Battle at Zero Point (24 page)

Came one final explosion—and everything started to go black.

Hunter couldn't believe it. He'd just shot himself down.

Hunter awoke, facedown, in the middle of a shallow stream.

The water was cold. It was running up his nose and into his mouth and even into his ears. He could not move. Every bone in his body was broken, or at least that's how it felt. He couldn't see, either.

Something warm and sticky was keeping his eyelids shut. Most of all, his head hurt. A lot.

/
guess this isn't Heaven
, he thought.

He managed to roll onto his back, allowing the water to pour over his chest. It felt like ice, but it seemed to revive him. He cupped a handful of water and brought it up to his eyes. It was so cold it stung, but it helped clear away whatever was blocking his vision. Another splash of water, then another. Finally he was able to see.

He was in the middle of a forest. His uniform was burned and ripped; his helmet was floating in a pool nearby. The F-Machine was caught in an enormous tree off to his right. Hanging about twenty feet off the ground, its wings and tail section were still on fire. Hunter felt a sharp pain in his chest; the aircraft looked irreparably damaged. The canopy had fallen off, his ejector seat had activated, and his ancient parachute had billowed open. But it was hanging off another tree nearby.

This didn't make sense. How had he wound up here, dumped not on the jagged rocks that surrounded the bottom of the huge tree but in the freezing-cold stream? It had not been a soft landing for him. But it had not been a fatal one, either.

He managed to lift himself to his knees and then finally got to his feet. Though he was in a deep woods, it was very warm. There was a large yellow sun almost directly overhead; it felt strangely soothing on his battered face. The air here was dry and sweet. Wherever he was, the puff was holding up well. The trees were numerous in all directions, with only the stream running through them, and a small grassy bank on each side.

He took a step and was amazed that his legs weren't shattered for good. Two more steps, and he was out of the water. He half expected the Phantoms to swoop down on him at any second, so he made for the cover of the nearest tree. But the only things overhead were fair weather clouds and the deep blue sky. Nor was there any sound, except the wind in the leaves.

He retrieved his helmet, then made his way over to the tree holding his Hying Machine. He took one long look, then fell to the seat of his pants. The fuselage bent and scored. The cockpit insides were still burning, and the tail section was in dozens of pieces. The crash had been catastrophic. His aircraft was destroyed. Dead…

But how could he still be alive?

He began walking.

The trees ran very thick past the tiny grassy bank, so he followed the stream, trying to retrace the path the Flying Machine took on its way down. He finally reached an outcrop of rock, which after climbing, he was able to look back toward the crash site. What he saw astonished him. There was a wide swath cut through the dense forest, clearly made as his machine had burned its way in. The damage to the tops of the trees was extensive—big limbs cracked and torn asunder, small pockets of flame still burning fiercely.

He had no memory of this; no memory of ejecting or separating from the aircraft at the last moment.

Had he passed out? Had he been knocked unconscious? He didn't know.

Only one thing was for sure: there was no way he should have survived that kind of crash.

He sat down on a flat rock and activated the image capsule Tomm had given him; it had somehow survived as well. Suddenly the spitting image of the space monk was floating in front of him.

"You are activating this for only one reason," the diminutive priest began. "You made it to Far Planet. Are you still in one piece?"

Hunter reviewed the various bumps, bruises, and contusions covering his battered body. "We'll have to see about that," he said.

The image smiled. "Is this place what you expected?"

Hunter shook his head no. "I was expecting someplace much wilder…"

"Wilder?"

He scanned the pastoral setting. "It looks like any other scrub planet in the Galaxy. Lots of grass. Lots of trees. After what I had to do to get here, I thought it would be much different. I thought there'd be big cities and lots of people."

The image of Tomm laughed. "Brother Hawk, I know at some time in the past I must have counseled you on this, but allow me to do so again: Few things in this universe are as they first seem. Keep an open mind out here, my friend. You are going to need it."

"So what's your crucial advice?" Hunter asked the image. He was anxious to get going, keenly aware that the clock was still ticking and that if he didn't at least try to complete this part of the mission—whatever the hell it was—then there was a good chance there would be a disaster at Zero Point when the rest of the UPF fleet emerged.

"The most important thing to know is this," the image said. "Do not tell anyone why you are here until you get to the person you have to talk to. They are extremely clever out here, and very protective. They will do just about anything to make you break your confidence—and the strange thing is, they can absolutely follow through on whatever they might use to tempt you. And they
will
tempt you."

Hunter would have laughed if he wasn't hurting so much. "How can I be tempted any more than a chance to stay in Heaven with the girl I love, instead of coming back here to fight a war that will be almost impossible to win?"

The image smiled again but didn't completely understand.

"I think you'll be surprised by this place, Hawk," Tomm said. "Just go with the flow, as they used to say, and see what happens. Be strong, though. I'm sure everyone is counting on you."

With that, the image disappeared.

Hunter just stared at the empty piece of space where Tomm had just been.

"Wait! That's it!" he yelled.

He tried to activate the image again but got nothing more than a crackle of static. He tried again and again. Still nothing. The capsule was depleted. He couldn't even conjure up the first two images. In frustration, he threw the capsule away. It seemed to travel more than a mile before finally disappearing into the woods.

This was just great. Here he was, literally at the end of the Galaxy, with no way home, no way to contact anybody, nobody to contact if he did—and no idea what he was supposed to be doing here. He reached into his side pocket and felt one of his last apples had turned to mush.

And nothing to eat, either
, he thought.

He got up and began walking again.

After an hour of trudging through the forest, he reached a long narrow field that led to another outcrop of rocks. He climbed these rocks cautiously and looked out on the other side.

He found himself atop a tall hill. Directly below him was a closely cut field of grass with a water fountain in the middle and park benches surrounding it. Beyond that was a main street that led into a small town. He counted two dozen buildings at most, both homes and businesses, on either side of the street.

He also saw lots of trees and flower boxes and streetlights and even fire hydrants.

Looking down on the sleepy little settlement, he just shook his head. "I came across the Galaxy—for
this
?"

• • •

He made his way down the hill and past the village green. His blaster rifle had been lost in the crash, but his ray gun had survived, tucked away in his holster.

He walked to the edge of the small town now, gun in hand. The village didn't look any different than a trillion other settlements scattered throughout the Galaxy's billions of planets. If anything, it looked like something more readily found in the Ball. Peaceful. Bucolic.
Uninteresting
.

It also appeared deserted. Hunter saw no signs of life. He studied the main street. It was well-paved and ran for two blocks where it widened out into the town square. There was a small bandstand here and a flagpole, but no banner was flying from it.

He moved down the street, sticking to one side, always checking around him, in back of him, and methodically scanning every door front. The names on some of the stores were vaguely familiar to him.

Howard Johnson's. Sears Roebuck. Woolworth's. Rexall. These were obviously places to eat, to buy clothes and appliances, to buy medicines. Though they were way down deep in his psyche, it was always a small triumph when he remembered something from his past life. But what were these ancient things from a long-ago Earth doing way out here, at a point just about as far away from Earth as one could get?

What about the Phantoms and the Saturn 5s?

He hoped he would find out.

"Hey mister, want a ride?'

Hunter turned around toward the voice; instinct alone had his gun up and ready.

What he saw was a very, very long ground vehicle, painted white, with many windows and four wheels. Hunter was familiar with this type of machine. It was called a limousine.

There was a teenage boy behind the steering wheel. He was wearing a black suit coat, a bow tie, and a black cap.

"What did you say?" Hunter asked him.

"I asked you if you needed a ride," the kid yelled back. "There ain't no buses running today, and you look like you've got someplace you want to go."

Hunter just shrugged. He couldn't search the entire planet on foot, looking for somebody he didn't even know. On the other hand, whoever was running Far Planet obviously knew he was here. It would have been hard for anyone to miss his grand entrance. So, he supposed, the best way to find out where he was going was to let them take him there. Or something like that. Like Tomm said: Just go with the flow and see what happens.

He climbed into the back of the limo.

They roared out of town and a minute later were speeding along a deserted country road.

The limo was so long Hunter could hardly see the driver. The backseat was incredibly comfortable.

His frame sank a good six inches into it. There was a fully stocked bar within reach. He even liked the twinkling lights that ran the length of the limo's interior.

He put his weary head back to rest. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gone to sleep. It sometimes seemed like he hadn't caught any Zs since he arrived in the seventy-third century more than two years ago. If he could just close his eyes, just for a few seconds and…

Wake up, Hawk…

He was suddenly awake, gun up and ready. How long had he been asleep? A minute? An hour? He couldn't tell. They were still tooling along the country road, but the landscape outside had changed. They were now driving past sand dunes, some covered with beach grass, some bare. Hunter thought he could smell ocean air, even though the limo's windows were all shut tight and the air-conditioning was going full blast.

They topped a hill, and the limo began to slow down. They turned left and were now on a gravel road, driving between the sand dunes. Hunter was tempted to yell up to the kid and ask where they were going, but he saved his breath. He knew he would find out soon enough.

They made another turn, and now straight ahead Hunter could see a single building standing out among the dunes. It was like a big box, with a huge rolling door on its front and a smaller door on the side. There was a long apron of black asphalt in front of it. Beach grass and sand covered the other three sides.

The limo driver pulled up to the front door, then looked into his rearview mirror for the first time.

"Want to stretch your legs?" he yelled back to Hunter.

But Hunter was already climbing out of the big car. He stood in front of the stark building; it was made of very thin materials, plastic and tin. As unremarkable as it was, it was familiar to him.

It was an airplane hangar.

He turned to ask the driver why they had stopped here and was startled to see the car had departed.

He just caught a last glimpse of it as it retreated back down the dusty road.

When Hunter turned back to the hangar, he found an elderly man standing in front of him. He was small, bent over, with a huge mustache and a nonatomic cigar jammed in his mouth. He was wearing mechanic's overalls and was rubbing his greasy hands on a very greasy rag. A name tag over his left side pocket read D. Jones. He looked vaguely familiar.

"You here to pick up the buggy?" he asked Hunter with a rasp.

"Buggy?"

The old guy looked at him like he had two heads. "Yeah, the buggy? Your wings? Your airplane?"

"
My
airplane?"

The old guy just rolled his eyes, put the rag in his back pocket, and opened the hangar door.

Inside was Hunter's spacecraft.

He nearly passed out. It didn't seem possible. But here it was, not only fixed but looking better than ever. The paint job alone was superb. The ship was now bright white, with bright red and blue stripes and a scattering of white stars here and there. It was dazzling.

Hunter staggered forward, numbly climbing the access ladder that had been placed up against the open canopy. The interior of the cockpit was completely repaired; even his seat was refurbished.

Everything looked die same as before, only newer and better.

He reached in and pushed his flight control panel to Me. He was soon looking at a diagnostics holograph of his power pack, the mysterious combination of Time Shifter components that he'd had put together so long ago on Fools 6—it was the reason the F-Machine could go as fast as it did. The power system looked as new as everything else on the craft.

He turned back to the mechanic, who was waiting at the bottom of the ladder.

"How?" was all Hunter could think to ask him.

The old guy just shrugged and chomped down on his cigar again.

"Do you have any idea how long I've been working on these things?" he asked Hunter. "Believe me, I've seen some wrecks in my day. But this one was a peach."

Hunter slid back down the ladder and shook the man's dirty hand. He was so ecstatic, he was missing the big picture—at least for the moment.

But then it dawned on him. "What's the catch?" he asked the mechanic.