A satire of dysfunctional politics and economic disparity.
Chapter V: Day/Page 39 CONTINUED FROM YESTERDAY. . . . “I said… Less eleven hours of travel. You have to subtract the time it takes to go through the wormhole, so we only have thirty-six hours. Only thirty-six hours to prepare a new launch, then launch, land on the planet, bind to a life-form—and it has to be a class-1 life-form—somehow find a boat, get diving gear—assuming they even have that—go out into the ocean, dive down fifty feet, find the pod, get it back into the boat, and open it. Do you see what I mean? We only have thirty-six hours to do all that—on a planet we don’t know a damn thing about. It’s impossible! She’s going to die, and it’s all because of me. I should have done another stupid wormhole test.”
He stares blankly at the floor again.
“Sofia, I want you to help Pils. We need the exact position of Dr. Thrush’s pod and the closest populated area to it. Wake up everybody you need to and get the rocket ready, get the stasis room prepped, get everything we’ll need, so when I come back with the military in a few hours we are ready to go. Can you do that?”
The Professor snaps his fingers in front of Pils’ face. “Pils! Look at me. I need you to focus. It’s not your fault, so stop saying that. I want you to do whatever Sofia tells you to, ok? She’s in charge. Understand?”
Pils stares back vacantly, mouth agape, lobotomized by the unfurling events.
“Go! I’ll take care of him,” Sofia urges, pushing the Professor out the door. “I’ll take care of everything here. Don’t worry.”
After receiving the urgent call for help from Professor Hawkeye, the Admiral calls Major Bedlam. “There’s a problem at LAAC,” he says. “One of those bird-brained mouse-wipes went and got themselves lost, and now they’re sunk, literally, at the bottom of the ocean, unless we swoop in and save their ass. How soon can you be ready to go?”
“Are we going to use our launch facility or theirs?” asks the Major.
“Ours, of course. I wouldn’t trust those frog-fellators to send a pile of steaming duck shit through the wormhole.”
“Then it’s going to be tight,” says Bedlam, doing the calculations.
“Why? How much time do you need?” asks the Admiral.
“I can be ready immediately. That’s not the problem. The problem is that we’ll need at least twenty-four hours, maybe more, to prepare our site for the launch. That only gives us about twelve hours on the planet to get to the pod.”
“What the hell do you mean?. . .
TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW. . . .
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Gregory James
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