Andrew Mackay - Infinity Claws

Stay updated.

Join the gang right now.

Facebook : facebook.com/chromevalleybooks

Email : andrew@chromevalleybooks.com

Twitter : @Andrew_CVB

Don’t forget to claim your FREE book at the end when you’ve finished reading.

USARIC Data Point

IMS – International Moon Station

Year: 2116

“Good morning, Tripp.”

“Good morning, Manuel.”

Tripp Healy sipped his cup of coffee and glanced at his reflection in the glass panel. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days. Tired and cranky, he felt twenty years older than he was, which would have made him sixty years-old. He certainly felt like a much older man today.

Personal hygiene wasn’t the first thing on his mind this morning, however. He had an important call to make to his family.

The only thing stopping him from dashing to the N-Gage terminal in his quarters was the spectacular view of Earth. The two-day travel back home wouldn’t be undertaken for another two months.

Tripp had been on the moon for two weeks. Fatigue and homesickness were setting in. He found his work was stressful and maddening. USARIC had made little progress since receiving what they called a “cry” from Saturn one month ago to the day.

“Patch me into N-Gage, Manuel,” Tripp made his way to the seat at his terminal. “Let’s get this done.”

“Yes, of course.”

Tripp sat into his chair and looked at the black screen. His five o’clock shadow didn’t improve, no matter which reflective surface he saw himself in.

The screen fizzed and switched on.

“Would you like visual or audio interface, Tripp?”

Manuel’s voice came from somewhere. The great unwashed would have sworn blind that they were hearing things. There were no speakers in the room. The screen itself, ultra-thin and flat, wasn’t producing any audio.

“Both, please,” Tripp made himself comfortable in his seat. “They’re used to me looking like a dog’s dinner.”

“Most amusing, Tripp,” came the dulcet response from thin air.

Tripp rolled his shoulders and ironed out the crick in his neck. He placed his cup of coffee on the desk and pressed his hands together, awaiting the call.

N-Gage

Healy Residence

Dialing…

A two-tone noise bubbled from the screen as a green loading panel stretched across the screen.

“Dialing now, Tripp.”

“Thanks, Manuel.”

Somebody answered the call and appeared on screen. A fingertip obscured a face and environs behind it.

“Tripp, sweetie?”

“Yes, it’s me,” he said, “Samantha? Move your finger, honey.”

“Oh, sorry. The answer panel is in a weird place.” She moved her finger away to reveal her face.

Much like her husband, she’d just woken up. Her hair was unwashed and the absence of makeup reminded Tripp of the girl he knew all-too-well.

“Hey.”

“Hey, how’s it going?”

“Wanna see something cool?”

Samantha smiled and looked off-camera for a nanosecond. “Sure.”

Tripp waved his hand in front of the screen. It turned forty-five degrees toward the window. Planet Earth loomed in the distance. A clear day back on the planet with only a smattering of clouds.

Samantha peered into the screen. The wonder of the view registered on her brow. “Wow, that’s amaziant .”

“Yes, if you look closer, you can see the outline of North America. Look.”

He looked at the screen and aimed his finger along the border of Texas and Mexico.

“Oh, yes,’ she said, “It’s very pretty.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Rogan, quick,” she beckoned someone from off-camera, “Come and see what Dad’s showing us.”

A five-year-old boy ran over to her and climbed onto her lap. “What is it?”

“Come and see the view from Daddy’s bedroom on the moon.”

Rogan’s dropped when he realized what he was viewing. “Wow.”

“ Incrediful , isn’t it?”

Tripp took the time to absorb his son’s reaction. It was a face he longed to touch again. Those brilliantly blue eyes and angelic face.

“That’s you, right there,” Tripp held out his finger and traced the outline of land. “Wave to me.”

Rogan opened his palm and waved.

His father returned the sentiment. Too far, of course, to see any detail. It was the thought that meant the world to both of them.

“You can’t see me, Rogan, but I know you’re there.”

“When can I come with you to the moon, Daddy?”

“Maybe when you’re older,” Tripp traced the outline of his son’s face. “I miss you and mum.”

“We miss you, too. When are you coming back?”

“Soon. A couple weeks, I think.”

Samantha looked over her shoulder. A black cat walked across the floor in the background.

“Hey, Spooky,” Tripp said as it poked around the furniture and dug its claws into the carpet.

“No, don’t do that,” Samantha said, stomping her foot to the ground in an effort to curtail the damage the cat was doing to the carpet. “Bad girl.”

Tripp chuckled to himself. “We need to get her a post or something.”

‘She’s been behaving strangely,’ Samantha returned to the screen and hugged her son. ‘Ever since you left, she doesn’t know what to do with herself.’

“That’s very flattering,” Tripp smirked. “I’m sure she’ll figure something out.”

“How’s everything going up there?”

Tripp sighed and leaned back in his chair. He looked at his electric guitar which leaned against his desk.

“Not great.”

Samantha tried for an encouraging smile. “You look like hell.”

“I know, I’ve seen myself twice already today.” He folded his arms and tucked his chin on his neck. He felt somewhat sorry for himself.

Tripp snapped his finger. A holographic book, about five by eight inches big, appeared a few inches from his hand and flipped its pages. “We’re at a total loss. It’s all utterly meaningless.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. Opera Alpha is dead. Nothing, zip. Communication is completely cut off.”

“Still nothing?”

“No.”

“It’s been two weeks, now.”

Tripp looked out of the window. The planet spun slowly around, making its way out of view at the top of the window.

“The Saturn Cry transmission is ongoing.”

“Saturn Cry…” The holographic tome flipped through its pages and nestled in Tripp’s open palm.

“No, Manuel, I didn’t mean—”

Manuel ignored the request and launched into its description. “—Saturn Cry is a perceived distress call from the planet of the same name—”

“—Manuel, I know what Saturn Cry is, please stop—”

“—IMS discovered the transmission in the year 2110,” Manuel continued, flipping through his pages. He settled on a graphic of the ringed planet. The stars shuffled around in the background as the audio wave rumbled away. “Here is a sample of the transmission.”

A hissing noise emitted, followed by what sounded like three chords of an electric guitar.

“Manuel, hush.”

Samantha and Rogan couldn’t make head nor tail of the noise as it played out.

“Weird, isn’t it?” Tripp asked.