Dawn broke over the ocean and Hedges decided to go down to the beach.
He poured another coffee, then pulled on a hat and sunglasses. His golden retriever, Max, followed close behind. Together they descended the dunes on stairs of rough-hewn planks.
The morning sand felt damp and cold on bare feet, and the breeze gave him a shiver. Hedges warmed himself with coffee and rays from the rising sun. He rarely visited the beach so early, but today’s schedule demanded it.
Max found his tennis ball and dropped it at Hedges’s feet. The old man picked up the ball and flung it to the surf, smiling as Max kicked up sand on a mad dash into the waves. They performed this ritual every day but neither ever tired of it.
A glowing star appeared on the horizon and climbed high into the brightening sky. Hedges took another sip as he watched the object swell and pass high overhead. The International Space Station, now in orbit for nearly a century, had grown from a six-person habitat into an orbiting city.
“See you soon,” he grumbled, as the station vanished behind his house.
A soggy tennis ball fell at his feet, courtesy of an equally soggy, panting dog. Hedges tossed it back to the ocean. Max barked and again sprinted down the beach.
Hedges had no desire to go into orbit, but his job required it. His employers at the Conservancy needed details about the top-secret work going on up there. They had chosen him, over his sharp objections, to be their eyes and ears.
He looked at his watch, then emptied the cup and called Max.
An hour later he was at the launch facility, boarding an orbital shuttle. He took an elevator to the shuttle’s fourth floor and found his seat.
About a dozen other passengers were scattered about, all staring at the ceiling as they used their eyepieces. Hedges opened his briefcase and pulled out some paperwork. He made a point of loudly thumbing the pages. A hologram of a flight attendant gave a safety demo, but nobody paid attention.
The launch went smoothly, and within ten minutes he felt the first tickling twinges of weightlessness. Zero-g always made him queasy and today was no exception. Fortunately, it would last only until they docked, since the spinning space station made its own gravity.
Upon emerging from the gangway, he spotted a pair of naval officers in the waiting crowd and headed straight for them.
“I’m Austin Hedges. I assume you’re my handlers for the day.”
The older officer smiled politely and offered a hand. “I am Admiral Ngura and this is Flight Lieutenant Sterling. Would you care for some refreshments before we begin?”
Hedges, aware that more zero-g lay ahead, declined. They led him from the public concourse to a restricted area, where the three men boarded a tender and cast off.
“The hop to the shipyard lasts about twenty minutes,” Admiral Ngura explained. “During that time, perhaps you could enlighten us on the reason for your visit.”
Hedges shrugged. “Your partners at the Conservancy sent me to gather information.”
“Partners?” asked Sterling, with a raised eyebrow.
“Last time I checked, Lieutenant, most of the shipyard’s workers were members of the Conservancy.”
“Con labor is the reason this project is so far behind schedule,” Sterling shot back.
“My only concern is for the welfare and safety of our workers.”
Ngura interrupted the exchange. “Tell me, Mr. Hedges, how long have you been an advisor to the Conservancy’s board of trustees?”
“Almost fifty years.”
The admiral cocked his head. “You must have been quite young.”
“Admiral,” Hedges said with a wry smile, “I am 114 years old.”
Both officers gaped.
“One hundred and fourteen? That hardly seems possible,” Ngura stammered.
Hedges paused, enjoying the moment. “I’ve always been fortunate,” he said. “My whole life, for whatever reason, things have just gone my way. My luckiest moment did not occur until I was 88.”
Sterling’s eyes narrowed. “What happened then?”
“I got cancer.”
The young officer scoffed, but the admiral seemed to understand.
“A rare, aggressive cancer,” Hedges continued. “I should’ve been dead within months. But I found a geneticist who was experimenting with new treatments. He said I made an ideal test subject. Not exactly ethical of him, but I figured I had nothing to lose.”
“So, he cured you,” Sterling said.
“More than a cure. He altered the cancer cells, repurposed them. Instead of killing me, the cancer became my ally. It rejuvenated my other cells, actually made me younger. I went from 88 to about 50.”
The admiral turned to Sterling. “I know the rest of this story. I remember reading of a freelance geneticist who did illegal experiments. Some of his patients died, and he went to prison.”
“It’s true,” Hedges admitted. “Always lucky, that’s me. So then afterward—”
He paused mid-sentence, too shocked to continue. He was looking over Ngura’s shoulder and out the window beyond.
Hedges rose for a better view. The officers exchanged a knowing glance, then followed him to the window.
“Incredible,” he managed.
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