got one.”
Nicolas Carver: 2053
Carver’s paintbrush glided across the canvas, manifesting a redwood beside a half-finished log cabin. He dabbed the spike of hair at the end of the brush into a glob of black paint, bringing it to the easternmost wall of the forest home. Precisely, he traced the stroke of paint downward in a perfectly straight line.
Then the phone rang. Carver’s hand twitched, the line zagging to the side and smearing oily paint across the mountainous background.
“Goddamnit!” he mumbled. He took a deep breath and picked up the phone. “Yes?” Carver asked, suppressing his annoyance.
A scratchy voice sounded on the other side. “Carver?”
“Who’s this?” Carver clutched the phone between his shoulder and cheek as he walked over to his bar and poured himself a glass of whiskey.
“It’s Wilford.”
“Wilford? What the hell—”
“Just shut up and listen.” Carver opened his mouth to respond, but Wilford cut him off. “Zach Croft called me today.”
Carver fell silent. He stopped pouring as he remembered what Zach had said that morning: that he didn’t think the man on the dropship was Ryker. Clearly, the bastard was lying. “How does he even have your number?”
“I don’t know, but he’s asking questions about Ryker Gagarin. Says he came back. That he’s alive. Is that true?”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure?” Carver’s mind raced as he tried to process what was happening. What did Zach know? And how? Who else had he talked to?
“Carver, this is bad,” Wilford said. “If he knew to call me, that means—”
“We don’t know what he knows. He could just be fishing.” The hint of optimism loosened Carver’s muscles a bit.
“If he talks to anyone… the press…” Wilford’s voice raised as he continued.
“I know.” Carver dug his fingers into his forehead. He was developing the mother of all migraines.
“You need to go public,” Wilford said. “Beat him to it.”
“Are you crazy? I’m not going public!” Carver rubbed his temples and looked at the big front window, half expecting someone to be peering through it.
“It’ll come out one way or another. It’s better if it comes from you. You know this sort of thing better than anyone.”
If Wilford meant good publicity, then yes. Carver could usually find some kind of angle to work. Except for now. “You want to go to jail? Because I don’t,” Carver said. He circled the marble island in his kitchen, stopping in front of the fridge.
“Listen,” Wilford said. “If you’re the one to announce Ryker’s return, you control the narrative. You can make it into a celebration. A triumph of the human spirit. A miracle, even.”
Carver gritted his teeth. “Do you know how bad that will make OSE look? Whatever the excuse, whatever the story. We left a kid in space, whether it was accidental or not. We’ll look like fucking idiots. On my watch!”
“That’s not my problem.”
“Or maybe it is,” Carver said, suddenly calm. “You don’t have the best reputation here. Who’s to say you wouldn’t be blamed?”
“Is that a threat?” Wilford’s voice started to rise.
“Of course not. I’m just saying… anything could happen.”
“Don’t think I won’t go to the press myself if I have to. I’ve got plenty of stories! Why don’t I tell them about how you—”
“You don’t want to do that, Wilford.” Carver’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re right. I don’t,” Wilford countered. “But if Zach goes to the press first, there will be an investigation. Congress. The FBI. Who knows who else? You don’t want that. Neither do I.”
“Why do you care? You’re not OSE.” Carver paced across his living room. Wilford was right. He knew it but wasn’t willing to accept it. Not yet. He downed the whole glass of whiskey in one swig.
“Whether it’s my problem or not, I get fucked over if you can’t get this under control!”
“Tell you what,” Carver said. “Give me twenty-four hours. If I don’t figure out something else by then, we’ll go public. Together.”
“Just like old times,” Wilford said with a bitter edge.
“Yeah,” Carver smiled to himself. “Just like old times.”
Want to keep reading? Don’t want to wait?
You can buy The Forgotten Colony on Amazon today. The Kindle ebook is only 99 cents, and can be read on any smartphone, tablet, or computer via the free Kindle app.
jbryderauthor.com 