Centaurian Ch 01

All Rights Reserved © 2021, Rick Haydn Horst

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

CHAPTER ONE

June 20th

Henri Estalon could never have found the perfect location in Miami simply by looking. An inner voice told him to use the southernmost point of Key Biscayne. So, on that warm and windy summer solstice, he and Ronan would allow the transfer to happen there, accepting that events would unfold as they should.

Eight o'clock had sped toward them, but the sun had yet to touch the horizon in that so-called,

golden hour

—which would last 32 minutes—before the sunset at 8:14. So, they waited in nail-biting anticipation upon the concrete sea wall staring out over the water.

"The world is a far more complicated place than in my day," said Henri. "To lose the personal memories from your past in 2016 is a frightening prospect. People can verify things these days; you can't just make stuff up anymore. And not to deter you—as the decision is yours—but have you the will to become the man you envision? None of the others ever drew such attention, and you must endure the repercussions for a thousand years."

"I'm sure," said Ronan. "I don't know that anything I do will change much, but I want to make a difference somehow."

"You will bring something quite new to Chiron's unique existence; you are a very different sort of man from myself and the others that came before you."

"You mean because I identify as gay."

"Well, yes, there's that...but then, perhaps, it's just because I came from an era so far removed from this one, and there's only so much a man can do to stay current. At this stage, I do feel a bit too disconnected from modernity to function well here. I suppose that's why Prometheus wisely insisted a change must occur every thousand years. In the end, Admissārius probably realized that too."

"Are you afraid?" Ronan asked.

"No, and when your time comes, neither will you be." He glanced down at Ronan's lap, and he laughed a little at the skinny young man. "I don't know that your plan with the oversized bathing suit will work. It won't hurt to try, but Admissārius and I were both naked when the transfer happened, and...well...let's just say one must experience it to understand why, but I will wear mine as an experiment, and we'll see what happens."

"You told me I would pass out. I just thought it would be better if I weren't naked when that happens."

"You will be half Chiron and therefore one-quarter equine, so Stallion by name, stallion by nature. An intellectual or not, Chiron would have dealt with a deplorable sense of inadequacy as a pure human, so you both have a say. You agreed to this though, so you'll just have to live with it as the rest of us have."

Turning his head, Ronan checked both directions of the bicycle path behind them. "You're sure this is the spot?"

Henri nodded. "I believe, we came here for more than just the view, only Prometheus knows why, but I feel deep within me the importance of your presence here. So, fear not, the stars will reach their position, and it will happen as it should."

Ronan held Henri's hand. "I have loved you like a father. I want you to know that."

"I know. In 1046, I had one biological child, and I would have outlived them...and my grandchildren if they had any...and any great-grandchildren, and so on."

"Can we have children? I got the impression that couldn't happen."

"Admissārius gave me that impression as well, but it happened just the once, and it never happened again. It was not something I intended; due to the nature of this life, I couldn't stay. And while we're not expressly forbidden to tell anyone anything, the fewer the better. What would I have said to them? One day the child or any of the child's progeny could turn eighty, and I would still be thirty. This life is not an easy one. It holds many incredible experiences that most people could never imagine, counterbalanced by enough heartbreak to make you question if it's even worth it. But then, I met you. You're the only one that I've had the opportunity to love like a son, and I couldn't be prouder of you. You have made the last thousand years worthwhile, and I love you very much."

They watched the sun in the distance as it met the sea. It had begun, so they left the wall and moved to the middle of the pathway.

"I don't want you to go," said Ronan, hugging Henri tightly.

"I have no choice," he said in sympathy, "and despite how you feel at this moment, you don't need me anymore. It's time for you to take my place."

Ronan hesitated to ask, "Will this hurt?"

"You've been afraid to ask me that question."

"Yeah."

"For me," he said, "I don't know. For you, this will be quite painful for a few moments, but you'll be unconscious for the worst of it. Fortunately, you won't have to carry the memory of seeing me go, and I suspect that would hurt you more than anything else."

They stood there in one another's arms, prepared for a painful parting, watching the beauty of the sinking sun with the roar of the ocean and the wind in their ears, a scene that on any other occasion would impart a sense of awe, and the mystery about the simple joys of being alive.

When the sun had only one half left, Henri said a little breathless, "I'm beginning to feel hot." He pulled Ronan more tightly to him. "Not long now." When the last moments came, wisps of a fiery glow emerged from Henri and swirled around him. He brought his mouth near Ronan's ear. "Remember to keep the love in your heart and the image in your mind."

Henri's body began to shudder, and the moment the sun vanished, a brilliant, white-hot light passed between them, and a searing burn ripped through Ronan's body. His mouth gaped in a silent scream, and his arms—spread as they were—no longer wrapped Henri in a loving embrace. Keeping their chests together, Henri held him aloft when Ronan's legs left the ground. Every nerve blistering like he had become fire itself. The pain overwhelmed his senses, and he collapsed into unconsciousness.

His strength failing him, Henri used the last he had to lower Ronan's naked body to the ground. He stood over him only for a moment and gazed upon the young man whom he had loved for many years. He had time for three words, "Goodbye, my son." His feet no longer held him, and as he tipped away from Ronan, the wind caught bits of ash until he crashed upon the ground in a billowing plume carried on the breeze to the sea, and by morning, the remainder would lay indistinguishable from the inconsequential dust beneath any passing jogger's feet.

-------

June 21st

Officer Liam Phillips would never procrastinate with the snooze button for an extra five minutes of sleep, nor would he set all his clocks ahead ten minutes to compensate for a lifetime of tardiness. In his perpetual best-foot-forward attitude, for five days of every week, when the alarm went off, his feet would hit the floor for his morning exercise in the gym up the street. Unlike a stereotypical cop, Officer Phillips stayed fit. He never knew when he needed any specific ability; not that his job on Key Biscayne consisted of the frequent pulling of victims from burning vehicles, but he could manage it with ease if the occasion should arise, and to him, that mattered most.

Five years earlier, he started work at the station on the key. At that time, he moved into a one-bedroom, South-Point apartment on Collins Avenue, but he never settled in. The apartment's empty white walls lacked a personal touch, and a veritable Klotski of square boxes holding much of his past, all packed and taped with care, remained stacked against the dining room wall, a puzzle that needed solving for why he had yet to make a home there.

After a morning workout, he had a hearty breakfast of eggs, oatmeal, plain yogurt, fruit, and coffee while he caught up on the news and weather report, followed by readying himself for work, singing along with whatever song suited his mood from the eclectic array of music on his smartphone.

He used the towel to defog the bathroom mirror to the metronomic beat of "I Love a Rainy Night" and lathered up for a quick shave of his sun-kissed skin. As a Florida Police Officer, they had regulations against facial hair, and that made grooming more complicated for him. His dark beard hair would blend into his chest hair if he let it, but with manscaping all the rage, he had a plethora of options for trimmers to fight the growth that sought to emerge from beneath his t-shirts, and he kept his trimmed to the collarbone.

He leaned close to the mirror as he donned his contact lenses. His mother, grandmother, classmates, past boyfriends, and anyone who ever got close enough to his face would comment about his eyes. Strangers would often ask if they were natural, as most anyone else would have to fake the cornflower blue that garnered so much attention in his youth.

He parked his Jeep at the station, stared at the building, and smiled to himself. He enjoyed being a police officer on Key Biscayne. Some might say he enjoyed it a little too much.

Uniformed and ready, he sauntered into the department at 7:54 AM to check-in and get a cup of coffee, as everyone did.

"Good morning, short-timer," said Rodriguez at the front desk.

"Hey! I figured you would get back out there today."

"No. They removed the cast and said my arm was fine, but here I am for seven more days of light-duty; the doctor insisted. I cover for you starting next week. And speaking of that, Sergeant Watkins told me you've not taken a vacation in 3 years, and they made you use it or lose it. What is wrong with you?"

Phillips laughed. "Isn't every day a vacation when you love your job?"

"No," stated Sergeant Watkins who had walked up behind him, shaking his head at such a ridiculous idea. "And since this is your last day before you begin a prescribed 6 weeks of workaholic rehabilitation—and I know we'll get so little out of you today—I'm going to offer it to you again, if you want to take a personal day and just go, no one will blame you."

Phillips knew the sergeant was right, he had nearly turned into a 28-year-old workaholic. Every chance he could work, he did, but he knew he needed the time away from it. However, for the past three years and a reason he couldn't explain, he never took any.

"That's tempting," he said. "Will you give me some time today to think about it?"

"Sure, and I have a crap job to help convince you. A call just came in. Bill Baggs just opened, and the first jogger of the day says there's a naked drunk man passed out on the trail at the south tip. I want you to go assess the situation, and call an ambulance if it's warranted, but text Rodriguez and let us know if he's covered in puke. Right now, the

puke pool

has set the odds at 20 to 1, and as I lost the last two times, this one better be puke-free; I need to recoup my losses."

"No problem," said Phillips. "Depending on his location, I might get patrol car stuck down there. I'll take my Jeep." Phillips hurried out the door.

Key Biscayne would get the occasional passed out drunk. Sometimes it was an actual resident, but usually, someone from elsewhere would show up and be a poor reminder to rich residents of the realities of the world. Residents wouldn't even bother to call 9-1-1 when they saw one, they had no desire to draw attention to unsightliness. The locals paid such high taxes they expected never to see drunks on the streets or anywhere else. So, they insisted that the police give them a surreptitious

bum's rush

and take them off the key.

Phillips would find the location in question seven minutes down Crandon Boulevard. The Bill Baggs Cape Florida State Park, home of the decommissioned Cape Florida Lighthouse, presented an opportunity for birdwatching, jogging, family gatherings, and the like.

On arrival, three people, including the caller, hovered over what he could see was a man sprawled on the ground. He cautiously pulled past them to provide access to the cargo area and parked the Jeep. The naked man lay in an odd position, his legs partially tucked under him with his knees off to the side, and his arms straight out from his body. The caller had found a red solo cup on the side of the pathway and placed it over the man's genitals to keep people from gawking, a thoughtful idea, if not wholly sanitary.

"Thank you very much," Phillips told them, and insisted they move along to let him do his job, and they left. He pulled on a pair of blue gloves from a pouch on his belt giving the man an assessment of his appearance. No doubt about it, the guy was attractive. He had a rectangular face with masculine features, and if he were a drunk, his skin showed no sign of it. So, he wasn't the usual drunk.

"Hey, buddy," he tried to shake him a little to awaken him. "Can you hear me?"

The man was unconscious, but he had a regular pulse and was breathing fine. The pupils of his cognac-colored eyes responded normally with a flashlight. He opened his mouth to find beautiful, straight white teeth. He had no sign of alcohol on his breath, or anything up his nose. Overall, his skin looked healthy without discoloration and wasn't cool to the touch.

He texted Rodriguez. [No puke. Not a drunk, but unconscious. No time for an ambulance. Taking him to Mercy.]

He received a text that only read [Acknowledged].

He opened the rear of his vehicle and lowered the seats to enlarge the cargo space. In his attempt to hoist him into the Jeep, he noticed the man had a bold, half-finished black tattoo across his back—shoulder to shoulder—that when complete, would read

STALLION

in a fancy but legible serif font. When he picked him up a bit more, the solo cup fell and out spilled the reason the woman bothered.

"Oh, wow... You know what

you

are, don't ya, big fella?" He struggled to get him into the vehicle, but he got him there. He covered him with the blanket he always kept there.

On the way, he called Mercy Hospital—hands-free of course. He had a number he could call for emergency use. He relayed what he could from his cursory observations. "I am Officer Liam Phillips from the Key Biscayne Police Department. I'm bringing to the emergency entrance a man about 27 years old, maybe 6-feet-tall. He's fit, about 190 pounds. He is breathing. His pulse is good. His pupils respond normally, but he's unconscious and unresponsive. He has no apparent drug use and may have been exposed to the elements all night, but his skin is warm to the touch."

As it was still early, the hospital wasn't too busy, so they took the man back immediately, and checked his vitals. His temperature was normal; his blood pressure was 117 over 78. The man's nurse named Lidia Morales felt in his hair to find any bumps or contusions on his head.

"Where did you find him?" she asked Phillips.

"On the bike trail in the park on south Key Biscayne. I couldn't tell how long he had been there. The ground around him was dry, so that probably helped."

"I don't feel or see any bumps, and no ticks; externally, he seems fine. We have an open bed, so we'll take him back. The doctor will want a blood sample."

Phillips followed the man on the gurney from triage into an examination room with a bed that could weigh the patient. It read 193 pounds. "I guesstimated pretty well," he said to himself. Once alone with him, he hovered over his face and gazed upon him in the stark fluorescent lighting. "Can you hear me?" he said to the guy. "You know, some guys get their surnames across their back like that. They usually have many other tattoos though. You look too clean-cut for that. So, are you Mr. Stallion or just known as a stallion? Hmm? I wish you would wake up. I have questions. Has someone assaulted you? Has someone injected you or something? What happened to you?"

After a few minutes, Dr. Cohen entered the room.

"Hello, officer, I heard you brought someone in. Let's see what we have here." He checked his pulse, pupils, mouth, nose, ears, rechecked his scalp, and gave his body a visual examination. "He certainly is healthy-looking for someone so unconscious," said the doctor. "I have ordered some blood work, and we'll see what information that gets us. May I ask your interest in this man?"

"I want to know if he's been assaulted. If he suddenly wakes up, it would be nice to get a statement if that's possible. So, I guess you could say that my interest is a professional one, and I'm the one who brought him here."

"If he should wake up, there's no guarantee he'll be in a position to answer any questions, but out of professional courtesy, I will agree for you to stay, so long as you don't get in the way."

"I appreciate that, thank you."

The phlebotomist entered when the doctor left.

"Hey, I'm here to draw blood," she said in obviousness.

Phillips watched closely as she laid her instruments on the metal tray table, including six vacuum tubes. She seated herself upon the stool and found his arm beneath the blanket, studied his veins for a moment, and proceeded to prepare for the draw. She gloved up and installed a needle on the vacutainer tube holder with practiced ease. She tied the rubber tourniquet around his upper arm and swabbed the area with alcohol. She held the needle for insertion and pushed. Nothing happened. She repositioned the needle and pushed. The needle wouldn't pierce his skin. Phillips got closer and watched her try it again. It just wouldn't go in. The phlebotomist was getting frustrated. She closed off the needle, set it aside, and prepared another from her pocket. She tried it again, but it wouldn't go in. Turning a tad pale, she set everything down, said, "Excuse me," and left the room.

Phillips immediately called Sergeant Watkins and not once could he take his eyes off the arm of the man on the hospital bed. "Hey, you were right all along," he said in distraction. "I should take that personal day." The sergeant said he would put it in the books and told him to enjoy his vacation.

Phillips found the man intriguing. Before him lay a handsome mystery, and he had no intention of leaving.

A few minutes later, Dr. Cohen entered, a little perturbed with the phlebotomist. Apparently, if you wanted something done right, you must do it yourself, but the instant he tried to push the needle into the man's arm, it wouldn't go in for him either, not even a little. He laid the vacutainer holder onto the metal tray and stepped back a little. He turned to the phlebotomist. "Could you leave the room, please?" Once she had, he spoke to the officer. "Where did you find this man?"

"A jogger found him naked and unconscious at the southern tip of Key Biscayne, I checked him over, he is now as he was then, and I brought him here."

The doctor uncovered the man, and they could see his fully nude body. He picked up the needle and an alcohol pad. He swabbed the man's right thigh and tried to push the needle into his leg. It wouldn't pierce the skin. He raised his hand and slammed the needle into the man's thigh. It didn't penetrate and left not even a scratch.

"That's...aah, that's not normal," said Phillips.

"No...it's not..." The doctor laid the instrument onto the table again and began to check the man's every nook and fold to find anything unusual. He recovered him with the blanket. He looked at the chart made by the staff when he arrived. "This says his weight is 193 pounds."

"Yeah, that's what it was when they brought him in, I saw it on the end of the bed when she wrote it down."