It’s the end of the Continuum book titled ‘TheYearOfMyLifeVR.com’. Yes, that is the actual name of the book. The story continues with the next episode. And now, back to the Continuum….

“I have one question.” Victoria said, breaking the silence.

“What’s that?”

“Who is Douglas Berlin?”

“Don’t you know? I mean, we are on the same wavelength.”

“I do not need to know all your secrets.”

“I kinda figure that since you’ve already saved my life twice, I can trust you with all of my secrets.”

“Trust is very important to humans, is it not?”

“Feelings of friendship and love just happen and that’s good. But trust doesn’t just happen, we earn trust.”

“And that is important?”

“That is very important, my electric friend.”

“Then I choose to trust you,” she said, punctuating the statement with her trademark Mona Lisa smile. After a few seconds, she added “But names are not important.”

“I think you’re becoming more like me and I suspect that I’m becoming a little more like you. You and I make a pretty good team. You might actually decide that you like it here.”

Victoria looked at me with an expression that said otherwise.

“Your head must have hit the floor a lot harder than you think,” she said, as we both returned to watching the NASA feed.

I thought I saw a slight smile out of the corner of my eye as she murmured, “My hero.”

— — — -

“My hero,” Antonio said out loud as he removed the ear buds from his ears. He wondered what she meant by that. He pressed the stop button on the digital recorder nestled on the passenger bucket seat. For that matter, who was the woman? His research on the writer hadn’t turned up a live-in girlfriend. That was only one of many questions he had about the conversation he had just overheard.

He reached over and unhooked the parabolic microphone from the passenger door frame, unplugged it from the recorder, and set it down on the passenger side floor. Then he picked up the recorder and slipped it into his inside jacket pocket. Always save something for a rainy day, he thought as he turned the ignition key. For what remained of this day, food and a status call to Sullivan would suffice. Antonio flipped on the left directional indicator, turned his head, and slowly pulled away from the curb.

— — — –

The Director of the Secret Service stared up at the screen in the conference room.

He had already watched the video of his agent leaving the lecture venue at the Mandalay Bay and heading to the bar with the handicapped writer. He knew what happened next, and he also knew that the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police had interviewed the writer. His agents had been monitoring everything since the murder.

It didn’t make sense. There was nothing on Heskett’s laptop hard drive that was worth dying for. All they had found were notes from the conference. They were similar to notes that would have been taken by dozens of other conference attendees.

The next view showed the writer exiting the bar. He stood there for a second and then the video switched to something unexpected, cats playing the piano!

“Is this a joke?” he said out loud as he turned to face the bewildered agents situated around the conference table.

After being assured that the video was authentic, he turned back to the screen.

“Bring me the writer and get this video down to forensics. Maybe they can discover what on Earth is going on?”

— — — -

Office of Planetary Protection — Earth Sciences Anomaly Department — Monitoring station of analyst Jennifer Ayers. She is looking over satellite photos of lightning over the United Kingdom. She picks up the phone and dials an extension.

“ESAD, Supervisor Johnson speaking”

“Ken, it’s Jennifer Ayers.”

“Hey, Jen. I thought I was the only one left without a social life on a Friday night.

What’s up?”

“Something strange showed up in one of the sat trans over Wales. I’m sending it over to your station. Mind taking a look?”

A few seconds later, Ken said, “Got it. Looks like spider lightning to me.”

“Spider lightning travels horizontally under stratiform clouds.”

“Unexpected precipitation isn’t too unusual for Wales this time of year.”

“That’s what I thought, but spider lightning usually forms under 6,000 feet. See that passenger jet in the photo?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“That’s British Airways flight 245, on approach to Heathrow. It was flying at 8,300 feet when this picture was taken. The pilot reported the sighting to Heathrow tower.”

“I’ll admit that it’s rare for spider lightning to be that high up, but it’s not totally out of the question.” Johnson said.

“Hang on, Ken. I’m sending you another photo. This one shows lightning at the exact same altitude, 94 minutes later. Place both photos side by side.” There was a long silence at the other end of the phone.

“They’re identical… that’s impossible. It’s like having two identical snowflakes.

What the hell are we looking at?”

“I don’t know. The only thing I know for sure is that it’s not lightning.”

“Agreed, Jen. I’ll send these over to European OPP on Monday. Maybe their guys can shed some light on it.” Johnson continued, “I’m done for the day and I think we could both use a beer. Let’s take a walk over to Mahoney’s.”

“I’ll meet you out front in five minutes.”

It was dusk as Jennifer exited the building. Ken was staring at the sunset.

“A penny for your thoughts,” she said jokingly.

“Just looking at station,” Ken replied.

A lone, twinkling star sat seemingly motionless above the horizon.

“Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be up there? I mean, away from everything.” Ken said.

“It has to be pretty cool. Looking down on the Earth, all you can see is its beauty.

It’s as if conflicts and wars don’t even exist.” She replied.

Ken looked at her. “Well, those of us looking up from Earth are getting pretty thirsty. Let’s go get those beers.”

As darkness fell, the International Space Station faded from view as it continued an endless journey in Earth orbit.

31,556,736

My rollercoaster ride with Victoria doesn’t end here. She still wants me to help complete her mission. Now, I’ll admit that it’s nice to be wanted. I just wish it wasn’t by the police, the Secret Service, an alien hunting space agency, and a hired killer.

The Writer

This Continuum episode should bring you up to speed. was originally published in TheYearOfMyLifeVR.com Continuum on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

“How did you get in here?”

“How I arrived here is not important. I could explain it, but it gets kind of technical, and you’d probably get bored. Besides, we don’t have that much time. Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

“Why don’t I have my security detail listen to your explanation. They don’t bore as easily as I do.” Putin said, as he started to reach for the phone.

“Victoria, I need you to immobilize this guy.”

Putin’s arm froze in midair.

“While you’re at it, can you mute him?”

“It will make conversation difficult.”

“That’s okay. Small talk bores me.”

“Go ahead, summon help. Press a button on your phone.”

Putin tried to reach forward, but his arm wouldn’t move.

“You could try yelling for your security detail. They’re right on the other side of that door.” I said, as I shifted in my chair and gestured behind me.

Putin opened his mouth and yelled, but nothing came out. It was as if he was shouting in a vacuum. He remembered an old movie line about how in space, no one can hear you scream. It’s possible he was having a stroke. But who was this stranger sitting across from him? Maybe you hallucinate when you’re having a stroke, he thought.

“Victoria, does Putin have a gun anywhere in his desk?”

“Yes. It is a Pistolet Samozaryadny Malogabaritny. It is in the top, right drawer.”

“A what?”

“That is the Russian name for the weapon, also known as a PSM. The literal translation is a compact, self-loading pistol.”

“You could’ve just said yes.”

“I will keep that in mind if the subject matter reemerges.”

Sometimes, it was easy to forget that I was communicating with the living embodiment of the Internet.

“Is he left or right-handed?”

“A scan of his muscle mass indicates that he is right-handed.”

“Perfect. On my cue, have him pull the gun out and put it to his right temple”

“You’re looking a little tense, Mr. President. Let’s play a game. It may help you to relax. You’re going to like this game. It’s named after Mother Russia.”

Putin sat there, unable to move. The stranger was mocking him. Hallucination or not, he despised being mocked.

“Open your top, right desk drawer.”

Putin reached down and opened the drawer. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t stop his right arm from obeying. This stranger was playing with him as if he was a puppet on a string.

“Take out the PSM.”

His hand grasped the gun and slowly moved it up to his right temple.

“Now then, I assume you’re familiar with a little game known as Russian Roulette. If that rings a bell, flick off the safety, Mr. President.”

Using his thumb, Putin involuntarily flipped the safety to the off position.

“Silly me. I just realized you can’t play Russian Roulette with a gun that isn’t a revolver.”

Putin breathed a sigh of relief even though the fully loaded pistol was still planted firmly against his head. If only he could move his arm, he thought, the stranger’s game would be over.

“Now that I have your full attention, Mr. President, I think it’s time for us to talk. Actually, I’m going to talk and you’re going to listen. I suggest you listen to every word. If I sense that you’re not, you might accidentally pull the trigger. Blink once if you understand, twice if you don’t.”

Putin paused, then blinked once as beads of sweat started forming on his forehead. He would meet this stranger again. He would make it his mission in life.

“So, let’s talk about your invasion of Ukraine. Whoops, sorry, special military operation.”

Putin glared at the smirking stranger seated across from him. He didn’t look Ukrainian. Perhaps he was an agent of the West. But that didn’t explain his inability to move. Had this stranger somehow drugged or hypnotized him?

“I’ve taken up enough of your time, so I’m just going to cut to the chase. You’re going to end your personal war, and you’re going to end it immediately. Blink once if you understand. Remember, you’re only a twitch away from eternity.”

Putin blinked once. He just wanted this nightmare to end.

“Good boy. I’m glad we could come to an understanding.”

Putin wondered what this smug son of a bitch’s next move would be. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Your security forces are going to come through your office door in about fifteen seconds. If I were you, I wouldn’t tell them about me. It might make you seem a little crazy. You wouldn’t want people calling you that crazy old Putin, would you?”

I could tell from the look on his face, he didn’t get the humor in my question.

“Before I go, I’d like you to do one last thing for me. Point your gun at the urn on the stand to the right of the bookcase. Now don’t forget, do what I’ve asked you to do about your war, or I’ll be back to finish our game.”

Putin’s hand pulled away from his head as his outstretched arm aimed at the urn, situated ten feet to his left. His head turned as his gaze locked onto the ceramic artifact.

“I’ve gotta fly, Mr. President, but I’ll leave you with this. Ready, aim, fire!”

The urn exploded into pieces as the gun dropped from his hand and Putin’s security forces burst through the door. He turned to look at the stranger. The chair was empty.

Putin’s Predicament was originally published in TheYearOfMyLifeVR.com Continuum on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.