Chapter 3:

A Chat Among Friends

Down 8th Street, just past Gardens Boulevard sits The Plaza of the Martens in all its red brick glory. Although the building is primarily commercial, several floors house local government offices. It is here that the city government moved some of its operations after outstripping City Hall, and without enough money to finance a new building of their own, decided to rent. It was here that the deputy mayor rallied his troops.

Past the receptionist’s desk was a commons area filled with small cubicles in which twenty-odd people lived out their weekdays. The commons were loud and busy as clerks pass this way and that, stacks of paper in hand; as printers and copiers buzzed and whirred, birthing text on page.

To the uninitiated, it all seemed to be utter chaos; and it was, except it all funneled back to one man, the key to the seeming hysteria, the method anchoring the madness. Brion Mindur orchestrated it so that he was the central piece that made sense of the entire puzzle. Indeed, he loved the apparent incongruity and seeming mismanagement. Yet, Mindur’s office was easily the most productive the city had ever known, focused and highly efficient. The energy of the office left visitors dizzy; putting giddy smiles on those that required honest assistance, and confounding the schemers and sophists. Although he was only the deputy mayor by title, everyone knew Brion Mindur was the true power behind the throne. He did all the hiring and had an amazing knack for finding not only those who would work hard, but those with a genuine passion to do good—not just put a happy face on the usual idiocy of government.

Behind the manic activity of the commons with all its flutter and shuffle sat Mindur’s office. He kept his office door open so he could soak in the chaotic sounds, only to close if he had guests, and then only at the guest’s request.

At this moment his door was closed.

Mayor Harridge Wilborn sat across from Brion Mindur, and unlike Brion, the Mayor wanted nothing to do with an open door. To him, doors were for closing, only to be opened for those that could do him favors and offer him gifts. Mayor Wilborn was lazy and disinterested. He loved the perks of his office and ignored the responsibilities. Those were given to Brion—and so the two rarely came to loggerheads—though it occasionally still happened, as it did on this day. After all, Wilborn wanted nothing more than to look good—and lately, he was not looking good.

Brion Mindur was a short man with a long temper. He often deferred to others, including those he led. He smiled, even now, while being harangued by the Mayor, as if nothing ever rattled him. Indeed, this was the case, but it’s not to say Brion never went on the offensive. Brion was known to change on a dime, to attack or bully or anything else if necessary. He was unerringly good at manipulating those around him, always taking the right tack. For now, that meant letting the Mayor sound off. Still, Brion sighed. He’d already had this conversation with the mayor—twice.

“Look, all I know is I’m getting a fire under my ass from the Pentagon, and the space boys are stoking the flames!” The Mayor leaned over the desk. “They want your boy yesterday. They need to show him what they’re cooking, and I can’t keep telling them to wait. They got their boy Jenkins in the pipes. He’s ready to go! He’s pushing hard on this, and I’m thinking why the fuck is it taking you so long to get your perfect candidate?!” Harridge exclaimed. He didn’t like to yell, but how else might he convey his urgency to this underling: this brilliant, capable, dissenting, surreptitious underling? “how did you manage to wrangle your man into this position anyway?! What do you have on NASA?!”

Mindur smiled. It was a long suffering smile, the type on the faces of Tibetan monks as the Chinese bulldozed their temples. It was the smile Jesus gave the Pharisees as they attempted to trap him with his own words. It was not a repugnant smile, but a smile of the eyes that said he understood why this was occurring; that the insecurities of the oppressor must certainly be worse than the atrocities they committed.

Not that this situation was in any way comparable to such historic wrongdoing. Mindur understood that too. Yet he could not explain why Marvelous must go, nor why they must wait. It wasn’t that Mindur didn’t understand it himself. He simply could not explain it to someone of the Mayor’s simple interests and understanding. Nor could he explain it to NASA. Still, he would have to try. “Tell them we’re prepping Marvelous on our side. Tell them anything you want. Just stop worrying about the how and why, and especially the when. Marvelous will come to us when he’s good and ready, and he’s far better than some hothead air jockey.”

Mayor Wilborn rolled his eyes and sighed in resignation, “I just don’t understand why he hasn’t already committed. Why isn’t he already down there figuring out what-the-hell about flying that damn ship and what-all-else they need to teach him? How can he be the man if he refuses our schedule?!”

Mindur wondered what it was like to live in such a world of black and white, a world of good and evil, and decided it must be awful boring. Why do most reduce everything to polar opposites when there were so many interesting complexities in the middle? What a sad little world it must be for such people. Did they not see all the other colors? Did they not smell all the other smells? He leaned forward. “Nathan does things slowly when he does them at all. That’s it. He takes time to come around, but in the end, he’s the one man to do this. I’m telling you, we’re waiting for Nathan. If you want to prep Jenkins, then feel free to do it. But I assure you, when the rocket launches, it will be Marvelous on it,” and with that he shrugged. Brion wouldn’t explain it any further. As to the why it had to be Nathan, well, Brion couldn’t reveal that. Nobody would understand, or at least, nobody would believe Brion’s motives if they should be known—so there was nothing else to say.

Maybe having Jenkins on the burner would get the mayor to give up. Sooner or later, the man would pick up his golf clubs and stomp out of the office. Eventually he would cut his losses and head out. Already, he was frustrated, unable to bully Brion into panicky action. What did he expect? Was Mindur supposed to shake some stick and instantly conjure Marvelous’s cooperation? Abrahkazam! We have our hero! No. This was slow work. Like a soufflé, it could not be rushed, or it would suffer from tampering. Brion shook his head. “This is a delicate situation, sir. It’s not everyday we get to save the world, and I refuse to botch it just because the Pentagon boys wants to rush it. We’re responsible for this intervention, and I’ll make sure its done right—right up to the moment our hero gets in the rocket.”

Harridge Wilborn harrumphed and gathered his thoughts in an attempt to make one final all-out assault against his deputy’s impunity. He was just about to let loose a storm of words to bring the mountains down around his deputy’s ears when the phone rang. Harridge glared at the appliance—usually one of his favorites—with utter contempt. “Get rid of him,” he ordered.

Mindur picked up the receiver with no intention of rushing the call. The mayor would most certainly be interested in this conversation anyway. “Well hello, Nathan. How are you today?” Brion asked. Hearing Nathan’s name, the Mayor leaned in, his eyes boring into Brion. The deputy held up a finger, telling the mayor not to talk, and put Marvelous on speaker.

“What exactly do you want from me?” asked Nathan, not bothering with pleasantries.

Nathan was certainly in a mood. Brion stared at Mayor Harridge and wondered if there was something in the water. “Well, Nathan, I feel like you’re making this a little one sided,” Brion replied. “Do you think you’ll get nothing out of this?”

“Don’t be coy; I have no time to flirt with you.”

“Of course not,” Brion apologized. “Why don’t you tell me what you know.”

“Well,” Nathan began. “We’ve discovered a giant asteroid that’s looking to ruin Southern Europe (and Northern Africa). Thanks for the information, but what do you want me to do about it?”

“You’ve thought it out this far,” Brion said. “Why not tell me the rest?”

“I know what you’re getting at,” assured Marvelous. “I’m no astronaut.”

“Not yet, but all that takes is a trip into space, and bingo! You’re a spaceman!” Brion smiled.

“You guys are out of your minds,” Nathan stated.

“Of course we are. We’re the government.”

“So, tell me what you’re thinking. I’ll start you. There’s a rock heading for a Mediterranean vacation…”

Mindur leaned back and set himself to deliver a soliloquy. “Let’s start with the ship. You’ve already heard all about the rock, so we’ll assume we all know all there is to know about it...

“So we’ve got a long-range vehicle, actually built for Mars. The ship was built to retrieve samples and return—nothing overly ambitious. So now we plan on landing it on a rock the size of, oh, not much bigger than Central Park. We have a couple dozen explosive devices and a single occupant who shall set the bombs and return. The main problem is cargo space, but we scrapped most of the sampling equipment since we’re not going to Mars after all, and since escaping Lucifer 6’s gravity well is something of a physics joke, we can really skimp on the fuel for the return. We limit the crew to one, which helps with fuel economy and space restrictions, but is dangerous in its own right, and, of course, we put the whole thing on top of a bigger rocket. We’ve been working the modifications and the new flight plan for months, so we’re almost ready to go. All we need is the crew of one. The question is, who do we get? Do we go with a highly trained NASA pilot, the best astronaut we’ve got? What’s the point? The ship is completely automated. There aren’t any internal controls for flight, and any true pilot would only be frustrated. All the passenger can do is turn up the heat, or put on the air conditioning. The only real task for this crew of one is to wait, then disperse twenty-four highly efficient bombs over the rock, which means whoever sets them has to moonwalk. So an astronaut, right? But no astronaut in active service has done that, and the only people that have are long past their prime. Admittedly an astronaut has other advantages over your basic citizen. But what are we looking for? Do we need an engineer to set the devices? No. These things are simple, these bombs. Flip a couple switches and your set. They do their thing and explode in highly effective fashion, all controlled by a relay set in the rocket computer, so setting the devices isn’t much of a task at all, just a bit of manual labor.”

“Could you set them?” Marvelous asked.

“I could, but I’m not even a candidate. So the question remains, who do we get? What are the main qualifiers? They are physical and mental stability. We need somebody physically strong and mentally capable, because they have to set twenty-four TIMs1 on a time schedule and know that screwing up literally costs the world.”

“The world?”

“Well, maybe not the world, just Southern Europe (and Northern Africa), which is still a lot of pressure.”

“And you think I’ve got the nerves to handle something like that?”

“You got ‘em if anyone does. You’ve been in stranger situations than whole communities. They call you a hero, and for once, it’s no analogy. You’re not a hero the same way Michael Jordan and Angelina Jolie are heroes and we need your kind of hero on this. That’s not to say you’re the only one we’re considering, but we could certainly use you. We need someone of your talents, with your ability to excel under pressure.”

Marvelous sighed. “So that’s what you want from me?” Marvelous sounded disappointed. He sounded like anyone with a little ambition and confidence could do this, and although he was the one person that didn’t really want to, he was the one that would, because he’d fear there’d be such a clamor if he didn’t.

Mindur realized it didn’t help that he himself was so calm about it, that he spoke as if all the pieces were in line, and all anyone had to do was tip the first domino. If Marvelous had to get his enthusiasm vicariously, he wouldn’t get it from Mindur. Still, there were plenty of specialists and authorities in a frenzied panic, and Nathan would meet a lot of them. There were still lots of people to make Nathan uncertain about the outcome of this mission, to make it sound exciting, dangerous, and bring drama to the table. The stress was wrecking friendships, alliances, and all sorts of relationships among the weak. There was panic enough for all, including someone as hardy as Nathan Marvelous.

Of course, it’d only take a few days, maybe a week before Nathan couldn’t stand the drama. There was little middle ground for the vacillating.

Either way, drama was not Mindur’s style. He had the mettle to see this through and would not be party to any of the base drama involved. That sort of nonsense was best left to others. Besides, Mindur had favors to secure, advantages to take, contingencies to plan.

Thinking of others, Mindur glanced up to see the Mayor standing in front his desk, nearly as white as a sheet. Now here was someone suited for the drama, someone to make matters worse...

“Really now, did you expect anything different?” Mindur asked over the phone. “Now, please, we only have a few weeks until you’re scheduled to launch, and there’s a lot of nervous people begging to make your acquaintance. We need you out at Killy Air Force Base so they can put you through some zero-G. Then you go to Florida where they’ll teach you how to set a TIM and acquaint you with your ship. For now, if you’d be so kind and head out to Killy… They’re expecting you for the Vomit Comet.”

“Vomit Comet?” Marvelous asked.

“A high altitude cargo plane used for zero-G simulations. A lot of people gag during the exercise, hence vomit—and since the thing is pretty much aimed at the ground while you’re puking your guts, it’s something of a comet.”

“Just like that? I just go out to Killy, and they know I’m coming?” Marvelous was incredulous.

“Of course! They’ve been expecting you for days, and everybody knows what you look like. Just ask the guard where to go,” Mindur stated.

There was a long pause, and for half a second, Brion wondered if Nathan might decline. “Brion,” Nathan began. “You should know that I absolutely hate you,” he said, then hung up the phone.

Mindur smiled as he set down the receiver. It was good to hear Marvelous was feeling things again, things beside apathy. Besides, Mindur didn’t believe it was hate the whole way through.

Mindur looked up to see the Mayor wide-eyed, leaning over the desk. “What is it?” Brion asked, nonchalant, knowing exactly why the Mayor’s undies were knotted.

“You just now told him?!”The mayor roared. “I thought you told him weeks ago!”

Brion shrugged. “He wasn’t ready. Now he is. We’re set. He’s on his way. Problem solved.”

The mayor shrieked. “He didn’t sound like he was going anywhere to me!”

“That’s because you were waiting for him to say yes. Thing is, Nathan doesn’t say yes to anything. He only says no. Did you hear a no?”

“No,” Harridge admitted.

“There you go,” Brion stated. “Listen, if he’s not there in three days, I’ll personally call NASA and tell them it has to be Jenkins. I’ll fall on that sword—and I’ll invite you over so you can witness it. Okay? But don’t think it’s going to happen. It’s not going to happen. It’s going to be Marvelous.”

Mayor Wilborn stood, eyes wide and mouth agape. He looked like a bass after biting down on a marshmallow hook, surprisingly sharp, after a touch of sweet. “You scare the hell out me, Brion.”

Brion smiled.

Harridge shook his head. He shook his head, leaned over, and picked his golf bag off the floor. As he picked clubs off the floor, his mayoral smile returned. “Well, I’ve got a game with Baine Jones.”

“Oh good,” Brion began. “Don’t let him give you any guff over the Cherry Ridge Development Project. We’re giving him a sweetheart deal, and he knows it,” he reminded.

The mayor tsked. “Let’s not ruin a good game with such talk,” he chided. “He worked the details out with you. I’ve got nothing to do with it.” Harridge stepped to the door. He was almost out when he stopped one more. “Will set up that party we talked about? The celebration?”

“You got the Grand Ballroom at the Fifth Season,” Brion told him.

“You’re sending yourself an invitation?”

“Unfortunately, I won’t be able to make it.” Mindur admitted, “Oh, but I am inviting the astronomers, Williams and Kuykendall, as you asked.”

“The cute one with the strange eyes? And the fidgety fellow?” the mayor nodded. “Good. They’ll be quite the show ponies, eh?” he said with a bit of a chuckle. “Actually, let me do that. I’d hate for them to get the wrong idea about this little celebration.”

“And what’s the wrong idea?” Brion asked.

“That their attendance is optional,” Harridge stated. “How you can bail is beyond me. Don’t you want a front row seat to this great victory?”

“Who’s to say it won’t go extra innings?’ Mindur shrugged. “Besides, theatrics aren’t really my thing.”

Harridge snorted and smiled, then turned and left. Silently, Mindur prayed to himself. Wilborn was a pill, but he was a good face for the office. He came across as competent and the people would remember him fondly, making statements about his passing adequacy. Wilborn may not have done much, the people would say, but he never bungled things either: high praise from a citizenry with such low expectations.

That was why Mindur listened to the endless golf stories and name-dropping. That and because listening was the easiest way to manipulate anybody. After that, all it takes is a little time. But then, that’s all anything takes. Some might say it takes money, but money is only another form of time; condensed, pressed flat, and handed to others in exchange for their time: their time manufacturing, or serving, or thinking. Money is time. Some people say time is money, but people are always getting things backwards. Time is the important end of the equation. Work it the other way and you have nothing but paper with intricate patterning. What could you possibly do with all the money in the world if you didn't have any time?

Ah, but people are always getting things backwards, always too concerned about all the wrong things…

1 TIM is an acronym which stands for Thermal Infusion Mechanism, the technical name for the bombs to be deployed against Lucifer 6.

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