Warren Fahy - Fragment

He had been hoping that he would not have to call any attention to the Trident -the long shot he had pictured was the voracious rats taking over the ship, which would have eventually run aground or been boarded so that the rats would then start spreading at some port of call or random landing point. And the seeds of mankind’s destruction would have been planted, though too slowly to ever reach him in Costa Rica. What a show it would be to watch the Earth’s man-centric ecosystem collapsing across whole continents during the last twenty years of his life.

But he could settle for the crew and passengers of the Trident discredited as terrorists and quite possibly killed in a confrontation with the Navy; there was really no downside.

“Free will, Dr. Binswanger,” Thatcher goaded the younger scientist from afar, reciting the Redmond Principle, “can and will do anything.” He bit his lower lip as he realized that he wasn’t a fraud, after all, and the notion seized him with a paroxysm of laughter. After doing away with his own son, and now possibly an entire intelligent species, if not his own, he had categorically proven the Redmond Principle, all by himself.

The Navy ships continued to close on the Trident as another warning shot erupted off her starboard side.

“Hurry it up, Cynthea,” Captain Sol urged. Then, on the radio, he said, “We are complying! We are complying!”

“All hands on deck now, Captain!” came the response.

Cynthea still clung to the phone. “Barry, this is television history! No-it’s BIGGER THAN TELEVISION, sweetie! Come on! Say yes!”

As the crew gathered at the prow of the Trident , Zero and Peach set up the videophone equipment, looking over their shoulders at the two huge Navy ships bearing down port and starboard.

“Hender,” Andy shouted through the door of the control room. “We have to go!”

The Zodiac rolled over a series of high swells, as Thatcher watched the Navy ships closing in on the Trident.

He recognized the bottom of a jar of Planters cashews buried under some rubber fins and scuba gear. He dug it out and was disappointed when he twisted off the lid to see that there were only three left.

Cynthea furiously negotiated with the SeaLife producers on the phone and finally played her trump card: “We could all get KILLED, Barry-on LIVE television!”

Cynthea ran down the stairs from the bridge toward the bow, screaming, “OK, set it up! Set it up! We’re going live right now! Don’t ask! Where are they?”

The crew of the Trident was clustered on the prow, with the two ships looming in the background, perfectly framed. But no hendropods.

Running to the prow at full tilt, Cynthea stepped in front of the camera and played reporter. “What remains of the crew of the Trident is now being threatened by the United States Navy. Abandon ship or go down with the ship is their order. Why?” She looked in vain toward the companionway but saw no sign of the hendros as she vamped. “Because today we have saved a remarkable species from total destruction!”

Another shot exploded directly off the bow.

“We have to exit, Hender,” Andy shouted. “Go now! Now, now, now!”

Andy reached for the door handle and the hatch opened inward.

Hender looked out. “OK,” Hender said. “Hi Andy!”

Copepod barked in response.

Cynthea saw Andy run out on the foredeck. The five hendropods glided behind him.

The nearest Navy ship was now on top of them, slicing past their port side, its loudspeakers blaring out over the decks.

“YOU ARE ORDERED BY THE UNITED STATES NAVY TO ABANDON SHIP NOW. CARRY NOTHING WITH YOU OR YOU WILL BE FIRED ON.”

When the hendropods saw an arcing waterspout fired from a water canon on the deck of the destroyer, they whirled and ran in the other direction.

Andy caught Hender. “No, it’s OK, Hender! Come on!”

The hendropods turned around slowly at Hender’s humming and clicking calls. Then, reluctantly, they continued behind him and Andy toward the bow.

Behind them, one last Henders rat crouched in the hatchway through which they had come, rubbing its spikes together as it chose a target.

It bolted across the deck toward the hendropods just as they entered the frame of the videophone.

As the rat launched itself through the air, Copepod growled inches from Hender’s ankle.

Hender glanced at the ocean with one eye before casually batting the rat overboard with a deft block by its rear foot.

The rat thrashed in the water before sinking into the sea.

Nell, Geoffrey, Andy, Captain Sol, Warburton, Cynthea, Samir, Marcello, and the rest of the Trident’s crew gathered the hendro pods between them on the foredeck, creating a human shield as Cynthea had commanded.

With the combined stress of the moment and the sight of the gigantic ships moving through the sea around them, all of the hendros vanished.

11:24 A.M. Eastern Daylight Time

All the major networks and cable news channels displayed on plasma screens in the White House Situation Room were muted.

The President and his advisors stared in astonishment at only one screen-the one that carried the live feed from the guided missile destroyer, U.S.S. Stout.

“Captain Bobrow, can you hear me?” the President asked the captain of the Stout.

“Yes, sir.”

“Get me a closer view of the folks on deck, if you can, Captain.”

“Yes, sir. We’re getting you a closer view now.”

The image zoomed in as a camera on the decks of the Stout showed the Trident’s crew clustered at the bow.

“Isn’t that Nell?” the President said. “That’s Nell Duckworth, I believe, isn’t it, Trudy? I was told she died in an accident on the island. And there’s Dr. Binswanger.”

The others were impressed once more by the President’s Rolodex memory for names and faces.

“What’s going on here, Wallace? Lay off the shells, Captain Bobrow, damn it. I want you to stop firing, is that understood?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President, those are from the other guys.”