Niners

Miles was not pleased.

Three devices sat in front of him on the broad expanse of the 4th Floor Conference Room table. He looked up at the assembled faces.

“OK. You don’t expect me to lead the Daily with one of these? Where is the shot of Artemis II lifting off over the Cape—heading for a sling-shot around the Moon?”

A few uncomfortable looks circled the room.

Rocket sat up, took a sip of flat Yank coffee. “We were going to use that as the pivot. Splash got distracted yesterday—turning off North Glebe toward Pershing to pick up the Zoomers. Something loud made him look up. The building in front of him didn’t.”

Miles sighed. “That’s impossible unless he had that Japanese fusion rock blasting.” He lifted the iPad, displaying a sedan embedded halfway into a condo wall near the old HQ. “But given recent precedents, we’ll call it a malfunctioning throttle.”

He set the device down beside the others.

“Meanwhile, we’ve got nine and a half days to watch astronauts head deeper into space than we’ve ever gone.” He picked up the phone, showing a familiar, matronly smile. “Dierdre sent in a recipe. Not hers—Mamie Eisenhower’s fudge.”

Dee laughed. “You can tack it on the end like usual. But what about this?” She nudged the third device—the one showing nine faces. Aerospace and UAP analysts. All gone since Covid.

Miles nodded slowly. “Aliens. Accidents. Disappearances. Something there. But not this morning.”

He looked back at the room.

“Between a missed turn in Arlington and a planned arc around the Moon, the margin for error seems about the same.”

General laughter followed.

Decision made: go with the fudge. Unless Splash can get the duty sedan running again.

The rest—the Niners, the pattern, whatever it is—can wait a day.

Maybe.

— Vic Socotra