Open Writing

Arlington, Virginia
April 7th, 2519

Jonathan Edge stood in the Washington drizzle, watching as the cortege made its way slowly up the wide thoroughfare towards the cenotaph. The drum-beats of the following escort, men of the United Space Federation dressed in the gray of antique Civil War uniforms, sounded out solemnly as one of Earth’s most famous citizens was carried to his final resting place.

Jonathan, despite his age, stood at full and formal attention as the carriage rolled past. At his side stood his oldest friend, Archbishop Sean Driscoll. The two men were quiet, each lost in his own thoughts. Each wore a dark topcoat against the chill, and was protected from the rain by a personal umbrella field. A field of pure force, it surrounded its wearer at a distance of just one centimeter. Objects could penetrate it, people could be touched while it was activated, but raindrops, even a heavy downpour, were kept out.

Jonathan looked around at the assembly, the grandeur of the might of the Federation; in the distance he saw the spires and domes of the capital, and once again reflected in wonder that he was actually here in this place and time. He moved to adjust his stance, caught his shoe against a protruding brick and stumbled, and was caught by the strong arm of his priest and friend.

Jonathan glanced gratefully at Sean and smiled wryly, then spoke in a theatrical whisper out of the corner of his mouth.

“Careful, old friend. Anyone watching would think we’re not actually the same age.”

Sean smiled, “Away with ye, man. I’m only a pup of 521. The good Lord alone knows how old you are.”

Jonathan smiled and regarded his friend fondly, then returned his attention to the passing procession. Across the wide street were throngs of people who had turned out to honor the man many believed to be the father of the new Mankind, the man who had been right there at the happening of the Event, at its very occurrence.

Jonathan watched as the old-fashioned gun carriage, drawn by four horses, approached his position, the coffin draped in the Federation flag. Here and there, dotted in the throng, a few flags of the 19th century Confederacy fluttered bravely in memory of the deceased’s birthplace of Mississippi. Old passions, memories of Dixie, linger on in the Deep South, the Englishman marveled. More than 25 generations later, and still they remember.

As he waited for the incongruously small procession to pass, drum and fife playing the ancient air that told of Johnny marching home, Jonathan glanced around at the dismal scene and took a moment to seek out familiar faces. Federation personnel, from ordinary crew members to officers, from ensigns to admirals, and right up to the Commander in Chief herself, stood in the wet and shining street rubbing shoulders with the hoi-polloi as one of its most honored citizens came home.

For a moment, Jonathan had a sense of otherness, a sense that there were unseen presences, and for an instant the scene became surrealistic, not-quite-there, like a hologram moving momentarily out of phase. Then, almost before it was realized, it was gone and the former professor of Astrophysics, holder of the Chair at Oxford, and last surviving member of the crew of the Hermes relaxed slightly as the carriage rumbled softly past.

Jonathan and Sean would not be attending the service, nor would they be at the graveside for the interment. Jonathan had known Professor Arnold Katzmeyer well, had shared moments with him, some of them perilous. He was sure Arnold would understand that an hour in this kind of weather was as much as his frail health could stand.

Unlike Sean and everyone else on the planet, Jonathan had not received the gift from the alien world that had figured so dramatically in the Event, a gift bestowed on the people of Earth by the alien creatures known as the Denizens.

Consequently, at the age of 145, he found he was very much feeling his years, and he had a few things left to do before he finally shuffled off. He was thinking in this vein when his attention was drawn back to the present at the sound of the Irishman’s voice.

“Well, what now, Jonathan? Do y’have any plans before headin’ back to Oxford, or can I take you to a wonderful Irish restaurant I know of in New York? If,” he added, exaggerating his accent comically, “such a t’ing isn’t too much of an oxymoron for your refoined tastes.”

“That sounds perfect, old friend. I’m just in the mood for some peat sandwiches and nettle tea,” Jonathan smiled.

Sean glowered in mock outrage. “Nettle tea, is it? Peat sammies? And I suppose you won’t be wantin’ to help me dispose of a pint of hundred year-old Tullamore Dew I’ve been savin’?”

They chuckled together, then Jonathan said, “All right, you silver-tongued devil, lead the way to the nearest shuttle terminal and let’s go to this Gaelic paradise.”

Arm in arm, they walked away from the procession toward the air-taxi stands.

* * * *

The restaurant was everything Sean had claimed. They had enjoyed a wonderful old-fashioned Irish Stew—lamb neck chops, potatoes and onions in a smooth gravy—and had toasted each other with pints of Guinness and a small shot-glass each of genuine poteen, the ancient Irish liquor outlawed for centuries by the occupying British because of its sheer potency.

When they had cautiously sampled this fiery brew, Jonathan had gasped, and even Sean’s complexion had gained a distinct reddish hue.

“And that’s why, Jonny,” Sean remarked hoarsely as they sat recovering from the potent liquor’s assault on their senses, “the good Lord invented liquor: so that the Irish wouldn’t rule the world.”

They sipped the amber liquid, and sighed appreciatively, then sat in companionable silence until Sean said. “Back in Oxford, before we left to attend Arnold’s funeral, ye hinted that there was something else ye wanted to do. Oh, I know ye tried to play it down at the time, but me antennae is not so old and worn that I didn’t pick it up.” Sean toyed with his glass for a moment. “What’s up, Jonny?”

Jonathan smiled at his friend and confessor, and sat forward in his chair. Since his miraculous return from the past three years before, he had told no one what had happened to him there; only to Sean had he revealed anything at all, and precious little even to him. Sean had been so glad to have his friend back, he declined to press him, and was content to let Jonathan tell him in his own time, or not, as he chose.

Jonathan had already decided that it was time to reveal all that had happened to him: the second revelation, the rescue, the mission, the aliens, the quantum alternates, and the decision he had come to. Sean had a right to know of that before anyone else. He took a small taste of Sean’s whiskey, chased it with a larger sip of his Guinness and leaned toward his friend.

“Sean, old friend, I have a tale to tell.”