Fringeville #199: Twelve Hours

Fiction Friday

(Note from the author: This was, I believe, the last piece of fiction I posted on the now-defunct desktopdynamo website. It is only slightly reworked here, and I have plans for the story as one of a series of pieces in a collection I am calling “Endings” (the working title for now). Enjoy.)

Twelve Hours

By James M. O’Meara

Anton drummed his fingers on the desktop. Surely, the figures were wrong. He'd have to run them again. But he had, six times already, and they always served up the same ominous data.

The telephone rang. It would be Michael, and he dreaded the call. He let it ring twelve times before picking it up.

"Yes?" he asked, his stomach churning.

"I think I've done it."

He relaxed slightly at the sound of his wife's voice, and then felt an acute wave of sadness sweep over him.

"Done what, Mary?"

"Mastered the chicken filo you love so much."

Another wave of emotion rolled over him, savaging him. It was almost unbearable.

"Anton? Are you there, darling?"

"Yes, Mary. Of course."

"What's wrong? You sound so odd."

"Why, nothing." Why, everything. Everything for everybody everywhere. "I'm just fighting with the observatory's computer again."

"Well, I just wanted you to know I’ll have dinner waiting for you. I know how much you love this dish at the Kiln. I realized what I've been doing wrong: too much camembert and not enough cranberries. You just need to warm it gently when you get here.”

“I promise not to incinerate it,” he said, making her laugh. That laugh! Always so genuine, so warm.

“I wish Braxton had given you the night off. It's our tenth anniversary."

"He won't budge, and I've badgered him all week. Tonight's presentation is too important."

"And our ten years isn't?"

"Not from his perspective. The planetarium will be full of all the big shots that fund my work. To quote Braxton: 'These people butter your bread. Celebrate your anniversary tomorrow; your wife will understand is she has any sense at all.'"

"He said that! Why, the arrogant…" she began, but then she stopped, sighed and said, "I'm sorry. I promised you I wouldn't let him get under my skin. It's too bad he's never had a life outside of his precious observatory. He'd understand, perhaps. Will you do me a favor when you get in?"

"Certainly."

"Have your chicken filo then wake me when you come to bed."

"Why?"

"Because we'll still have an hour or so before sunrise and I'm sure you'll be hungry for dessert."

He told her he loved her and hung up. In seconds, the phone rang again. It was Michael's dire call.

"Anton, please tell me we missed something!"

"We haven't."

"We must be wrong. We must be!"

"We both know we aren’t."

"But how…"

"It's uncharted and I suspect interstellar. It's coming from a blind spot. It's very dark, very big, very fast and hidden in the sun's glare."

"Five kilometers in diameter!"

"At least. Perhaps more."

"We have to go through everything again. We're using new technology. Maybe there’s a glitch. Maybe we missed something. Dear God, we had to miss something. Don't call anyone until we're sure, Anton."

"I've no intention." What purpose would it serve?

"Has anyone called us?"

"No."

"Is it possible we're the only ones who know?"

It dawned on him that this was in fact a distinct possibility. Anton was an acknowledged expert in the field of near-earth objects. He knew many considered him the best on the planet. Had he gone with his second love, radio astronomy, he’d be blissfully ignorant of what was coming.

"Anton?"

Michael's voice was trembling. Anton could tell he was on the verge of panic. He was a delicate soul and all alone in this world. He and Mary were the only friends Michael had. Anton reached up and ran his hand over his smooth head, then said: "You're right, Michael. Let's look at the data one last time. Maybe we misplaced a decimal somewhere."

"We didn't, Anton."

Was he weeping?

"Stay calm, Michael. You have to stay calm."

"How, Anton? How? I can't bear the weight of this."

"Go over the results again, Michael, and pray we’re wrong."

Because if we're not we're twelve hours from catastrophe.

Michael hung up, and Anton began reviewing his copy of the data for the last time.

The setting sun was a few whiskers away from the horizon when he turned off the computer. Nothing had changed. He called Michael, and the phone rang a very long time before it was answered.

"Anton?" the voice was weak and deeply slurred.

"What have you done, Michael?"

"Goodbye, Anton. Give my love to Mary."

"Michael!"

"Please don't call for the ambulance officers, Anton."

"Michael…"

"Goodbye, Anton."

The line went dead.

Anton stared at the telephone a very long time. He had no intention of calling for help. Michael had chosen his own end, and he would respect that.

He picked up the phone again and called Braxton's office.

"Ah, Anton! Your timing is perfect. Our guests have arrived, even the ones from America. All flocking to New Zealand to see what you’ve done. Please come to the planetarium straight away."

"I'm going home, sir."

"Home?”

"It's our anniversary. I'm going home to celebrate it with Mary."

There was a long pause, and Anton swore he could feel Braxton's anger burning through the earpiece. He imagined Braxton's thin birdlike face, flush and red as he prepared to rip into Anton.

Anton wouldn't give him the chance.

"I know how important tonight is. But frankly, you're an astronomer yourself, sir. You should be able to handle it, despite your relatively crude skills and your lack of social graces. You can earn your keep on this one."

"You’re finished, Anton. I won't renew your contract next month. You will be replaced."

"I won't be. Trust me on that, Mr. Braxton."

Anton hung up, and within seconds the phone was ringing. As he walked down the hallway to the side door, he could hear it ringing over and over and over. It was still ringing when he left the building and walked to his car. He paused before getting in, taking in his last south seas sunset, breathtaking in its beauty, and then got in the car and drove home.

When he walked into the kitchen, Mary turned, her eyes widening in joy.

"How?" she began.

"I worked it out with Braxton."

"Really?" she asked, eyebrows raised under her auburn bangs.

"Really. He understands completely."

"And he approves?"

"You ask too many questions. Forget about Braxton. Let's have dinner together for once. You haven't eaten yet, have you?"

"No. I was about to. I was going to make up your plate first."

"Then let's enjoy your marvelous filo."

They sat at their oak dining table, a gift from her parents. He'd really never taken much notice of it before, but now he drank it in. The skirt was ornately carved, the round top richly polished. It was a masterwork of human skill, not a piece of mass-produced flotsam. He'd taken too little time in his life to appreciate such things.

The chicken filo was perfect. The pastry was light and delicate, and the chicken within was exquisite. Mary served it with fresh asparagus, and they had large glasses of white wine, the finest bottle from their cellar.

"I believe you've bested the Kiln's chicken."

"Well, it took me a half-dozen tries, and I know I'll sound all full of myself, but yes, I did finally master this dish. What do the Americans say? A home jog!"

“Home run,” he said, laughing. “And it is, Mary, it truly is.”

He toasted her, and she said: "I have to ask you something, Anton. Please tell me the truth."

Dear God, had she heard somehow?

"Of course," he replied, his entire body tensing.

"I was coming home from the corner dairy this morning and I saw Jenny Wright in the yard with her boy, Devon. I can't give you a child, Anton, not ever."

"It's no fault of yours, Mary."

"But I know you wanted children. It's all we talked about for months after we married. And you've never mentioned it again since we learned we couldn't. You just seemed to accept the news like the scientist you are. You acted like it was just any other smidge of data to be analyzed. But that can't possibly be how you really feel. I know you too well. So, I want you to tell me."

"Tell you what, dear?"

"Do you regret marrying me, even in the slightest?"

"Mary…"

"Please Anton, if you resent me at all, even the tiniest bit, I must know. I can bear it now, when our whole lives lie ahead of us and we can work through it together. But I don't want to find out a half-century from now that you've never forgiven me for not being able to give you children."

He reached across the table and clasped her hands.

"Mary," he said softly as he looked into her eyes, "I have never in my life been more thankful that it is just you and I in this world."

"Really?" she asked, her eyes glistening. "Really and truly?"

"Really and truly."

She leaned across the table, never letting go of his hands, and they kissed. They stood and embraced tightly. He felt her tears on his neck and knew his were falling on her neck as well. Hers were tears of joy and love, his of love and loss.

She pulled away slightly and said: "I hope you are ready for dessert."

She guided him to the bedroom, and despite himself he glanced up at the clock and fresh tears slid down his cheek.

She was asleep on his chest when the ground began to shake. He'd been lying awake and thinking about the Chinese colony on Mars. There were over a hundred people there now, and though they were still dependent on the unmanned supply barges they had proven themselves nearly self-sufficient when one barge malfunctioned, burning up in the thin Martian atmosphere. With some difficulty they had used their ingenuity to get by until the next barge landed. Perhaps if they had managed nearly a year without supplies, they could last forever. Perhaps.

How they would react when contact with Earth was abruptly broken? What would they think when their small telescope showed their mother planet grievously wounded, with perhaps all of humanity dead or dying?

The violent shaking woke Mary.

"Anton?"

"It's an earthquake Mary."

"When will it stop?"

"Soon."

Eventually it did, and he found himself hungry for some reason.

"Come to the kitchen with me, Mary. Let's finish off the chicken. I think we might have worked up an appetite with all that dessert before sunrise."

She joined him at the table, her back to the window, and they ate reheated chicken filo. Not quite as superb the second time around, but outstanding just the same. He took a piece of bread and buttered it. She reached out and touched his wrist and said, "I love you Anton. With all my heart I love you."

He replied in kind, watching as a malevolent glow appeared on the horizon, approaching rapidly. It gave the illusion of an aura around his wife's silhouette. She turned and saw the approaching firestorm, and whispered: Anton, look! He took his bread and with one quick motion wiped his plate clean, leaving no trace of his meal behind.

THE END

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Be good to each other.

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