Chapter 8

Beginning the Pursuit

"Roberts, get the ball rolling. I want to be set up somewhere near Carrey Beach within the next 48 hours," Colonel Vise barked, sounding nearly like his former self.        "Sir," Roberts hesitated, "Yes sir, but are you sure it’s wise to leave without a medical release? You said yourself, we’d be unlikely to find this Adam MacArthur once he’d escaped in that ship."        Vise turned away, his jaw clenched with the effort to control his response. Looking back at his subordinate, he replied, "Always second guessing, aren’t you? That’s OK, I like that to a point, Roberts, as long as you keep it to yourself."        Sergeant Roberts had received LaRue’s message on the low-priority line that they maintained for eyewitness reports. He had known, instantly, that Vise would want to hear about this possible sighting. Anything related to Adam MacArthur or the late Michael O’Ryan seemed to goad his superior into action regardless of other higher priority missions they had on their plate.        "And get me that caller on the phone," added Vise. "I need the details."        Minutes later, Colonel Vise was grilling Van Patten about his encounter the previous night. What disturbed Vise most was something in the demeanor of the former FBI agent. Even over the telephone, it seemed obvious that Van Patten had lost some of his resolve, so to speak. Van Patten’s doubts about the sighting and just who the fugitive might be sounded uncomfortably similar to Vise’s own indecision and worry about his hallucination of MacArthur at his bedside. Vise found himself re-thinking his plan.        "Ok, Van Patten. Give me a few hours to make some contacts. I’ll see to it that you and LaRue get access to the research facility," Vise assured him. "Now put LaRue back on the line."        LaRue’s cool, professional voice was reassuring, but Colonel Vise made a point to remind him, "Don’t forget. Keep a low profile. Take no action. If Van Patten can re-establish contact with this Adam MacArthur and gain his confidence, so much the better. But I want to be kept informed every step of the way."        "You’ve got a deal, Colonel," LaRue drawled, "Nothin’ I’d like better. A good hound don’t quit ‘til the coon’s been treed." LaRue found himself holding the receiver, listening to silence. Colonel Vise had terminated the call without bothering to say good-bye.        Before turning his attention to getting out from under medical restrictions, Vise revised his instructions to Sergeant Roberts. "Get me a reason to visit the local Air Force base: Reardon, isn’t it?" Vise improvised. "Make it something low-key. We’ll have a small unit standing by, but put the men out of sight somewhere. I want to keep this operation quiet."

A tall, slender shrouded figure watched as the spacecraft descended silently to the landing port. Beneath the hooded suit, Elana, Lead Mentor of Colony, stood hyper-alert. Once again she had known before anyone else that a group of newly processed candidates were arriving from their home world. Reaching under her face screen to massage her left temple, she sighed, then called the other Mentors to greet the new arrivals.        Twenty human specimens emerged from the craft, and ten more were "floated out," their bodies cradled in anti-gravitational carriers. What’s this, she thought. Ten so damaged that we may not make them our own? She signaled for the medical team to guide the floaters to the hospice without documenting their entrance to Colony. But the walkers moved forward and stopped before Elana and her staff.        First, the new arrivals were given an injection containing the microscopic organics and the crystalline marker that would stay in their bodies permanently, identifying them as colonists. Then Elana coded each marker into Colony records, assembling the information according to the Elders’ ancient system which even she did not fully understand. As she recorded each individual, Elana made brief telepathic contact, scanning for any cultural or social characteristics. Already she speculated on which groupings would lead to the most harmonious living units on Colony: an elegant Hindu woman, "Namastay. Do not be afraid. I will not hurt you." -an American teenager dressed in jeans and hiking boots, "Hi there. Do not be afraid. I will not hurt you."- a Swiss businessman, "Bonjour Monsieur. Do not be afraid. I will not hurt you."- a plump, pretty American girl, "Hello... a tall, square-shouldered male in a 63rd Air Squadron flight suit, "Hello...        None of the candidates made eye contact with her. They moved slowly, looking neither left nor right, staring ahead. Elana continued with her soothing, telepathic message, but added the guiding signal for them to move forward to the silver building complex beyond the space port.        Recovering only slightly from his stupor, Adam MacArthur followed the generic form of the candidate in front of him, his otherwise handsome face an unreadable blank mask. All of his senses; sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, and additional modalities he never knew he had, screamed in a meaningless, cacophonous chorus. The struggle to maintain consciousness, control nausea and make sense of the world had not ended since the assault of bright light shortly after abduction. MacArthur struggled to identify sensations. "Light, not too bright; crisp dry air; the smell of... ozone?" He welcomed the sense of space and freedom of movement that contrasted with all his time aboard the craft.        "Stop here, please," MacArthur received the telepathic direction, the only clear and certain signal in this strange, new world. Hands guided him to sit, to lie down. Before falling into a welcome sleep on the couchette, MacArthur forced his concentration deep within himself to a sheltered place, taking every opportunity to hang on to what he still recognized - I am Adam MacArthur, Captain Adam MacArthur, serial number? ...Serial number... Adam...