Watching and waiting, visitors from the Moon orbit the planet. Their mission: Conquer Earth. Of course, that’s the easy part…
They parked the anti-gravity pod in the ship’s rear garage and popped the bubble. Neither said a word. After a weekend on Earth they were talked-out. Men are like that. There is plenty to say at first, with enthusiasm running high. Golf, girls, the latest pod engines and relative speeds generated. In the end, men secretly wish a woman or two had been invited. If only to tell someone to shut up.
Cancun had been a bust. Lt. Kern was far too judgmental to impress anyone in a beachside bar. When he asked why an attractive young woman felt compelled to down three vodka-jello shots in a row, she answered, “To talk to you.”
Captain Rollhagen, in silver uniform and with his chiseled good looks, found himself continually mobbed by students, mostly women, who mistook him for Jake Gyllenhaal. They displayed the most obvious, and in his opinion disgraceful willingness to do whatever he wished. Wherever he wished.
Kern found his bag and slammed the trunk. Then headed across the loading ramp. “The pod will have to be washed,” the captain called after him.
“Later,” Kern called back, and was gone.
Both the captain and lieutenant had sunburns. Kern ran and hid in his cabin. Captain Rollhagen felt compelled to return to the bridge, more from guilt than duty. Once seated he kept his face averted, pretending to be engrossed in reports.
Whenever Ensign Jennifer Tate swung her chair toward him, he swung his away. This ballet continued for an hour, until she spoke up. “Why, Captain. You have a sunburn.”
“Yes, Ensign. It’s nothing.”
“How did you get it?”
“Well, you know…”
“Too much time on the solar deck?”
“Something like that.” Captain Rollhagen couldn’t lie. But he learned if you waited long enough, someone else would do it for you.
Ensign Tate tapped in a few coordinates. “I heard you and Mr. Kern went to Earth.”
Now the captain faced her. “Who said that?”
“Why, everyone. About half the crew saw you fly down. And the other half saw you come back.”
There was no hiding anything around here. “We were on an evaluation trip,” he said.
“Assessing strength?”
“Something like that. And since you brought it up, I have a souvenir.” He fumbled in a bag. “For you, Ms. Tate.”
He handed her a Harlequin Romance, purloined on the beach from a sleeping, bikini-clad graduate student. He didn’t really steal it. He lifted it from the sand and placed a hundred-dollar bill under her half-finished bottle of Bud Light.
“A Dozen Roses.” Tate examined the cover. “By Priscilla Walsh. How thoughtful of you, Captain.”
“Yes. I thought it would be…” He hesitated, his sunburn darkening.
“Educational?”
“There you go.”
Later, the ensign dialed her video disk and chatted with her closest friend, Megan Bremer.
“The captain gave me a gift from Earth,” she said. “A Dozen Roses! It’s a…”
“Roses! How romantic.”
“Yes, isn’t it?”
Jennifer didn’t correct her friend. Not right away. Nothing wrong with a little deception. Snuggling up with her book, she realized in any romance, a little deception is not just allowed. It’s practically required.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com