For there is . . . a single vast immensity which we may freely call void . . .
In it are an infinity of worlds of the same kind as our own.
-Giordano Bruno, 1584
Patricia Cornwell rides the fine line between science fiction and the real-life implications of NASA's Space Force program. Gemini Twins with enhanced technological abilities are launched into the great unknown. Cornwell includes owls, extraterrestrials and lightning strikes to illuminate the story.
Favorite Passages:
"Part of protecting people is not exposing them to more than they can handle."
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"I guess that's how it works. Fiction starts feeling like fact, and what you want to think becomes what you believe."
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Unusual thoughts and moods might cause me to suspect I've been altered or worse, fear I'm becoming delusional, possibly paranoid and psychotic.
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"In other words, I'm Pigpen, the character in Peanuts," I summarize. "Only the dirty cloud that follows me everywhere is electromagnetic, meaning I'll constantly get in my own way."
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"Relying on your own resources."
"That sounds like sudden death on a cracker," I give him the unvarnished truth.
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"Bump, Bang and Crush. Twister, Striker and Breaker," I take an inventory. "I see Crackle and Pop but where's Snap?"
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"Do you know the name?"
"Mr. Owl."
"I mean, the man's name."
"No, but he had a lot of scars on his hands and arms from Mr. Owl's talons. And Birdman let me say hello to him once, not pet him even though I wanted to. Owls don't like that. And there was a python inside the house, although I never met it. As you can imagine, Birdman didn't have to worry about burglars."
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"And by the way, it's illegal to have a pet owl unless you're a licensed handler."
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"She's hypersensitive to electromagnetic energy."
. . . .
"Nonna was fine until she was struck by lightning."
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At times she has an overwhelming awareness that she's living in a virtual reality. Now and then while sleeping, she feels she's moving in and out of multiple dimensions. And on occasion she has flashbacks of being adjusted and tampered with by beings from another planet.
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WHO-WHO . . . WHO-WHO-WHO . . .
The deep eerie sound is almost human, almost barking, and I flick my light over what might be the biggest great horned owl I've ever seen, perched on the branch of a tall pine tree. He watches us with full moon eyes, a taloned foot clutching Ranger the PONG captive by its gripper.
WHO-WHO-WHO . . . he unnaturally swivels his head around like in The Exorcist.
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It's called KMA, which could be the dead assassin's initials. Or maybe it's an acronym for Kiss My Ass, and that would fit with what I think of the man who tried to kill me.
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"So, what you're saying is there could be snakes in the furniture. In anything, let's be honest!"
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The pocket-sized notebooks are identical, each with a black cover neatly dated and numbered in white Magic Marker. Some haven't been used, the rest are inside ziplock sandwich bags containing small plastic trinkets I recognize as Cracker Jack toys. Not new ones but from the good ole days when you never knew what fun prize might await inside the box of caramelized peanuts and popcorn.
There are whistles, charms, rings, figurines, games, stickers, mini comic books that bring back memories, most of the journals meriting but one prize.
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A questionable suffocation with a dry-cleaning bag in Ogden, Utah . . .
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When the visibility is as good as it is right now, I'm reminded that the past is always present, and at times I get the uncanny feeling that nothing begins or ends, everything happens at once. In creeks and shallow water along the shoreline are the coffin-shaped charred hulls of Civil War fleets set ablaze more than a century and a half ago.
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Arlington Cemetery's perfect rows of white headstones bring to mind Chiclets candy-coated gum . . .
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. . . we hadn't factored owls into the equation, and we should have.