Contest 2004

The Tales of Future Past Short Story Contest!

First Prize:  Ralph E. Vaughan

Invaders from the Stratosphere

by

Ralph E Vaughan

A tinny voice, distorted by static, burst from the transceiver:  “Commander Corrigan!  World Police, New York City, calling Commander Corrigan, Destiny Island.  Ultraviolet Alert!  Come in, Commander Corrigan!”

Commander Raymond Corrigan looked across the body of the Atlantean robot at Professor Quigley.  In the shadowy laboratory, the glow from the vacuum tubes within the robot made the Professor’s glasses look like bright silver dollars.

“Billy, come over here and hold these wires.”

“You betcha!”  Billy Matting said enthusiastically, rushing forward.

Commander Corrigan raced to the radio.  He flicked the transmit switch and brought the microphone’s disk to his lips.

“Commander Corrigan, Destiny Island, responding to World Police, New York City,” he said.  “Ready for two-way communication.”

“Commander Corrigan, the Earth…” the words faded, then surged back.  “  …  Invaders from the stratosphere…looting our cities!  Flying saucers stole the Eiffel Tower, and Big Ben from London…my God, one of the saucers is over New York and heading for…”

A sudden crash of static, then an ominous silence.

Corrigan did not waste time raising New York; if these invaders intended to steal humanity’s greatest handiworks, they would not pass up the Empire State Building.

He switched to the internal band, connecting him to Destiny Island’s flying field.

“Tin-Tin!” he snapped.  “Ready the flying wing for launch!  Attach auxiliary fuel tanks, rig her for combat and ultra high-altitude.”

“Obi, Commander!”

Corrigan flung open a wall panel, revealing an array of weapons.  He strapped on holsters fashioned from brightly banded dinosaur hide – a souvenir of the lost tropics of Antarctica – and jammed into them silver-plated revolvers.  Into a satchel he dumped a quantity of the miniature guided missiles that had aided their recent escape from Atlantis.

“Don’t know when I’ll be back, Professor,” he shouted.

“One moment, Ray,” Professor Quigley, said.

Corrigan’s words died as he turned and saw the Atlantean robot standing, malevolent head swivelled toward him.  He reached for his revolvers.

“Quite all right, I assure you, perfectly safe,” Professor Quigley said in his soft, swift voice.  “The machine is now totally responsive to our commands.”

Corrigan released his revolvers.  “I still don’t like its looks.”

“Posh!” the Professor said.  “Simple cosmetic metalwork will take care of that, when we have the time – I suggest we get going.”

“The robot too?”

“I await your command!” the Atlantean robot announced in a monotone.

“And me too?”  Billy exclaimed.

“Of course,” Commander Corrigan said.  “Get your gear together and report to the flying field.”

“Yes, sir!”  Then to the robot: “Come on, tin can!”

“By your command,” the robot replied, following the lad.

“ Those robots were plenty of trouble in Atlantis.”

“Totally rehabilitated,” the Professor said.  He donned his vest and jacket, and grabbed his hat.  “The robot might somehow be helpful to us.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Commander Corrigan snapped.  “Come on!”

The huge flying wing was on the field, titanic black-and-chrome propellers already lazily cutting the torpid tropical air.  Commander Corrigan inspected the fuel and weapons pods.  He only hoped the flying wing was in as good condition when they returned.

If they returned.

That doubt attended every mission upon which they set.  But it was better to pit themselves against death, to dare the Grim Reaper to give his scythe its best swing, than to hide and cower; to rise and strive, even if it meant to fall, would give as much meaning to their lives as to their deaths.

In the glass-fronted control cabin, Corrigan donned his high-altitude suit.  The other members of his crew were similarly garbed, and the Professor, bringing the robot in through the cargo elevator, had strapped on goggles and a breathing mask.

Corrigan got the thumb’s-up sign from Tin-Tin.

The maintenance crew scattered as Corrigan increased the flow of fuel. The propellers whirled so swiftly they became shimmering blurs.  The flying wing sped down the runway, then leaped away from the tarmac, using a fraction of the distance required by a conventional airplane.

Sparky, the wireless operator reported a signal from San Francisco.

“It’s the Golden Gate Bridge,” he reported.  “Two flying saucers are trying to carry it away!”

Corrigan hated to abandon New York, but no one else was in the vicinity; besides, he had learned through Sparky’s reports that King, of the Rocket Men, and Savage had the upper hand with the New York saucer.  He ordered a change in course.

Five minutes later they roared over San Francisco in time to see one end of the Golden Gate ripped from its moorings.  Cars dropped into the bay like raindrops, but they were empty, abandoned by their drivers when the saucers first attacked.

The flying saucers were yellow, edged with red trim, and had red cupolas atop.  Whip-like appendages protruded from apertures in the cupola, tentacles gripping the bridge tightly.  From the cupola’s depressed centre rose a bubble and a weapons mast.

“Curious they are not attempting to destroy the bridge,” the Professor mused. 

“Destroying or stealing – they’re not getting away with either!”

The flying wing dove swiftly.  Inches from the water, Corrigan pulled back, coming at a saucer from below.

A volley of missiles leapt from the flying wing.  Greenish rays burst from the saucers’ weapons.  Corrigan banked the flying wing sharply.  The beams missed them and struck the water, causing it to boil furiously.

The saucer that had been struggling to lift the far end of the bridge tried to loose its tentacles from the girders and towers to evade the missiles.  Before it could do so, the projectiles struck.  Flaming wreckage cascaded into San Francisco Bay.

The other saucer dropped its end of the bridge and shot upward.  Corrigan frowned.  Bullies, whether from across town or across the solar system, would always be back unless they were taught a lesson.

The flying wing leaped into the upper reaches of the atmosphere.  Corrigan gritted his teeth as acceleration drove his body back.  He opened valves that fed oxygen to the engines and readied the manoeuvring jets.

The fleeing saucer was at the edge of the stratosphere.  He loosed another volley of missiles.  Bright flashes erupted from the alien ship, and the flying wing closed swiftly.

A greenish beam flamed toward them.  Corrigan struggled, but the tenuous air made the wing’s movements sluggish.  The ship bucked with the force of the impact.  A late missile struck the weapons tower.

The two ships were close enough for Corrigan to see the oily invaders through the portholes of their crippled ship.  He activated the last of their missiles.

Nothing happened!

He toggled the switches, but no missiles launched.  The blast had crippled their weapon firing systems.  Black tentacles were already rebuilding the weapons tower.

“Any ideas, Professor?”

Silence.

Professor Quigley and the Atlantean robot were gone.

“Where is…”

“A cargo door is opening, Commander,” Sparky reported.

A bright metallic object shot from under the flying wing, heading toward the saucer.  It was the robot, flames leaping from its back.

Professor Quigley staggered in, clothes dishevelled and his face purplish.  Billy rushed to his side and increased the oxygen flow, bringing back the older man’s colour.

“Opened hatch,” the Professor gasped.  “Jet pack on the robot…only chance…satchel of miniature missiles…”

He lapsed into unconsciousness, but he would survive.

Corrigan returned his attention to the saucer.

Tentacles worked furiously to effect repairs even as the robot’s titanium body tore through the hull.  The saucer burst apart in a blinding flash or soundless light.

“Commander, other ships on radar!”

Corrigan did not hear.  He saw other saucers streaming from Earth, tentacles clutching purloined prizes.  One held a monolithic building, but not, he saw, the Empire State Building.

Corrigan growled: “Prepare to ram!”

The flying wing moved sluggishly, then more swiftly.  The saucers, caught by surprise, could not evade the onslaught of the wing-shaped aircraft.

So this is how it ends, Corrigan thought as he stared unflinchingly ahead.  Death in the icy airless wastes. No regrets…no regrets…

Suddenly the looming saucers burst into flames, and the flying wing passed through the fiery gasses and exploding wreckage.

“Space Explorers calling Flying Wing,” said a voice over the radio.  “Captain Kane Richmond speaking.  You all right, Commander.”

Corrigan smiled.  “A little banged up.  Thanks for the help, Captain.”

“We were beyond Neptune when we received the alert,” Allen reported.

“Is that all of them?”

“A few more, but they’re taken care of,” the Space Explorer replied.  “Do you need assistance?”

“No, well be fine as soon as we get back into the atmosphere.”

Commander Corrigan smiled as the aerial controls once again responded to his touch.  There would be ceremonies and medals, but none of that mattered, not really.

The excitement.

The adventure.

They had almost died, but in that moment when death seemed most imminent, he had never felt more alive.

“Good job, everyone,” he said.  “Let’s go home.”

He banked the flying wing through the burning blue reaches of air and headed for Destiny Island.