Tales of Horizon

Type of Story - by Author

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The type of story should be something like “Character Backstory” or “Fan Fiction”. Remember to remove all “” signs so the syntax will work.

Michael MacPherson had become a successful, well paid, stable professional at the top of the medical-engineering field. In an age of nano-tech medicine, it was vastly important position and he had done well. He had sacrificed, as all great ambitions require and had never regretted it, though from an outside perspective, some might question his priorities. Where others in his diminishing circle of friends had made relationships, he had built a career. Where they had hobbies; he explored concepts for medical equipment in his spare time. They had children, he had schematics.

He was a proud man, and justifiably so, but at this very moment, MacPherson was seriously questioning how nearly one-hundred years of meticulous decision making had left him so far from the stable, comfortable existence he had intended to build. As he saw it, the new government, high-handedly titling itself, “The Great Alliance of Terra” had constructed an entire space fleet for its newly formed “protectorate” military, then immediately used it to start a war with their own colony world, which had long been hinting at rebellion. As a byproduct of this massive undertaking and the resulting boom in his chosen industry, he had been elevated from relative obscurity in outsourced medical engineering for the aerospace industry into having his own small business empire. Some risk had been unavoidable in signing up for the project, (after all, what if he had committed his business to the effort, only to have it cancelled by some bleeding-heart politician?) but in the end had decided that the government looked out for its own, if nobody else, and his life plan had been wonderfully accelerated by winning the contracts. Incidentally, the fleet won it's rather one-sided war, which was of no surprise to anyone save perhaps the would-be rebels, considering it was the only space fleet Humanity had ever seen, but anyone with smartnet knew they were not to be pitied. This was their own doing, after all, having been an ungrateful nuissance ever since arriving at their new home, showing little-to-no appreciation for the benevolence of the Earth that had sent them. Once victory over the rag-tag dissenters was confirmed, there was much celebration and parading on the media channels of Earth, but for whatever reason the fleet had remained there for something the G.A.T was calling “ongoing peacekeeping operations”. Why the entire fleet was still required was anyone's guess; bureaucracies were something he made no attempt to understand and if it didn't involve Michael MacPherson or his carefully maintained life, he would normally dismiss from his busy mind without hesitation. Unfortunately, it turned out that his commitment to the G.A.T. wasn't quite spent.

Not long after the fleet's inaugural victory and the accompanying excitement, he had found himself being asked to supervise further design adjustments for the fleet. Given his recent windfall of government contracts he had initially been more than happy to receive futher offers, even if his habitual caution prevented him from accepting immediately. It was no secret that MacPherson maintained a rigidly organized life and did all in his power to avoid any form of uncertainty or change. As a direct result, it was with no small inward terror that he was ushered into his own office by a team of darkly suited individuals the following morning. Their leader had informed him that as head engineer for several of the medical systems in the fleet, his direct supervision would be required for something he would only refer to as, “further development”. At several points, MacPherson had meekly suggested that he might produce better results in a familiar environment, citing various assistants or resources that he typically relied on. After several such interjections, the dour faced speaker had silenced him with a long look somewhere between boredom and loathing, then bluntly stated that remote work was not an option, after which he continued as though there had been no interruption at all. This oppression went on little more than an hour, though it had felt like eternity. When they had finally gone, he was left with an empty office and a sense of how it might feel to be a hollowed-out log, carried by a cold river to an unknown and almost certainly unpleasant fate. The general nature of the assignment sounded harmless enough: he would be relocated to Horizon in order to oversee some kind of enhancement or redesign of the medical equipment being employed by military personell. As the person who had designed most of the hardware, that much made sense. Where his uneasiness had taken root was the inconsistency between that simple description and the dour man's exceptional vagueness regarding the nature of the new requirements. His reliance on phrases like, “unanticipated circumstances” or “increased importance of medical systems” was like putting a sign post on a swivel. Having been sworn to secrecy before hearing even this much made it clear that the fleet's continued activity near Horizon was more than the media had depicted. Whatever it was, the new government was clearly of the opinion that the people, “didn't need to know”. MacPherson wished he didn't need to either.

After agreeing, more or less under duress, to leave Earth early tomorrow, he had spent the entire morning tying up affairs for the company to operate in his absence, then rushed home to pack, negotiating the swarm of private hovercraft traffic which represented the wealthy and inodolent every lunch-time. Now, without any outside pressure to occupy his mind, the reality of the move was sinking in. He had never liked change. He had never enjoyed travel. Yet somehow, the stable, secure life he had spent decades building had brought him here. Now had his home, normally tended to immaculate order, looked like the scene of a violent burglary and the longer he nurtured the thought, the more he resented the cruelty of the universe. The worst of it was, he had absolutely no idea what to expect and if anyone handled uncertainty badly, it was Michael MacPherson. He sank into the clearest patch of sofa he could see, wrestled some previously unseen lump from beneath himself, (which turned out to be an old camping knife his father had given him in a vain effort to interst his son in the outdoors) and put his head in his hands. The intensity of the mood passed as noon slouched into after-noon and he eventually made the conscious act of will to be objective. Even then, it was more because he prided himself on his logic than a desire to throw off his cloak of self-pity. During his contemplation, if it could be called that, he caught himself fidgeting with the knife still in his hands. It was a relic of his boyhood, a gift from his father during some camping trip or another and merely one in a long line of efforts from his father to interest a young Michael in anything outdoors. He had always hated camping. The knife was a reminder of a time when he had been forced to live in the dirty, insect-ridden wilderness each summer. Somehow, in the face of his current situation, felt like a familiar haven from facing the unknown he was preparing for tonight. Those summers had been unpleasant, but they had always been a known factor in his life. Now, in some undefinable way, the reminder felt like a little-valued childhood friend, not being much appreciated at the time, but a welcome and warming sight after many years. His frown began had relaxed and suddenly he became aware of the time that had slipped away. Looking up, he realized the sky had faded from the golden light of evening into the subtle shades of sunset. It hadn't been all wasted though; his inevitable future seemed less ominous now at least. Finally, he rose to begin packing in earnest, his habitual frown firmly back in place. He moved to lay the knife down behind him, but stopped short, then on a whim, threw it into the bottom of his otherwise-empty case. Who knew, maybe it would help to have a little hair of the dog that had bitten him so many years ago. It certainly wouldn't make things any worse.

Macpherson had awoken with a deep frown. Possibly the worst night's sleep in his life had been terminated by the sound, not of his alarm, nor even his doorbell, but an unfamiliar voice in his bedroom.

“Morning, Sir! Ready to go?”

The voice belonged to a military aide, whose face currently defiled the sacred airspace directly above MacPherson's pillow, with MacPherson silently building to critical mass between them.

“How'd you sleep?”

the aide continued to blare. A quick check on his internal clock informed him that it was 0500, a full two hours before the schedule outlined by the G.A.T. representatives from yesterday. Looking straight up, MacPherson met the vapid gaze that represented the universe in its infinite malice, challenging it to do its worst. His frown deepened. The aide was genuinely waiting for a reply.

“Poorly.”

“That's a shame, Sir. Big day ahead!”

MacPherson had enough and began to sit up, wishing to conclude his interaction with this repellant imbicile as quickly and decisively as possible. Halfway to sitting, he was stalled by the passive, yet utterly immobile features. He lay back down.

“Not much of a talker, are you?”

MacPherson had never been a violent man, but he felt very close to a sudden and catastrophic change. Checking himself, he made a pointed effort to pull back the sheets on his bed, looked at the clock, then back at the aide. The soft, empty eyes maintained a cheerful set, oblivious to MacPherson's white-knuckle grip on self discipline. He willed the aide to melt where he stood. Nothing. Eventually he settled on something he detested; saying whatever a person wanted to hear.

“I'm just not a morning person.”

“Sorry, Sir, but we need to get moving.”

“You're two hours early.”

“Yes, Sir; but as you know this is real important. Some things came up.”

MacPherson's frown tightened into gritted teeth. Indeed. Things came up. Nonetheless, he finally saw a way out of bed;

“Hadn't I better dress then?”

“Yes, Sir and please hurry!”

The aide withdrew with an air that he had been the one waiting. For just the briefest moment, MacPherson wished he could just close his eyes and cease to exist.

to be continued.