The Search for Scott

  MARINE

  SPACE

  The Search for Scott

  Book 2

  NICHOLAS J. FORSTER

  Copyright © 2019 Nicholas J. Forster

  All rights reserved.

  Published by NJF House

  nicholasjforster.com

  nforster@rogers.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Other works:

  Novels:

  Marine Space One: The Fury of Xero Nekton

  Short Stories:

  Astroid Adventure

  Bad Barber

  Meeting of the Minds

  Ordinary Oliver

  Subway Series

  The Toad

  Zedona Zaï

  X-factor Xero

  ISBN:

  ISBN-13:

  DEDICATION

  For Alison.

  contents

  1

  Breakthrough

  2

  Denial

  3

  Mum’s the Word

  4

  A Hürantån Can See

  5

  Transendance

  6

  No Brains Atoll

  7

  Prisoner

  8

  Waikiki Blue

  9

  Undefined, Misshapen

  10

  Catch of the Day

  11

  Palms Motel

  12

  Cavern

  13

  Boarders

  14

  Dragonfish and Chimaera

  15

  Memories of Ogachaka

  16

  Water, Water Everywhere

  17

  Illiados

  18

  Surface Tension

  19

  The Main Course

  20

  Nick of Time

  21

  High Five

  22

  Xero’s Shame

  23

  Trouble Afoot

  24

  Obsidian World

  25

  Duty and Honour

  26

  Bubble Gun

  27

  Heiroglyphics

  28

  Wol

  29

  Two From The Vault

  30

  Decisions, Decisions

  31

  The Return of the King

  32

  Aftermath

  33

  War Council

  34

  Leverage

  45

  Numbskull

  36

  Death Don’t Have Mercy

  37

  The Button

  38

  The Prophecy

  39

  Toad

  40

  Fire Away

  41

  Beak

  42

  Sunrise in July

  43

  Also Sprach Zuruthustra

  About the Author

  We may have all come on different ships, but we’re in the same boat now.”

  ~ Martin Luthor King Jr.

  What Jefferson was saying was, Hey! You know, we left this England place ‘cause it was bogus; so if we don’t get some cool rules ourselves—pronto—we’ll just be bogus, too! Get it?

  ~ Jeff Spicoli

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to thank the members of my writing workshop: Debbie Bhangoo, Glen Packman, Mike Marshall, Frank Kitching, Heather Gray, Gary Coffin, Peter Dyer, and of course David Hamilton, whose inspiration and help in the Ottawa Writing Workshops have provided immeasurable support in writing this novel. I’d also like to thank my Beta Readers, Alison Greig, Alistair and Liam Forster, Paula McCooey, Brian Sorkilmo and David Hamilton.

  1 Breakthrough

  The wave threw the tiny boat to the side, threatening to capsize her. Dark, stormy skies marred the horizon, sending forks of lightning into the deep azure. Still, Scott sat at the helm, oblivious, staring at the sample through the looking glass, making notes as cool and calm as if safe and dry in the lab.

  “Dr. Blake, can you hear me?” The tinny voice crackled through the CB. “Come in, Dr. Blake. Coast Guard is advising all craft to seek shelter from a category four thunderstorm approaching the North Shore.”

  Scott dismissed the radio as part of the regular background noise of his work: The cry of gulls; the hum of the TK 109 one-man research vessel; the roar of the wind; and the crash of the waves. He adjusted himself to the movement of the waves and peered at the recovered plankton specimen. This was it. The findings he’d been searching for. The Peterplankton.

  A smile erupted on his face and he stood, steadying himself on the wheel, pumping a fist in the air in triumph. “Yes! Peter! It’s happening!”

  They had been working on identifying a new species of plastic-eating zooplankton before it all happened, plankton-x-01987, which they jokingly named Peterplankton after the young, jovial lab assistant. And if Peter Christiansen wasn’t dead because of the otherworldly adventure, he would swear it had all been just a dream. But the heaviness of the trident around his neck slapped into his bare chest like the bitter memory of his loss and reminded him it was real enough.

  “We did it!” he cried again, arm raised, screaming to sky and surf. All his months of research paid off. He gunned the idling boat through the trough and levelled her against the pounding swell. As if for the first time, he noticed the sea and remembered the radio announcement. Category Four Thunderstorm.

  Swirling ripples in the chop bobbed the craft like a cork, and it popped up on top of a twenty-foot peak, nose-diving down the other side. Lightning flashed, the accompanying crack so loud he jumped out of his skin.

  Better get back, Blake old boy! Scott crackled with excitement from the discovery, rough seas no longer concerned him after what he’d been through on the ocean planet Hürantå. The thrill of discovery overshadowed the weather. He picked up the receiver and pressed the button. “Dr. Blake here, I’m heading in. Ten-four.”

  The intrepid marine biologist motored ashore like a seasoned pro. The wind whipped his sandy-brown hair as Scott navigated through the turbulent waves to the shelter of the breakwater without incident. Rain pelted him, plastering his old concert t-shirt to his skin as he passed the pier and into the marina.

  He docked the boat, and made for the Marine Tech lab. Waves smashed against the concrete, throwing white water spray over him marking his triumphant return to the glass building beyond the docks. He ran up the steps and opened the laboratory door, raising his sample jars in the air as he entered the calm, dry space.

  “I found it!” he yelled. “We did it!”

  Dr. Stevens looked up from his desk. The venerable professor sat in the corner overlooking the workstations and tables, and tilting his head, peered above his reading glasses. “You did ok out there. Did ya, lad?”

  “It’s the Peterplankton, Charles, on its own, surviving,” Scott said, emotion catching in his throat. “What we saw last week wasn’t a fluke.”

  Charles pushed himself up and crossed the floor. He patted Scott on the shoulder and then took one of the jars, looking into the liquid therein. “Good work, Dr. Blake. Let’s put these in the back, and we’ll examine and classify them together. Oh, and get yourself dried off. There’s someone upstairs who’ll be happy you returned.”

  Scott smiled and gave Charles the other jar. Brooke hated it when he ventured out in weather like this. She now spent little time on t
he water, preferring dry land, despite being manager of a busy, sea-side marina. He climbed the stairs up to their small apartment, opened the door, and there she was. His wife. He still liked the sound of that.

  “Hey sweetie,” he said and gave her a huge hug and kiss. “Careful now,” he added, helping her up off the chair.

  “I can’t believe you were out there in that storm.” She held her head with a disapproving lilt. “The coast guard won’t rescue the reckless, you know.”

  Like an excited puppy, Scott told her all about the discovery, and Brooke Blake’s stern demeanor softened. Her condition may cause her to be more cautious, and he couldn’t blame her. It had been seven months since they’d been back from the stars, and there must have been something about the orbital gravity when they had their honeymoon in the stateroom, because she’d gotten pregnant right away.

  A moment of nostalgia struck Scott, remembering his lab assistant, cut down at the hands of Overseer Ogata. His eyes misted, and he put his hand on his wife’s shoulder to steady himself. “Pete would have been so happy.”

  “Absolutely,” she said. “But his legacy will live on. You named the plankton after Peter, and he took on the project as it were his own. He would be so proud if he were here today.”

  She drew him in and they embraced, and Scott remembered his friend.

  “Oh, Brooke, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Well don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  They talked of the implications of the discovery while Scott got himself cleaned up and grabbed a snack. He then spent the next couple of hours in the lab confirming his findings with Dr. Stevens. The samples demonstrated the morphology of plankton x-01987 aka “the Peterplankton.” Released in the wild six months ago, it was taking hold in the environment and eating plastic. To find it surviving on its own for the second time was a major breakthrough, and Scott rejoiced.

  ***

  Later that night, Scott lay in bed, eyes open, staring through the blinds at the moonlight hitting the masts in the marina. The sleeping form of Brooke beside him, his son, maybe, inside her. Thoughts raced and multiplied as he thought of the ramifications of his discovery. The result today confirmed there could be a solution to the problem. Sure, humanity had to stop dumping garbage in the ocean, and his wife’s tireless efforts with her environmental group advocating change was helping, but the Peterplankton showed that life could adapt and reverse the damage mankind inflicted. His child may one day know what it’s like to have clean oceans.

  His eyes danced in the dark and tiredness overcame him. Whether it was a trick of the eye, or symptom of being on the waves all day, it looked as if shadows in the room were moving. He sat up and then a strong arm forced him down again, a wet cloth clamped firmly over his mouth, forcing his head into the pillow. His eyes grew wide, and he struggled against the iron grip. Another figure, dressed in black head to toe, held a hand with a finger to his lips. Another beside Brooke pointed a gun right at her head.

  “Forget the research, doctor,” a cruel voice whispered in his ear. He could feel the hot breath through the balaclava. “We know where you’ve been. Don’t bother trying to contact your friends.”

  The image faded as his vision fizzled into black.

  2 Denial

  Scott opened his eyes to the serene scene of his bedroom with no recollection of the night before. His wife still slept, birds chirped, and a cool breeze blew through the open window. Paradise.

  He sat up with a start. The memory of the intruders and the wet grip over his face came back to him with rocket force. Helpless and violated, his heart dropped, and cold sweat covered his skin. Brooke stirred but didn’t wake. He surveyed the room, but nothing appeared out of place. Who were they? They’ve known where I’ve been? Do they know about the planet Hürantå?

  Seven months had passed since they transported through the portal from the Osiris. Despite being left in control of the ship, the normalcy of Earth had been too enticing. They meant to return swiftly, but days turned into weeks, weeks to months, and Scott neglected to call on his friends. But on that first day back, desperate for a proper meal, they bee-lined to El Capitan’s, not even stopping to change from their ripped and dirty garments into clean clothes. Scott eyed the souvenir shirt he bought that night. It was balled up on the floor, right where they stood.

  He wiped his clammy skin on his forehead. They were here, in our bedroom. One had a gun. After more than half a year, the nightmares from the abduction had subsided, but this was no dream.

  “Morning, love,” Brooke opened her eyes and yawned, stretching beside him. “Sleep ok?”

  In an instant, Scott almost spilled the beans, but something held him back. Flashbacks to finding himself in Pacificas after wiping out surfing that day. How he had told Brooke and Charles, only to be met with disbelief and blank stares he knew too well.

  Scott was no actor though, and his eyes betrayed him. “What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “It’s nothing,” he stammered. “I was thinking about how we had to lie to Charles... about before.”

  Conjuring up real guilt and shame helped. It provided a mask for his feelings of violation and fear. “I wish there could have been another way to explain Pete’s disappearance,” he said with some difficulty.

  “It doesn’t seem right to not tell the truth. We haven’t kept in touch with the Hürantåns. It’s all like a big dream… We told Charles that Peter drowned in the sub accident. It was never found, the body neither, and… I don’t think he believed our story, did he?”

  Scott closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. The whole crazy thing with Hürantå. It had felt as if they had been gone for weeks, but Captain Xalion had brought them back only two days later, Earth time. A trick of inter-galactic travel and the skill of the accomplished star pilot, they were told. But they still had to account for the missing submarine and Pete. Scott’s physical wounds made the story of the sub crash plausible. He had escaped, but Pete couldn’t get out, the submersable disappearing into the abyss. That much was true, at least. They told him that Brooke had been tending to Scott in the hospital, consoling him on the loss of his friend. Luckily he never delved too far, never wondered about Pete’s family.

  Brooke reached over and put her arm around Scott. “I don’t like lying to Charles either, Scott,” she said, looking deep into his eyes. “It’s, just…easier that way.”

  Scott returned the gaze. Yes, easier that way, but not so easy now. “I wish there didn’t need to be lies.” Choking on the irony, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and pulled on a shirt. His mind made, he needed to keep this new thing under wraps.

  He got up and looked around. A few clothes scattered about, wallet and keys on the dresser. Brooke’s laptop and folder on the bureau. Nothing changed or out of the ordinary. A vision of the black-clothed intruders, one pointing a gun at his wife’s head, flashed in Scott’s mind.

  Brooke stretched and rolled in the bed. “Well, it’s all behind us. Try not to worry about it.”

  She lay on her side, her curly brown hair cascading over her beautiful face and tanned shoulders. For a second, Scott forgot everything looking at his angelic wife. He smiled and leaned down to kiss her.

  “Thanks, Brookski.” Scott shook off the guilt and fear. “It’s all good. I’m just gonna go down to the lab for a bit. What time is the rally?”

  “The rally’s at nine, but I should be out by eight,” she said. “I’ll put the eggs on.”

  Still holding back the anxiety, Scott was grateful for the excuse to go downstairs and compose himself. He had to see the lab. If they ransacked the place, he’d have a reason to be worried, and wouldn’t have to lie to his wife. He descended the back stairs and opened the lights, turned off the alarm. Charles wasn’t in yet. It was 7:27.

  A quick glance at the doors revealed them to be all still locked. The desks: all good. His breath quickened, sweat poured. It’s happenin
g again. Did I dream it? His heart threatened to beat out of his chest, tightening as he tried to control his respiration. If he wasn’t familiar with the symptoms of an anxiety attack, he’d be calling 911 right about now.

  He sat on the nearest chair and put his head between his knees. Breathe. Scott. Breathe.

  Click. The front door opened and in walked Charles, 7:30 sharp. “Morning, Dr. Blake, you’re up and at em’ bright and early today.”

  Scott gulped. He looked up, worried about how he appeared. Charles mirrored the concern. “Scott, what’s up? Are you having one again?” he said and rushed over.

  This wasn’t the first time Scott had a panic attack since they returned from space. Easily masked as a result of the accident and loss of Pete, Scott drew on the fake experience. With nothing out of order, he even started to doubt what happened. “I… It’s… Peter….”

  “Don’t try to talk, son,” said Charles. “I know losing Peter has been tough on you. Just breathe. Be calm. You don’t have to carry the weight. Let it go.”

  Charles had been like a father to him since his parents died. His presence calmed Scott. The whole intrusion thing felt so unreal. I need more proof. I need to relax.

  As if reading his mind, Charles put his hands on his shoulders in a gesture of reassurance. “You’ve had a tough time. Yesterday was a big moment. Why don’t you go surfing and forget about all of this? I bet the waves are huge after yesterday’s storm.”