The Zeitgeist Project

                                        THE ZEITGEIST PROJECT



         

                                                   Prologue



         

                         

         First Admiral John Wheeler climbed the wide marble stairway wearily.  Shoulders slumped forward, his black polished boots dragged up each step.  At a small landing he hesitated, rubbed his set jaw and straightened his tie.  His uniform, usually crisp and stiff, hung loose and lacked luster.  He'd been up most of the night, wearing a path in his office carpet.

         Had he been able to see the sun, Wheeler would have judged it to be after dawn, on February 16, 2142, his sixty sixth birthday.  The occasion passed unnoticed in the dimly lit hallway.  Early in the morning hours, alone in his office, Wheeler made a decision.  It hadn't come easily.  It countered everything in his long and distinguished career, one which he'd spent building what he now wanted to pull down.  During those rising years he'd not once shied from hard decisions.  His determination, this time, was different.

         At the landing, a small window, slightly higher than Wheeler's head, cast a beam of light across the marble floor. Colored by the atmosphere's high particulate count, the faded sun drew a dark orange stripe in the white stone floor.  Above Wheeler's head, heavy thick glass held back the outside air.

         Wheeler looked out, remembering, long ago, when it was still possible to go outside.  In those days when the wind blew, one could brave the elements.  Any gust, Wheeler knew, had been still for years, and the weather remained unchanged from day to day.  No wind, no weather, nothing lived beyond the glass.  An entire generation lived ignorant of life outside the confines of an acrylic dome.  Their sky curved above in a maze of plastic triangles.

         He continued upward, taking each step on leaden feet, yet not wavering from his purpose.  The ache in his heart did not, he knew, come from a fear of death.  He feared rather, his inability to stop the madness.

         At the top of the stairway, Wheeler surveyed the large reception room.  The walls were barren and painted stark white, like a morgue.  The air hung heavy and oppressive.  At the far end, a single desk broke the monotony.  A young girl, perhaps twenty, with short dark hair, sat dull eyed behind a wooden desk.  She looked bored, passing the time working diligently on a rebeleous fingernail.  They all look so young, he thought.

         She looked up when he approached, her expression never changing, looking, but not seeing, or caring, her face blank. 

         "Yes?" she said, in a tone emphasizing her indifference.

         "Is he in?"

         "Yes."

         "Please tell him that Admiral Wheeler would like to see him."  Wheeler concentrated, trying to keep his voice steady, trying not to think about what he was about to do.

         Without answering, the girl pushed a button and spoke into her communicator.

         "Sir? Admiral Wheeler to see you...yes, sir."

         The girl looked at Wheeler, seeing him for the first time, gazing in frank appraisal.  "He says you know the way."

         She dismissed him, forgetting him casually.  She had turned back to her nails when Wheeler shot her, aiming his laser at the narrow part in her hair.  She slumped forward quietly, her limp body slipping out of the chair, falling to the floor, out of sight behind the oak desk.  Wheeler was thankful that lasers kill silently, without the mess associated with more archaic weapons.

         He turned, pocketed the laser, and strode purposefully down the sterile tunnel that led from the reception room to a large metal door.  The hall was cold, dimly lit and also without decoration.  He felt committed now.  There was no turning back and it made him more decisive.  His hand held his security card rock steady when he inserted it into its assigned slot.

         The door slid on silent rollers, opening into a room not unlike the reception area.  This one, though, felt cold and ominous, its sterile walls reflecting the overhead light.  The effect reminded Wheeler of a food storage locker.  He'd never liked this room or the man who occupied it and today he liked them both even less.

         He sat staring at Wheeler, his face hard and questioning, reflecting a silent query.  Like his predecessor, he demanded everyone call him 'Leader'.  Short, heavy, with piercing closely set eyes and a long nose, he resembled an overfed rodent.  His absolute power over 500 million men, woman and children ran unquestioned for nearly three decades.  He stood eleven inches shorter than Wheeler's six foot height.  There were no chairs so Wheeler stood, as was the custom, in front of the desk, hands clasped behind his back.

         The Leader stared and said nothing.  Sweat ran down between Wheeler's shoulder blades, caressing the small of his back like a damp, cold hand.

         "I've come to report."

         "Is the mission ready?"

         "Yes.  We ran all the crews through the mainframe computer and selected those who met the requirements.  The risk will be considerable.  I'm afraid many will die."  A vision of the dead receptionist crossed Wheelers mind.  One or two bodies, instead of hundreds?  Did the end always have to justify the means?  Wheeler thought.

         "A necessary expense, don't you think?  Why so negative?  Don't you expect it to work?"

         "It's untested.  We don't know what will happen or when.  Perhaps we should postpone the project until all the research is complete?"

         "What are you trying to say, Wheeler?  Surely a few lives are a small price, given the abundant rewards?"

         "A few lives!  We're talking hundreds, maybe even thousands."

         The Leader jumped out of his chair.  "Dammit Wheeler, you're not going to sabotage my project at the last minute.  I'll see you in hell first!  What's your problem?"

           Wheeler didn't answer right away.  He stared a moment at the man he'd help raise to power so many years ago and wondered where it all went wrong.  "You," he said, finally, "you're my problem."

         An instant of fear crossed the Leader's face when he saw the laser in Wheeler's hand.  It was too early for security.  He'd become careless in recent years.  Damn!  He had a moment to curse that carelessness before he died.

         It was almost a relief for Wheeler, standing looking down at the still body.  The launch for today would proceed as scheduled, he knew he couldn't stop it.  One crew lost, but only one, the rest he'd thwart.  The council would listen to reason once they knew the leader was gone.

         The body of the girl felt light as he dragged it down the narrow hallway to the leader's quarters.  On the way out he set the security timer on DO NOT DISTURB.  It would be days, even a week or more before anyone dared force the heavy metal door.











                                                  CHAPTER ONE





         Fletcher rode sourly.  He wanted to yell at someone, anybody.  He tried growling at his ink black gelding, who plodded along ignoring its rider's rage.  The animal callously stiffened its knees with every step, jarring Fletcher's aching head.  The horse knew its rider had a first class sour mash hangover.  Ritter's mule also knew because she hung back, tightening the lead rope.  The horse hair riata, securely tied to the saddle horn, wore a painful groove across Fletcher's thigh.  He groaned, cursing the unsympathetic horse, the stubborn mule, the sun overhead and his last night's companions.

         Dark clouds building over the mountainous horizon were ignored while an icy wind tugged at his heavy wool coat.  He rode with his head tipped into the breeze letting his horse lead through the rapidly increasing cold.  The temperature dropped steadily with every mile.  A hangover wasn't usually fatal, but a late spring blow could be.  He didn't want to be caught in the open and his dusty boots nudged the horse's ribs, urging the animal to a faster gait.

         Fletcher's destination was vague.  He knew the approximate area.  He'd explored these mountains the previous summer, playing at prospecting, but mostly enjoying the loneliness.  Crossing the wide valley to the first low hills took all morning.  A low spring sun passed noon when he dropped over into the river gorge.  The wandering Missouri cut a deep channel through the mountains.  He forded the river at Canyon Ferry Crossing, urging the animals through stirrup-deep water.

         Fletcher decided it was Ritter's fault.  The stiff-legged pitch black gelding, the gathering storm and especially the hangover.  Sitting in the French Bar Saloon late into the night, Fletcher listened with half an ear to Ritter's continuous banter of promising prospects in this gulch or the other. As the night wore on the gray-headed, bronco-crippled old prospector exaggerated each find to the point no one would have believed it.  Fletcher listened patiently, half bored and drinking too much.  He could think of no other way to shut the old man up.  So, here he was, hungover and grumpy.

         Ritter wanted Fletcher to check out a claim, be a partner, work on shares, dig in the earth like a damned mole.  He'd drawn a map for God's sake, like pirate's treasure and forced it into Fletcher's hand.  Bleary-eyed, Fletcher scanned the rough sketch and discovered it was familiar country.  What else did he have to do?  Maybe he'd do it.  It would be a way to pass the time.

         Normally, he would have forgotten the drunken pact and gone about his business.  Instead, before the sun peeked over the mountains, Ritter rolled him out of his bunk, demanding he start at once.

         In the blue-gray darkness of his rented room, Fletcher had a momentary urge to kill.  Sleepily, he struggled to plant both feet on the floor to keep the room from spinning.  He wasn't sure at first what the old man was ranting about.  He stabilized the room, splashed cold water from a porcelain basin on his face and stared coldly at Ritter.

         "What the hell's bitin' on you, old man?" he said.  "It's the middle of the night."

         "Ain't the middle of the night.  The day'll be over if you don't get a move on.  It's a long ride up there.  You start up now and I'll join you in a week or so with the supplies we'll need."

         The old man's excitement was a fever, all consuming and uncontrollable, a passion undeniable until finally abated by hours, days or, in some cases, months of usually futile digging.  The end result of this fanatical exercise was, of course, gold...the mystical metal which, on occasion, turned otherwise sane individuals into idiots.  Fletcher knew the symptoms.  He'd had a chance to observe the miners in their pursuit of riches.  They hurried here and there at the slightest hint of a strike.  Even the streets weren't sacred.  In the depths of last winter rumors flew of gold in the town's storm drain.  By the end of the week any space not covered by a building supported a prospect hole.  There was little else to do when the mountain gold fields lay locked in frost.  He suspected they started the rumors on purpose.          

         Fletcher dressed slowly, pampering his aching head and rolling stomach.  He reluctantly followed the old man to the stables knowing it was going to be a long day.

         By dawn they'd packed a week's provisions in dark canvas and strapped them to Ritter's small jenny mule.  Fletcher fumbled and complained of his head to cover up his inability to throw a diamond hitch.  It was one lesson he hadn't learned in the back streets of St. Louis.  Ritter obliged, fastening on the packs while muttering about some people not being able to handle liquor.

         Fletcher rode away in silence, leading the mule, slumped in the saddle and ignoring Ritter's instructions.  He was still mad at the old man for getting him up so early, yet his observations of the miners helped him to consider forgiveness after a mile or two.  The miners were prone to exaggeration, especially during winter.  Boredom ran rampant though the camp leading the men into ridiculous pastimes.  They rushed off at any hint of a discovery only to drift back after a few days, sheepishly using the back alleys to return to familiar haunts.  Fletcher watched this circus, amused by the miners comings and going and amazed that man had progressed beyond the cave.  He decided at last that it was monotony that drove man out to face the beasts.

         Fletcher's destination was a sharp cleft in the unbroken barricade of mountains to the southeast.  The rugged peaks ran north and south paralleling the river.  He crossed the Missouri at noon and turned south, following the meandering water until late afternoon.  The mouth of Confederate Creek lay directly ahead.  Sheer up-thrusted rock outlined both sides of the narrow trail.  Snow spit in Fletcher's face and a cold wind sang in his ears.  He shivered under his wool coat.  He spurred his horse and the black trotted through the narrow passage as though aware, like his rider, of the heavy rock cliffs overhead.  Sharp, jagged stones lay underfoot.  Shortly, the trail climbed into a narrow valley that turned west and Fletcher relaxed.

         Ritter's crude map and muttered instructions dictated that he should follow the valley for fifteen miles or so.  It became obvious that he wasn't going to make it before the storm hit.  Fletcher started looking for shelter.  By the time he found it, snow fell past the gelding's ears in big, heavy, wet flakes.  This night was not going to be fun, he decided.

         He spotted a grove of trees a half mile away large enough to provide shelter from the wind.  It roared out of the north, forcing him forward in the saddle and plastering snow on his face.  His body ached clear to his toes.

         Reaching the trees, he dismounted painfully.  He spent a few minutes shaking the snow off and stomping his feet.  Finally, the pain in his feet stopped and feeling returned.  Stripping the saddles from the black and the mule required all the effort he could muster.  In spite of his own discomfort, he hobbled both animals and rubbed them down with a saddle blanket.  There was plenty of grass and he knew they wouldn't go far.

         He made his camp in the shelter of a rock outcrop, built a small fire and huddled close.  Squatted down, he held his hands cupped over the fire.  Slowly, warmth began to penetrate.  He longed for a cigarette, knowing full well that his cold, aching fingers would never be able to roll one.  It was a nasty habit anyway, one he'd acquired only lately.  It was easy to pick up the addictions of your companions, especially if time hung on your hands.

         He stared into the swirling snow and wondered why, at thirty-one, he found himself alone, bone cold in an unforgiving wilderness, on an excursion he knew would be fruitless.

         He'd been in the country over a year, the longest he'd stayed anywhere.  He wasn't sure what it was about the area that intrigued him.  He'd stayed, not knowing why, trying to keep himself occupied and unsure of what he was looking for.  The miners accepted him, even respected his closed-mouth ways.  Besides, there was that unwritten code that you didn't ask questions of a stranger.  The miners had a lot of unwritten rules, laws that were expedient and sometimes, brutal; a strange morality that the miners interpreted to suit themselves.  Fletcher decided it had a lot to do with the harsh lives they led.  He drank with them, listened to their stories and melted easily into their naive culture.  Fletcher liked this strangely uncomplicated life in the spring of 1873.

         It snowed most of the night.  Fletcher sat wrapped tight in his blankets with his back against the rock wall.  Several times he replenished the fire.  Hunger gnawed at his gut, but sometime after midnight, fatigue won.

         Shortly after dawn, Fletcher woke, cold and stiff, with frost covering his beard like flour.  For a few minutes he stared vacantly at the snow covered landscape.  Something felt wrong.  Carefully, he surveyed the area he could see.  The storm had dumped a foot of snow and hanging branches, heavy with white frosting, restricted his view.  He gently pulled his rifle from under his blankets.  He stood, slowly.  Still nothing.  The little grove of trees held the early morning silence.  Even the small animals lay still in their burrows.  Carefully, he moved away from his camp spot, his steps masked by the deep powdery snow.  Step by step, sweeping the landscape and listening, Fletcher circled the small island of trees.  There were no tracks leading away from the timber yet his horse and mule were not in sight.  Inside the shelter of the trees he could see where they'd trampled the new snow foraging for grass.  Yet, fresh snow lay undisturbed in these tracks.  He circled again looking for their trail.  It took a third trip to convince him.  It was as if the horse and mule had grown wings in the night.

         Back at his campsite, Fletcher stashed his saddles and supplies in a crack in the rock.  He wasn't sure what he was going to do except continue to search for some sign of the animals.  They had to be somewhere.  He started by making a complete circle around his campsite at a distance he estimated to be a quarter of a mile.  Several times he could see the small circle of trees that held his camp.  This excursion took most of the morning and yielded nothing.  He saw no sign other than pine squirrels and a mule deer doe.  Finally, he headed downhill, following the creek bottom back the way he'd traveled the night before.  It stood to reason that the animals would go that way, since they had gone somewhere.  Actually, it didn't make sense.  No wilderness wise horse and especially a mule would leave shelter and food during a storm.  Only wolves, a cougar, Indians or the like would frighten them out of their comfort.  It puzzled Fletcher that he couldn't find sign of any of those.  Nevertheless, it was indisputable they were both gone and he had no other direction to look.

         By late afternoon he was no closer to an answer than he had been earlier.  There were no tracks of anything bigger than a deer anywhere.  He stopped under a tall lodgepole pine, puzzled.  Nothing as large as a horse or a mule could disappear without a trace, no tracks, no grazing marks, nothing!  Men vanishing into the wilderness wasn't uncommon, the frontier could be a harsh, unforgiving place.  Fletcher knew he could be in serious trouble without a horse.  Walking over fifty miles through foot-deep snow would sap a man easily.  It was likely that no one would know what had happened.  He didn't dwell on that thought.

         Looking at the sun, Fletcher estimated that less than two hours of daylight remained.  He pondered what to do with it.  So far, he had wasted the entire day.  Crisscrossing the valley and exploring the dense creek bottom had accomplished nothing.  He stood under a dripping spruce, trying to make sense of it.  The afternoon sun made the snow wet and moisture dripped from the tips of every branch.  To make matters worse, Fletcher's clothing felt wet inside from sweat.  The sun overhead warmed the air and drew dark tree shadows in the shining snow.  A pine squirrel scolded his presence while scurrying across snowy branches.  The woods looked serene and peaceful.

         Fletcher stood, leaning against the tree for some time, listening to the squirrel and watching the hillside below him.  He'd finally decided to move when he saw it.  Large, silvery and silent, it moved effortlessly through the air, maneuvering to miss trees, finding somehow the openings between the timber.  Floating only a few feet above the snow, it left no sign of its passage.

         "What the hell...?" Fletcher muttered.  He didn't believe what his eyes held.  Zigzagging across the snow like a square shiny bird, the mysterious vehicle moved through the timber while Fletcher watched and finally disappeared into the dense forest.  Vehicle?  Fletcher couldn't be sure, but it certainly had the size necessary to carry passengers.  He thought of it as a vehicle because it moved and it made sense that it would carry something.  The question was...what?  It resembled nothing he'd ever seen, a fact that both fascinated and frightened him.  It took a minute or so, but fascination won.

         Fletcher charged down the hill in pursuit.  He pointed on the spot in the timber where the strange machine had disappeared.  Running in the slippery wet snow caused him to loose his footing and he slid most of the way to the bottom before recovering.  When he reached the spot he found nothing.  He stood and shook a snow plug from the muzzle of his rifle .

         "Damn!" he growled, and forged ahead.  He moved slowly, using the slim lodgepole as a shield, watching for movement, stopping every few feet to listen.  Since the silver sled left no tracks, he had no trail to follow.  The direction the vehicle traveled when he last saw it was the obvious choice.

         Fletcher worked cautiously through the trees for several hundred yards before beginning a wide circle that would bring him back across his own tracks in the approximate area were he'd last seen the flying machine.  It was the first of many ever widening circles.  He used his own tracks to outline his search pattern.  He continued until dark without success. 

         Fletcher puzzled over the events of the last twelve hours on his walk back to his camp.  It was a day that he'd not soon forget.  Measuring the results of his efforts equaled a flat zero for the day.  He still didn't know what had happened to his horse and mule, and he didn't have a clue about what he'd seen in the forest.

         It looked like a sled, or maybe a wagon without wheels, with two tall slender cylinders riding up front.  Nothing in Fletcher's experience resembled it.  And it flew through the air!  The vision of the vehicle, what ever it was, danced around in Fletcher's head.  He kept studying the blank air underneath in his mind.  No wheels, no skids, nothing.  What made it move?  A thought struck him that hadn't cropped up before.  Who or what drove it?  He'd been thinking of the vehicle as a thing, inanimate, without human control.  Now he thought differently. 

         Back at his campsite, he ate dried venison and a cold can of beans, rolled up in his blankets and sat with his back against the rock ledge.  His rifle lay across his knees and he stared into the darkness.  His mind whirling, he slept with his forehead on his rifle breech.



Authors Note:  If you liked this and would like to read the whole story, this novel and all my other published work is available for download or purchase at:



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