Carroll's Shorts

Carroll’s Shorts

An anthology

of science fiction chronicles

By Noel Carroll

Allen-Ayers Books; Ponce Inlet, Florida

Reviews:

Good stories: up past midnight reading them!

Grabs one's attention and refuses to let go.

Easy to identify with the characters.

Excellent use of descriptive language without being stuffy.

Looking forward to reading more!

Aphelion-WritersHood-Dementia-Steelcaves

Also From Noel Carroll:

Novels

Circle of Distrust

Accidental Encounter

Never By Blood

Broken Odyssey

Starve The Devil

The Exclusion Zone

A Long Reach Back

Light Years of Fear

Short Stories

Slipping Away

The Galapagos Incident

Silent Obsession

Recycled

The Collection

Butterflies

Stairway Through Agony

Beyond Sapiens

End of The Beginning

By Invitation Only

Aliens Need Not Apply

The Elite

Humor-Satire

Hey, God; Got A Minute? (as John Barr)

Soul Food

Political

If You Can Keep It (as N.C. Munson)

Reviews Of Noel Carroll Novels

Circle Of Distrust

"Triggered my interest from the first page"

"Keen sense of pacing"

"Noel Carroll brings us into the cold corporate world with a new approach"

"Multilevel, at times frightening, conflict"

"Climaxes in a daring but intriguing scene"

AA Showcase Reviews

Never By Blood

"Strap on your shoulder harness and get ready for a non-stop thriller"

"Keep(s) you guessing until its final pages"

"Descriptive style…fluid pace"

"To all readers who enjoy fast paced action,

international intrigue and suspense,

with a dash of romance."

Scribes World

"All the hallmarks of a great whodunit, international thriller"

"A multi-layered exercise in what excellent writing is all about"

"A most amazing read"

Midwest Book Review

"An excellent out of this world romp"

"Chillingly believable"

"Gives this skeleton some meat that most mysteries don't usually take on"

Sime~Gen

"Nicely paced, well written"

"Keeps the reader guessing … well worth reading"

A. A. Showcase

Broken Odyssey

"Masterfully engineered tale

First class dialogue, spine tingling action"

Book Pleasures Reviews

"Excellently crafted

Keeps you on the edge of your seat"

Simi-Gen

Starve The Devil

"Quick-witted writing style.

Keeps nails short and edges of seats warm"

eBooks NBytes

"Not sure what worries me more, that I can actually see something like this happening in the world today, or that I understand the president’s action and partially agree."

Roundtable Reviews

The Exclusion Zone

"Hang on to your hats, as this book will blow you away!"

"Picks up the reader from the first page"

"Non-stop action plot"

Midwest Book Review

"A fast paced thriller with a mesmerizing arc"

"Knits characters and scenarios expertly together into a woven tapestry of an

international political thriller"

eBooks NBytes

Accidental Encounter

"Grabbed my interest from the first pages..held it to the conclusion."

"A very enjoyable book to read"

Aphelion

**********

Carroll’s Shorts

An Anthology of Science Fiction Chronicles

By Noel Carroll

Copyright © 2010 by Noel Carroll

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Cover by KC Creations

Author’s note

In choosing a title for this, our first collection of science fiction short stories, Carol (the Carroll in our pen name) suggested I use my name (Noel) then word the title to reflect what is within those Shorts. But Noel's Backside did not have the chime I was looking for. We voted, applying the method long accepted as fair in such matters: one vote per pound of body weight.

The Stories

Slipping Away……………...An astronaut’s no-win decision

The Galapagos Incident…....Disaster at sea off the Galapagos Islands

Silent Obsession…………….A child with a unique but destructive talent

Recycled……………………Trapped within a unfamiliar chamber

The Collection……………...An Alaska glacier hides a mystery

Butterflies………………….A surprise awaits shuttle astronauts

Stairway Through Agony...The top floor of the building is visible only to one

Beyond Sapiens………..…..What goes around comes around

The End of the Beginning…When the Earth reaches the end of its days

By Invitation Only………...A lovely Greek island offers a surprise to the elite

Aliens Need Not Apply.........A probe has landed, its source unknown.

The Elite…………………….Our giant neighbor Betelgeuse has exploded.

Soul Food (humor/satire).…Where does the human soul spend its day?

********

Slipping Away

An astronaut’s no-win decision

"I think it is a wonderful story. I found it engrossing and moving.

I hated that your astronaut played such a cruel trick on his comrades, but it provides your story with a real kick in the end"

Aphelion.

The Story

When you find and read this narrative, you will be literally addressing the past. You will not, I can safely tell you, be addressing me. I am in relapse now, and when it ends … well, whatever you get of the story, it is more than I was inclined to give even an hour ago. The meat of it is, I’m here now, here being where your ancestors sent us 48 years ago. What I found, however, is not what they expected us to find.

In the event you have mislaid our file, we are here as a result of a Hubble sighting in late 2013. The amplified spectrograph, new to us but probably ancient history to you, permitted us our first confirmation of a life-bearing planet. It orbits HR7698, is trillions of miles from you and contains, as you saw from Earth, an oxygen atmosphere, a sure sign of biological life. I am looking at it now; we are orbiting at an altitude of two hundred kilometers. I can see the deep blue of water and the pale haze of atmosphere. Weather systems as well--except for the alien topography, I could be orbiting Earth.

One other thing, and this bothers me, considering what I am about to do. There is evidence of civilized life. No cities, at least none that are obvious to my Earth-trained eyes, but here and there are large clearings, some by navigable rivers, wide and showing the deep blue of depth. On the dark side of the planet, I see flickers of light, maybe controlled but surely huge—even with the enlargers, I cannot say they are naturally occurring. What I can say is I will never get to meet whoever or whatever is down there.

Except for Natasha, but let me work up to that.

The why has to do with the agony that molests my body with fierce determination, robbing me of any sense of obligation to you or your ancestors--duty, honor; even life itself, none of it matters. I have tried every pill on board, but none offer more than momentary relief.

Our five-person crew wore an abundance of smiles as we rocketed away from the pad with no more trauma than the embarrassment of momentarily weak bladders. Breaking out of orbit was routine and, after a quick flyby of the moon to give us time to check out our systems with the ground crew there, we engaged the nuclear engine then headed for deep space.

Then it was bedtime for three of us. They would not be needed until the attempted landing 48 years into the future. Karen and I stayed awake to make sure they brushed their teeth and said their prayers, but then had to consider doing the same to ourselves. There was no choice, of course. Walking the cabin for 48 years was hardly an option.

Up to the point of our tucking ourselves in, sex was the furthest thing from our minds. But all this talk about bed stimulated us a bit, sexually, I mean. Then there was the temptation provided by the physics of life suspension. Clothing interfered with the even distribution of chemicals, much of which were topical rather than systemic—we were all naked. Karen and I didn’t have a problem with the mechanics of it. Due to the steady acceleration of the ship, we had close to normal gravity going. Of greater concern was the Huntsville crowd who was monitoring every grunt and groan. We mentally brushed them aside after recognizing the obvious, that by the time we returned to Earth, every one of them would be dead—sic semper voyeurs!

I did Karen first, put her to sleep, that is. But the feeling that then flowed over me was less one of freedom than loneliness. I was alone in deep space, wallowing in the absolute certainty that I would not talk to another of my species for decades. So strong was this feeling that I feared I might thaw out a colleague, for what purpose, I could not imagine. Maybe just to know I could, that the 48 years was not a sentence.

Our sleeping was done in life-suspension chambers, referred to as coffins by those of us doomed to ride them. They were plastic but not transparent, and had an inner layer peppered with holes, these to allow an even distribution of chemicals over our sleeping bodies. I climbed into my unit and closed the lid, not with determination but with resignation. I don’t know what made me so apprehensive; everything had gone smoothly during the tests at Huntsville. I told myself a certain amount of this was normal, that it is how people react when the moment of so great a truth is upon them. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, the argument creeps into my mind that I had a premonition.

Following ingrained teachings, I forced myself to breathe normally for all of the seven minutes it took for the machine to assume control of my consciousness. Then, like my crew, I fell into a deep sleep, there to remain for close to half a century.

But it didn’t happen that way.

I did not want to wake up. I didn’t know why I should, why I should give up what I had, which was considerable. My body, every atom of it, was vibrant with pleasure. It was euphoria, the purest that ever was, an unbeatable combination of sexual climax and drug high. I mentally lay down my head to rest, permitting only one thought of caution beforehand: Perhaps I was doing myself harm, like swimming in a endless sexual climax; surely my heart would surrender before I tired of it.

I had never felt so good before, even as I could not remember the before. But then, I did not want to. If I remembered, it would drive the feeling away, like happens in the early morning when you want so much to stretch out that last golden moment of sleep but lose it to the introduction of a serious thought.

I am a pilot! Recalling this distressed me to the point where I called a halt to thinking in favor of more napping--it was so easy to make that decision then. I have no idea how long I napped. From what I know now, I can easily believe it to be weeks. I knew the feeling could not last, that somewhere an alarm clock stood ready to yank me back to reality. And I knew also that I would eventually give in to its unrelenting call. For now, however, that did not appear to be necessary.

Something inside me said it was wrong not to care, wrong to allow the feeling to so completely take over. But damn me for thinking it at the time, that argument held no meaning. Meaning was guarding the feeling, making sure it stayed with me for as long as I wanted it.

It’s my ship! I’m the captain! I don’t know why that came to me; I sure as hell did not want it to; it put me again in fear of waking up. I retreated back into the gentle arms of my emotional guardian and this time remained there for about a month—I am not trying to be devious; I simply do not know. Only slowly did I regain enough of a sense of being to consider other than the pleasure that so captured whatever determination I possessed. This was limited to a vague notion that time was something to keep track of, a notion prompted by a little creature who kept tapping me on the shoulder, cautioning me that I was surrendering too much. To put him off, I agreed to keep the concept of time in mind.

With the acceptance of this new burden—and it did seem a burden—I was able to guess at the passing of another two weeks before the thought crossed my mind that I might indeed be surrendering too much--as if sensing a break in my armor, the tapping on my shoulder increased. By now I was getting used to it, the tapping, I mean. There was contact there; I was communicating with something. Why I thought I wanted to, I did not know.

The ship! I was in a spaceship headed for deep space. Hell, it might have arrived. The panic that accompanied the latter thought momentarily took the edge off Natasha (by then I had given the feeling a name, one that permitted me to communicate the love I felt it deserved). Losing any part of Natasha was something I did not appreciate, and no amount of tapping on the shoulder could keep me from backpedaling if the threat evolved. Only when I was certain the threat had not evolved, did I cautiously return my thoughts to the mission and my part in it.

For a moment—again a long one—I was struck by the implausibility of it all. I was supposed to be under life-suspension, as unconscious as a human being could be and still be alive. I knew this; I had been forced to experience it in the lab. I should not be able to think and I should not be able to feel. But the inescapable fact was, I could think and I could feel, the latter in a big way. So what did that mean, that I was coming out of it? I could accept that, although it didn’t happen that way in the lab. It was an off-on situation, a zombie one moment and alert the next.

If the life-suspension process was not working as expected, was it working at all--perhaps the preservation of my body was not complete? This trip was scheduled to last 48 years; was I destined to be 48 years older when we arrived--I mean for real?

As before, I had to ask myself if I cared.

This time the answer was yes. I loved Natasha but I could not see succumbing so totally to her charms for the remainder of my life. After all, there was the mission. And there were my responsibilities, four of which were human beings entrusted to my care. I had to find out what was happening. I had to wake myself up.

But not today.

I asked myself, what was so urgent that I had to rise from my bed before the planners at Huntsville thought was necessary. Another few minutes; another short nap.

Two additional weeks went by before I once again gave in to Ivan—like Natasha, the creature tapping me on the shoulder had to have a name. You might wonder why I choose Russian names. Truth is, I did not do so consciously. When I think of a sultry, accommodating siren, I think of a Natasha. When I think of an obnoxious villain, I think of an Ivan. Perhaps I read too many spy novels as a young man.

Ivan argued with considerable strength that I should wake myself up and correct whatever problem existed with either the ship or my chamber. Maybe the other chambers as well. But that would mean putting Natasha aside for a time, perhaps risking losing her altogether. Arguments against this flooded my mind. What if we were aging; what could we do about it? I decided to give myself more time to think things through—more weeks with Natasha. After all, it was possible that the life-suspension machine was doing exactly what it was supposed to do. Perhaps this is how it worked in a real-life situation.

The taping on my shoulder began anew after some thirty days of half-hearted, inner debate. Ivan was reminding me that six months had passed since I first became aware that I was not asleep; how could I lie there knowing something was wrong? I was prompted by this to struggle an eye open, even while knowing it was pitch black in the chamber--I would not even know if my eye were truly open. When an ache appeared at the top of my head, I decided that it was, a theory confirmed by a greater ache as I wrenched the other eye open.

I wondered how my efforts were wearing with Natasha. I lay there for some time, opening and closing my eyes, all the while feeling out her mood. She did not like it, that much I could tell. She pulled back some, like a woman does when you say something dumb during a grand moment. But it appeared she was going to go along. I allowed another day to make certain before daring the next step.

Moving an arm was beyond ache; it was painful. Was this the result of inactivity, years of inactivity, or was the machine telling me to lie still? Natasha hung around for a bit of this, but then demonstrated a waning patience by pulling back further. About to reconsider my actions, Ivan jumped in to encourage me to give it time, to wait out Natasha’s mood.

He was right. The pain lessened then disappeared altogether, and Natasha stayed where she was. Sulking in the background, letting me know how displeased she was, but not threatening to leave. I continued to push ahead, all the while wondering at my determination, why I gave so much preference to the illusive concept of duty when what I really wanted was a continuation of the status quo. When moving the other arm produced no worsening of my condition, I knew I was ready to go for it.

There is a panic button inside the chamber which, when pressed, will trigger the wake-up process. Although Natasha appeared willing to stand by me, still I held off pressing it. The real world would come sweeping over me once I did, and I was not convinced the situation warranted so … uncomfortable … an action. I could be digging a bigger hole for myself, forcing consciousness on a body that might then have to wander a silent cabin for whatever is left of 48 years. Natasha smiled at that, her thought being,, I’m sure, that I was inching my way back to her bosom. I returned the smile, but it was more one of sadness than complicity.

I reached down and pressed the button.

At first I felt nothing, but then a rushing noise lashed out at ears long unaccustomed to such attacks. This was followed by a faint breeze, as if something were entering or leaving my chamber. A great malaise came over me as I realized that, whatever else was happening, Natasha was saying goodbye--I could see the tear in her eye; certainly there was one