Byron's Last Ride

“Never fails to take your breath away, does it?”

Byron’s father spoke of the stunning view of Earth from the panoramic viewing window in the orbital dwelling they called home.

“No,” Byron answered.

Two hundred and fifty miles below, Planet Earth sailed along regally in space. Byron’s finger tapped idly on the slender glass in his hand as he watched the passing continents and oceans. Thirty years of living had not dulled his appreciation for the sight.

He listened to the sounds of laughter, conversation and clinking glasses emanating from the reception being held in his honor. Pleasant music from a corner stereo filled up any remaining pockets of silence.

“How do you feel?” his father asked.

“Good. I really feel good,” It was an honest answer.

“What did the doctor say?”

"I have about a week before things get really bad."

His father quaffed the rest of his drink. “Any symptoms yet?”

“Minor ones. Nothing debilitating. Not yet.”

“I see.”

“How’s Mom?”

Byron’s father glanced behind to the gathering of people in the elegantly decorated apartment. He caught sight of Byron’s beautiful mother making the rounds, visiting and thanking people for coming.

“She’s fine. Disappointed, of course, but fine. No parent ever expects their child to take the ride before they do.”

“I know.”

The two men resumed their silent gaze of Earth.

“Do you ever regret not growing up on Earth?” his father asked.

“Sometimes.”

“Me, too. Where would you have chosen to live?”

Byron thought for a moment. “Africa.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I fell in love with it during our vacation there. That would have been my home.”

“Interesting.”

“Sometimes, I wonder what it would have been like to walk on its soil or swim in its rivers and lakes. Just once, I wish I could have done all that under my own power, without those cursed machines.”

Their orbital home rotated at a velocity that provided gravity at two-thirds that of Earth. While it gave space-dwellers prolonged life by sparing them the harmful effects of Earth gravity, it robbed their bodies of the ability to withstand Earth’s gravitational pull, and they were forced to move about on Earth with the aid of walking machines. It was the price space-dwellers paid for their longer lives.

A man in a gray and blue bodysuit wove through the crowd toward Byron. Heads turned and people whispered as he went by. He stood next to Byron, gave a slight nod of the head and left as briskly as he arrived. Byron turned to his father.

“It’s time,” Byron said. “It's ready.”

His father turned and faced the gathering.

“My friends! May I have your attention please?”

The dull chattering died down.

“Thank you all for coming. As you know, we are here to say farewell to our friend and son, Byron.”

Polite applause swept through the room.

“I’m sure most of us thought we would see the Great Beyond long before Byron. Byron always was the impatient one. Born premature, graduated early . . . I guess this is the proper order of things.”

Muted laughter followed as Byron smiled.

“I could go on, but I suppose that wouldn’t be appropriate. I’m afraid that bittersweet hour is upon us. I ask you all to say your quick goodbye as you make your way home. Thank you again.”

People set their glasses down and quickly formed a line to shake Byron’s hand or give him a hug as they left the reception. There no tears, only smiles, well wishes and a few expressions of jealousy. In a matter of minutes, Byron and his parents were alone in the apartment he had called home most of his life. The official returned.

Byron took one last look around the apartment, remembering holidays, conversations and other random memories that leapt out, demanding to be considered one last time.

Byron turned to take in one more look at Earth. The ride would leave with the planet at his back, so this was his last opportunity. Africa slowly made its way across the viewing window. He studied the brown terrain, trying to pinpoint an area he might have called his own. He focused on a green area near a lake. That would have been the place.

He turned away and left with his parents to follow the official. They walked down a quiet, carpeted hallway. The group stopped before an unmarked door. The official tapped a code into a keypad, and the door whisked open. The official led Byron and his parents into a small foyer. He opened a second door and turned to Byron.

“I’ll be in here when you’re ready.”

He stepped through the doorway, leaving them alone. Byron shifted his weight, wondering what to say.

“How long do you think you’ll wait?” his father asked. His mother looked curious.

“Well . . . I don’t know. To be honest, I hadn’t given it much thought.”

“You ought to at least wait until you’ve passed the Moon,” his mother said.

“Oh, yes!” his father said. “I’ve heard it’s a grand sight as you fly over. They always salute the pods flying by.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely, they give you a ‘Fare Thee Well’ with strobe lights and spotlights as you pass over. I wouldn’t miss it.”

“I don’t think I will.”

They stood in silence. Byron’s father extended his hand, and Byron took it. Byron’s smile faded to a look of nostalgic sadness.

“Goodbye, son,” his father said with more of a croak in his voice than he was comfortable with.

“Goodbye, dad.”

His mother hugged him tightly around the neck. “We’re so proud of you. We’ll miss you!”

“I’ll miss you, too, Mom.”

They stood facing each other.

“Well, then,” his father said, standing up straight. “We’d best be going.”

“Okay,” Byron said. “I’ll see you on the other side?”

“You can count on it,” his father said.

His mother smiled, and Bryon felt relief that he detected only the slightest bit of sadness behind it.

They turned and walked out of the room without a backward glance.

Byron entered the next room and saw the one-person pod sitting in the center of a small hangar. The official stood outside the tiny spacecraft typing instructions into a computer housed in a side panel. The pod stood about ten feet high, and widened to about twelve feet wide at the center.

“Ah, hello, Byron,” the official said as he closed the lid that protected the computer. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Right this way.”

The official led Byron to the entrance of the pod. Byron mounted three steps and entered a small cockpit. He saw computers and machines similar to the ones in his apartment.

“All the amenities are here. Food processors here, toilet facilities through that hatch on the left. If you’ll just go through that opening to your right . . .”

Byron went through the opening and settled into the chair in the cockpit. The official leaned in and strapped Byron to the chair. He tugged at the restraints, making sure they were snug.

“Comfortable?”

“Oh, yes. Very comfortable.”

“This will be where you spend most of your time,” the official said. “The chair reclines for you to sleep.”

“Okay.”

“Everything is automated, navigation included. We will not initiate contact under any circumstances.”

“I understand.”

“If you need to contact us for any reason, just use voice command on the computer.”

“Got it.”

“If you want to read a book or view a film on the display screen, just speak the commands like you would at home, and the computer will do the rest. There’s a food and drink console to your right. The only thing you have to activate manually is the sleep button.”

The official pointed to a red, plastic-capped button to his right. That was the button that would end the ride. Byron stifled a chuckle at the term “sleep button.”

“When you feel that it’s time, take this key—“ he held up a small brass key on a chain, “and unlock the cap. Your thumbprint is coded into the computer. You must hold your thumb on the button for five seconds.” He placed the key ring around Byron’s neck.

“What happens then?”

“You won’t feel anything. The sleep air is colorless and odorless. After you press the button, you’ll fall asleep.”

“Then what?”

“When the pod’s computers no longer detect vital signs, it will self-destruct.”

“I see.”

“Any more questions?”

“Just one. How long do people wait before they . . . “

“It’s always different. Some wait hours, some wait days. Some have even waited years.”

“Really?”

“It depends on the individual and their ailment. If you’re asking my advice, I’d say hold out until your symptoms begin to cause you discomfort. It’s quite a view.”

“So I’m told.”

“Anything else?”

Byron sighed heavily, excited and nervous at the same time. “No. I don’t think so.”

“In that case, I’ll seal you in.”

“Thank you.”

The Official shook Byron’s hand. “Sail on, my friend. And remember, a man’s life is his own.”

“Thank you.”

The Official ducked out of the pod and shut and sealed the hatch. Byron watched with fascination as the hangar doors slowly slid open, revealing the Moon framed by a glittering carpet of stars. It did not quite match the splendor of the view he had of Earth, but it would certainly do.

The pod eased forward as the small engines gained power. When the pod floated free from the hangar, the engines activated, and the pod darted away. Although the pod’s propulsion started with moderate power, it slowly gained momentum until the craft bulleted through space toward the Moon.

A gentle wave of contentment settled over Byron as he contemplated the view before him. Although the Moon slowly grew larger, the stars didn’t change. He wished he had the time to approach the nearest star.

He looked down to the computer screen, situated below the viewing window. The word COMMAND? flashed on the blue square.

“Open Library,” he said.

“Complying. Book or article?”

“Book.”

“Fiction or non-fiction?”

“Fiction.”

“Please state desired author or title. Or begin general search.”

Byron thought for a moment. He wanted to hear something old. Something before space travel and space living was a way of life for humanity. Something written when the concept of humans traveling in space was a silly idea. For that, he would have to go back centuries. But how many? He could ask the computer, but he wanted to try to remember on his own. When did humans first fly into space? If his knowledge of history served him, he estimated it was the middle of the twentieth century. The computer patiently waited for his command.

“Scan first half of twentieth century, recommend titles alluding to space travel . . .”

He looked up at the glowing white sphere.

“ . . . the Moon in particular.”

Moments later, the computer spoke. “Recommended title: First Men on the Moon, author, Herbert George Wells.”

Byron nodded in satisfaction. “Accepted. Begin reading.”

A pleasant female voice began to read the tale as Byron settled back to watch the Moon get larger.

“As I sit down to write here amidst the shadows . . . “

As the narration continued, he passed over the Moon.

His father had been right. The passage over the moon was spectacular. The docking stations and tall buildings greeted his passage with a dazzling array of flashing lights.

The voice continued to read. It had read the same title five times, but Byron had yet to tire of it. The more he listened, the more exciting his journey became. Feeling like a fool, but not really caring, he waved to the inhabitants of the moon colonies. He was certain that somewhere down there, people were waving to him. The pod quickly passed over the Moon, and the sparkling light display was suddenly over. He leaned back into his chair, and he heard the voice reciting what he now knew to be the last few paragraphs.

The Moon was gone from the dark, sparkling canvas ahead, and the interior of his pod grew dark. He smiled contentedly as he listened to the story. It was said—although Byron had no idea how anyone would know—that those on their last Ride always knew when it was time. It did not matter, Byron supposed. They were right.

He removed the key chain from around his head and inserted the key into the plastic cap covering the Sleep Button. He turned the key, and the cap fell away. His thumb hovered over the button as he wondered what his last thoughts should be. He thought of old friends. He thought of Africa. When he thought of Mom and Dad, his thumb settled on the button. He heard a soft hiss as the air began to change. He settled back into his chair and immediately began to feel drowsy. He could not help but marvel at the speed with which it worked. He felt so tired. His eyelids grew irresistibly heavy, and he drifted into sleep.

The voice continued to read his selected book as a second voice spoke over it.

“Life signals no longer detected. Disintegration sequence initiated.”

The pod began to rumble and shake as it began the process of destroying itself. Just before it completed its final duty, before the craft and its occupant became part of the universe, the first engaging voice concluded its narration.

“ . . . out of all speech or sign of his fellows, for evermore into the Unknown—into the dark, into that silence that has no end.”

Disquieting Experimenters

Witch blood. Populace disgrace. Decay where conclaves. Unhallowed be pillars grow? Gray seed boy to the exhibit.

Bones along kitchen?

Terror out! Flamboyant, alone, called unexplainable. Some grinned! His that three hills and poor countryfolk.

Thought something outside.

Cheap in discovering monstrous gate! Earth’s truest sight.

Obscenely still.

Horror them! Village and show God. Born three mountains! August outcome. Third, roused from scream!

The of, indeed, for unmistakably, for back with whine sounds among shrubbery!

Summoned aloud! Trembling, when fallen the instrument.

Undecayed much, than wholly voices.

Something horrible to lead?

Expectancy to revelation?

Morning, where distant of human useless bar. Horror, and that wilder away cease! It seen and tortured room?

Disquieting experimenters.

Blood there.

Death found that countryside.

Death.

Horror somewhere?

There's a Clown at the Door

“Dad, there’s a clown at the door.”

Ted sighed at the declaration by his 6-year-old son, Bradley, who’d been telling a lot of whoppers lately. Ted sat up straight on the couch, ready to upbraid his son for lying and interrupting the football game when he heard his wife’s voice echo in his skull.

It’s just a phase. Don’t get so upset. Just humor him until it goes away.

“A clown, huh?” he asked, his voice straining to maintain a patient tone.

“Yup.” Bradley’s voice had not a hint of humor.

The front door stood to the left of his son, beyond a small patio. To his right, the stairs and the hallway to the kitchen. Behind him, the dining room. He faced into the living room, where his father tried to watch the television. Ted could not see the front door from where he sat.

“What does he want?”

“He wants to take Molly for a ride.”

Molly, Bradley’s 2-year-old sister. Ted rolled his eyes.

That kid. He considered a lecture about the dangers of constantly telling fibs, even in jest. However, the sounds of a roaring stadium crowd from the television caught his attention, and he eased back down onto the couch.

“Okay, fine. Let him take Molly for a ride.”

He heard Bradley’s pajama-covered feet quickly thump up the stairs. By the time they came thumping back down—his footsteps a little slower— Ted was once again oblivious to everything but down and yardage.

It remained silent for the rest of the first half, but not two minutes into the third quarter, Ted’s lazy Monday night was interrupted again.

“Dad, the clown’s back.”

Fully willing to play along now in the interest of getting rid of his pest of a son, he amiably said, “What does he want now?”

“He wants to take Patrick for a ride, too.”

“Patrick, eh?”

“Yup.”

“First your little sister, and now your little brother?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Where is the clown going to take them?”

“I don’t know. Just for a ride.”

“When is he bringing them back?”

“He isn’t.”

Ted sat up, looking back over the couch at his son with bemused curiosity. “You mean he’s going to keep them?”

“I guess.”

“Well, why don’t you go ask the clown what he is going to do with your brother and sister if he isn’t bringing them back.”

“Okay.”

Before Ted could say another word, Bradley padded off toward the front door. He heard his son scamper through the patio, heard the creak of the front door opening and heard Bradley’s voice. He listened with small concern for another voice, but heard no one else. He chuckled to himself as Bradley came trotting back into the living room.

“Well?”

“He said he isn’t bringing them back because he’s hungry.”

Ted’s face drew into an offended scowl. “Bradley, that’s not a very nice joke to make.”

“Sorry,” Bradley said with the voice of someone unfairly accused.

Ted rubbed his temple, his wife’s words ringing in his conscious.

“Can Patrick go too?” his son prodded.

“Yes,” Ted almost barked. Bradley ran off again.

Ted returned to his game, and threw his arms up in frustration as the replay showed the trick play paying off big. He quaffed the last warm swallow of his beer, and considered going for another when he heard soft footsteps again. He decided to lay low until his son finally decided to retire to his room for awhile.

It was peaceful for almost another hour. Ted moaned and squeezed his eyes shut when he heard Bradley coming into the living room again.

“Dad—“

“What does the clown want now?”

“He wants mom to go with him now.”

“Well, you don’t have to ask me for that. Go ask her.”

Prepare to take your own medicine, Honey.

“She’s asleep.”

“In that case, don’t wake her up.”

“But, what should I tell the clown?”

Ted felt himself on the very edge of sanity. When would this kid tire of his relentless fantasizing?

“Tell the clown to go wake your mother up and ask her himself.”

Ted chuckled as Bradley jogged off.

He woke with a flinch as the crowd erupted in cheers again. He glanced at the VCR clock. He’d dosed off for nearly twenty minutes. A loud thump sounded from upstairs, and Ted sat up.

“Bradley?”

Bradley ran into the living room. “Yeah?”

“What was that noise?”

“Oh, that’s just the clown. He’s up in your bedroom getting mom.”

Ted sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Bradley, that’s enough. It’s time for bed. Now, I want you to stop all of this. It’s late, and I don’t want you waking up your mother. You know she has to get up early every day.”

“What should I tell the clown?”

At that moment, Ted thought he might very well explode, but he somehow found a way to cap off the steam.

“Bradley,” he said very patiently, “I want you to tell the clown to bring everyone back and go home. It’s time for you to go to bed.

“But, mom’s just leaving for her ride with the clown!”

Ted didn’t know how much longer he could play along. The escalating crowd noise told him he was missing another amazing play. He gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “Fine. Let mom take her ride. You go to bed.”

“Okay.”

Ted sighed with relief as Bradley left. He had never seen such an active imagination, not even in himself when he was that age. He had just resettled himself into the couch when Bradley came into the living room again.

“Dad? Can I ask you one more thing?”

Ted summoned all his willpower. “Yes?”

“The clown wants to know if you’ll go for a ride, too.”

“No. I’m not getting up. Sorry. Tell him no.”

Ted waited for a few seconds. Bradley thumped to the front door and quickly thumped back.

“He said he’ll carry you. You don’t have to get up.”

Ted chuckled in helpless frustration. “Okay then. Tell the clown to get in here and carry me away.”

Bradley ran out of the room. Ted heard the front door open and shut with a thud. He heard Bradley making his way back to the living room. Only this time, something was different. He didn’t hear the soft pat of his son’s feet. These steps were much heavier, louder and spaced further apart. Ted giggled to himself as he imagined his overly creative son trying his best to mimic the long, heavy strides of an adult. Ted shook his head and grinned as the footsteps reached the couch.

That kid.

Tools

A small cottage stands in an isolated woodland. Within it, a young girl and her mother sit together in silence. Patrice figits on an upright chair, while her mother tries to read a book by the light of a candle that burns on a small table between them. They don't talk. They try not to move. If they could stop breathing, they would. Father likes silence.

To their left is a door. At the top right of the door frame is a small bell. A string runs from the bell through the crack in the door into Father's room. Patrice watches the bell, waiting for it to chime. Her mother tries to ignore it.

A ferocious wind rocks the tiny cottage. It has stripped the trees of their leaves, leaving them of little use other than to cast ominous shadows through the windows.

Mother begins to re-read the same page for the fifth time. It is useless to try to concentrate. She tries to avoid thinking about the night's task.

"Do you think he will require a feeding tonight?"”

The sound of Patrice's voice stabbing through the silence startles Mother enough that she nearly drops her book.

"Good Heavens!"” She tries to compose herself. "What kind of question is that?"” She lowers her voice. "Of course he will. He always does."

"He didn'’t use it all last night. It just made me wonder."”

"Well, that's no reason to hold anything back. You know what he might do."”

Patrice knows what Father would do. Her scars tingle.

They flinch when they hear the bell. To anyone else, it is a pleasant sound. To Patrice and her mother, it is the summons of evil. They look at the bell, then each other.

"We best not wait," her mother says as she stands and wraps her shawl around her head and shoulders.

Patrice sighs. "What will be my job tonight?"”

"I worked the tools last night. Tonight that will be your job."”

Patrice hates working the tools, but she's glad she will not have to venture out into the dark and the wind like her mother.

Patrice enters the converted kitchen and tugs at a heavy trunk under the large oak dining table. She opens the trunk and retrieves a bundle wrapped in dark blue velvet. She places the bundle on the table and spreads it out. There are saws of different sizes, knives of different lengths and piercing sharpness. She notices a spot of something dark and wet on one of the saws. Her mother failed to clean up properly last night. Father would not be pleased. She wets a washcloth and cleans the saw. Yes, Patrice hates to work the tools.
After the tools are ready, Patrice checks the restraints at either end of the table. The restraints are necessary——some people hate the tools more than Patrice.

Satisfied that the equipment is ready, Patrice takes her seat again. She picks up her mother'’s book, thinking it might be something interesting. Mother is not even past the first page.

Patrice hears footsteps outside the front door through the howling wind. She opens the front door. Her mother is dragging a large sack. Her face looks almost happy.

"It's a large one. Father will be pleased."”

Patrice smiles. Father might let them sleep tonight if things are done right.

"One of the saws was unclean," Patrice says.

Her mother'’s face goes pale. "Did you tell Father?"”

"No. I cleaned it."”

Her mother sighs in relief. "Well then, I'’ll help you work the tools tonight."”

They put it on the table and fasten the restraints. This one struggles mightily. It makes a lot of noise and causes a lot of mess. Patrice has never seen one who so hates the tools. They will be cleaning for most of the night. Patrice asks again why they don'’t just use the club on it. Her mother explains that Father likes it fresh. Eventually, it stops moving.

The clean up is even worse than anticipated. Father is fed, and soon they sit in their usual places again. Her mother hopes Father is satisfied. They are tired, but their beds have not been used in months. They never know when Father will ring for another feeding. Her mother bears horrible scars to show what happens when the bell goes unanswered.

They sit through the rest of the night and on into the next night, saying little. Her mother looks worried. The bell should have rung two or three times by now. Something must be wrong in Father'’s room.

"Patrice, you haven'’t heard the bell since last night, have you?"”

"“No, Mother."” Patrice didn'’t like that question. What is she? A fool who would ignore the bell?

"Something must be wrong."” Her mother stands up, unsure what to do.

She walks to the door. She places her hand on the door handle, takes it away. There are also scars from entering the room when she wasn'’t summoned, but what will be the price for ignoring Father?

Patrice sees the conflict on her mother'’s face. "I'll go," she says.

Her mother, feeling ashamed, stands to one side and lets Patrice enter the bedroom.

Her mother ignores her book and sits in a chair. There are no sounds coming from the bedroom. Her mother can'’t decide if that is good or bad. Soon, the knob turns and the door opens. Patrice stands in the doorway.

"“Well?"” Her mother is about beside herself with anxiety. "“Did you receive instructions?"’

Patrice shakes her head yes.

It is easier to subdue her mother than expected. Her mother is on the table, fastened to the restraints. Her mother thrashes against the leather straps. Patrice giggles to herself. Surely her mother knows the restraints never let anyone go. Her mother makes an awful noise when Patrice lays out the tools. After hearing the sounds of her mother's voice and the look in her eye, Patrice considers the club. She looks over to where the thick baton rests, but decides against it. After all, Father likes it fresh.