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Fiction Short Story

by John M. Floyd

Stopover

"So this is Washington," the commander said.

He and two of his officers stood in the shadow of the starship, looking out at the countryside.

The chief engineer cleared his throat. "We made good time, sir. The new vapor drives—"

"Could our headings have been wrong?" the commander asked.

That question was for the navigator, who blinked. "The headings were given us by Mission Control, sir."

"Check them anyway." The commander continued to study their surroundings. Spread out below them were rolling meadows, lakes, thick stands of trees. Wildflowers blazed with color; an animal of some kind howled in the distance. Two large birds dipped and swooped overhead, riding the thermals. The sky was as blue as the rocks in the commander's garden, back home.

"This doesn't look like Washington to me," he added.

The other two officers exchanged glances. "No disrespect, sir," the engineer said, "but how would we know what Washington looks like?"

The commander took a moment before answering. "We can see a long way from here," he said finally, "and I don't see one single Earth person, anywhere."

The others made no reply.

"We were told this was the seat of power—the epicenter of government—for the most advanced nation on the planet. I'm beginning to think we were misinformed." He sighed, then turned to his chief engineer. "Since we're here, set up the lab equipment and get what you can. And log the date and time."

"We already have. It's the third nelm of the Ismath, to us. In Earth terms, that's..." The engineer checked his notes. "...the year 1980."

"Proceed, then." To the navigator, the commander said, "Remember to verify the headings. And the location."

As the navigator hurried away, one of the weapons specialists—a young lieutenant—appeared. He looked out of breath.

"Sir, there's a problem on the ship," he blurted.

The commander regarded him a moment. "What kind of problem?"

"It's the Nova device, the one we're delivering to J-20," the specialist said. "Xantar was showing it to the trainees, trying to display the settings."

"And?"

"And he activated the timer by mistake. It's armed."

The commander sighed. "Ah, yes. Xantar." He suddenly looked tired. "I don't suppose he assisted with navigation this trip, did he?"

"Sir?"

"Never mind. What is your assessment, Lieutenant?"

The specialist swallowed. "My assessment," he said, "is that it will detonate within an Earth hour. The countdown can't be stopped. We must get it off the ship immediately."

"And put it where?"

"Put it anywhere." The specialist glanced around wildly. "We have to unload it now, and leave at once."

The commander looked thoughtful. "Our orders are clear: observe and gather data. We are not to disturb anything. Take nothing, leave nothing."

The engineer raised his chin and announced, "The commander's right. We can't..."

"What we can't do," the specialist said, his voice shaking, "is let that device explode anywhere near us or the ship. It's a prototype, we don't even know its damage radius." He added, more quietly, "We have to get rid of it, sir. And now."

The commander pondered that for several seconds, then nodded. "Very well. See to it." To the engineer he said, "Get us ready for takeoff."

That was not unwelcome news. Within minutes the cause of the commotion—a five-foot cylinder that gleamed like polished brass in the sunlight—ad been lowered carefully to the ground. The nervous crew disengaged the hoist, gathered their gear, and scrambled aboard. Liftoff was smooth and uneventful.

Moments later the commander stood on the bridge of the starship, watching the unfamiliar planet grow smaller in the aft window. Finally he said, to the weapons specialist, "Are you sure it will detonate?"

"It is designed to, yes."

"But are you sure?"

"No," the specialist replied. "As I said, it is untested."

"Good." The commander kept his eyes on the receding Earth. "Maybe it'll just sit there forever, undiscovered and harmless."

After a silence the navigator approached, holding a handset with a map displayed on its screen. "You asked about our position, sir?"

The commander looked at him and waited.

"It was Washington, all right. The southwest corner." The navigator pointed to the map. "A place called Mount St. Helens."

Copyright © 2004 John M. Floyd