Re:The Journalist and The Mercenary

The door chime was soft but persistent, pulling the journalist out of a very deep sleep. She never was very good first thing in the morning but add a couple of bottles of wine at least forty-eight hours without sleep and a major culture shock; this was not a good way to start the day. The door chimed again, she sat up, her mouth felt as if she had slept with someone’s big toe in it, her hair felt like coconut matting. The bedroom was small and sparsely furnished. There was a door through to the washing facilities and one to the cabin’s living area. All the furniture seemed to be moulded out of the same material as in the bar. She noticed, somewhat apprehensively, that she was not touching the bed; she was suspended some millimetres above it and held her form perfectly. No wonder it was so comfortable. She swung her legs over the side and stood up, the bed melted back into the floor. She was still wearing the same clothes she had on when she began this bizarre adventure and she realised she had no recollection of ever getting to her quarters. There were the Arcturans, there was some dancing, some turquoise coloured drinks and then a haze. Again the door chimed. She walked through to the main living area. There was a desk area with a computer terminal and the few personal effects she had brought with her. A rectangular porthole displayed a myriad of stars showing that they were no longer under the power of the Compression Drive. Just how long had she been asleep? A sofa and two armchairs eased out of the floor as she entered.

“Yes?” She queried in the general direction of the door. It obediently slid open and Cat entered. She looked the journalist up and down and her lip curled in distaste.
“I’m to take you to the bridge.” She snarled without greetings or preamble and turned to leave.
“Wait!” Cat turned. “I need to wash and change.” Cat sniffed the air and her features screwed as if encountering a bad smell, she motioned to the washroom at the back of the little bedroom with a small impatient gesture. The journalist took a step then turned on an impulse as she remembered a conversation last night, and faced Cat. “You don’t like me, do you? Cat paused for a moment, her sightless visor fixed directly at the journalist. She began to feel as if she had made a mistake, her heart thumped in her chest.
“No.” Cat said finally, a small smile betrayed her enjoyment of the other’s discomfort.
“Why not?” She had started this conversation; she might as well see it through. She did not trust Cat but she had to find out the reason for her animosity.
“You are responsible for the death of Star.”
“No,” she was horrified at the suggestion, “that’s not …..” she saw Cat’s jaw muscles tighten, and her teeth showed in a wicked grin, the journalist went white, she felt sick. She could not live her life having to watch every word in case she said the wrong thing. She had made the biggest mistake of her life forcing herself on this crew and there was no way out. There was so much that was new and strange to her: where even to be accused of lying was considered dishonourable and would end in the death of the liar or the accuser, where she was regarded as the alien, where her thoughts and emotions were on show to anyone who cared to look. How did she ever dare to hope she could fit in here? Once again, she felt the great gulf between herself and her new surroundings. She felt small powerless and a long way from home only this time the mercenary was not here to bolster her only this alien who, she felt, would prefer to break her neck. She hit rock bottom. This needed to end now. She made a radical decision to call Cat’s bluff and stared her straight in the visor. “If I called you a liar now, would you kill me?”
“Without hesitation.” The reply was instant and without emotion.
“Would it be quick?” The journalist trembled, wrong decision.
“I must formally challenge you to withdraw the accusation, prove it or defend it. If you withdrew it you would lose all honour in the eyes of the crew and you would become invisible to them, the rest would be up to you.”
“Suicide?”
“That would be a course of action, yes. I would suggest putting on a weapon, taking off the locator badge you were given and take a walk. The sentinels would fry you before you got fifty paces. You can borrow mine.” She held out her hand, which contained a small device. It was as jet-black, not much bigger than her hand, delicately shaped with a short stubby barrel. It had no apparent moving parts but its purpose was obvious.
“You are enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Yes. If you could prove it then my life would be forfeit to you. If you cannot prove it but still stand by the accusation then you must choose to defend it. You would be dead before you saw me move.” She raised her right hand and to emphasise the point, razor sharp claws extended about two centimetres from the end of her slender fingers. All colour drained from the journalist’s face; fear gripped her insides and twisted them in knots. She was on the edge now and it was too late to turn back.
“Would that satisfy your grief at the loss of your friend?”
“No, that will always remain her honour would be satisfied.” Tears rolled down her cheeks and she looked straight into Cat’s featureless visor. She was near to hysteria with fear.
“Then do it,” she sobbed, “but please believe me when I say that I had no intention of putting any of you in that situation. I had no idea what was being planned. Star was the most beautiful and loyal person I have ever met but I had no idea she would sacrifice herself in such a way. I am so sorry.” She paused and drew in a very deep breath, possibly her last. “Cat, I am not responsible for Star’s death which makes you mmmmm!” In a move faster than lightning Cat had placed a small, delicate hand firmly over the journalist’s mouth and pushed her roughly against a wall. They stood for a long moment, their faces millimetres apart and the journalist’s eyes, wide with fear, reflected back at her in a distorted image.
“Never,” Cat hissed, “speak of this again.” and kissed her on the cheek. She removed her hand and sat down in a relaxed posture on the sofa. “I suggest you get ready. Would you like some breakfast? I believe that is the customary first meal of the day of your culture.” She finished lightly. The journalist’s mind reeled and ricocheted around her head. She staggered into the shower cubicle, vomited heavily into what she assumed to be a toilet bowl and collapsed on the floor sobbing.

This is getting you nowhere. The thought pricked the back of the journalist’s mind some minutes later through the emotional chaos. You have just faced down the single most dangerous person you have ever met, and won. Did you win, or did you just survive? If you won, what was the prize? She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. Her mind played back the scene again and again, trying to piece together what had happened. An image of herself lying on the floor with Cat stood over her body with those claws dripping red came unbidden to her mind. She managed to reach the toilet bowl just in time and retched heavily. Yes, she had won and the prize it seemed was to have gained the trust of a potentially and dangerous enemy. The crisis was over, now what? A shower, yes, a shower would be good. At least she would have a few minutes to think; once again she had proved herself ill equipped for this life but she had survived one major crisis, a number of small crises and her first shipboard party. She had survived each situation and learned valuable lessons but if this much can happen in the short time she had been aboard, what lay ahead for her?

She rose to her feet and investigated the bathroom; the mental turmoil had abated somewhat but still troubled her. It was a simple cubicle with no trimmings or trappings. The facilities, as with all other furniture, moulded from the same material as the floor. The toilet bowl still bore witness to her recent distress but there was no apparent means of erasing the evidence. As she contemplated this simple problem the bowl melted into the floor. There was a pause of a few seconds and it oozed out again, completely clean and ready for use.

She disrobed; there was nowhere to hang her clothes so she dumped them unceremoniously on the bedroom floor. There were no apparent controls in the shower cubicle but she had noticed that the ship seemed to anticipate her needs so she stood expectantly. There was no water but she felt an agreeable tingle all over her body, light danced around her and she felt herself suspended by an unseen force. After no more than thirty seconds the feeling subsided and she felt totally refreshed, her hair felt perfectly conditioned and there was not a hint of odour.

On entering her bedroom, she noticed that her clothes had disappeared but hanging from the wall was a yellow jumpsuit with matching shin length boots. The jumpsuit had a diagonal opening from the neck at the right shoulder to the left waist and was at least three sizes too big and over a metre too long, the boots were similarly oversized. This is some sort of practical joke or initiation ceremony, she thought to her self. Ok, I’ll play along. She climbed in. At the bottom of the opening she found a small hard bubble in the material. Pulling this bubble up closed the opening until it reached the shoulder where it matched exactly with the beading around the neck. The suit suddenly shrunk, not skin tight but enough to hold the body shape. The boots reacted in a similar fashion. She admired her self in the mirror. Ok, so yellow was not her colour but not a bad all the same.

Just then a smell caught her nostrils, familiar, tantalising, no she was dreaming! Eggs and bacon! She ran to the living area; Cat was sat nonchalantly at a table which had since appeared, replacing the sofa and chairs. On the table was a full breakfast of eggs, bacon, tomato and fried bread. There was a steaming pot of tea, the unmistakable aroma of Earl Grey, toast, jam and a jug of fresh orange juice. The smell was divine.

“Please sit,” Cat indicated a spare chair, “I hope this is correct; I did not have much time to research the ritual.” Cat was grinning broadly in obvious pleasure at the journalist’s reaction.
“It’s perfect. Thank you.” She suddenly realised that she had not eaten anything for over two days tucked in with abandon. Cat watched. “Please eat with me.”
“No thank you. Please do not be offended, my dietary requirements are different to yours.” This was not the same person who only a few minutes ago had offered to shred the journalist’s body with as much pleasure.

The journalist pushed the empty plate away and nursed a cup of tea. She needed some answers and her recent victory and a full stomach gave her courage.
“Would you really have used those on me?” she indicated Cat’s hands, the claws retracted now and almost invisible. Cat contemplated her hands; the claws slid out then back again unnerving the journalist.
“No,” said Cat, “they are a relic from my ancestry and it is considered barbaric to use them as weapons. It is normally considered vulgar to display them in public, I apologise.”
“I suppose they are the reason he calls you Cat.” Cat cocked her head to one side and contemplated her hands.
“He has problems pronouncing names in other tongues.” She shrugged.
“I get the impression that our recent argument was orchestrated and I was manoeuvred into it.” She was not angry; the thought had crossed her mind in the shower. No matter what her journalistic training taught her about finding the truth, self preservation should have stopped her offering herself as a sacrifice.
“Yes, again I must apologise to you. I used a technique on you to stimulate your actions and to act on your thoughts and fears that you would have normally suppressed.”
“Why?”
“Your motives are unclear and I needed to know.”
“That’s the second time someone has said that to me in two days. Could you not have just asked me?”
“No, I have had enough dealings with humans to know they never say what they think. I had to make you say what you really thought.”
“Did you really believe me to be responsible for Star’s death?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still believe so?”
“I believe you played no part in the situation that led to her death. May I try some of this?” She indicated the orange juice.
“Of course.” A clean glass appeared through the table. Cat poured a measure, sniffed and sipped.
“Pleasant if a little bland for my taste, faintly reminiscent of a fruit from my world.” She finished a little wistfully.

The subject had been tactfully changed so the journalist erred on the side of caution and did not press further. “Can I ask about your visor? You are the only crew member I have seen with one.”
“My home world was covered in immense forests: the trees grew over a thousand metres tall and over one hundred metres in diameter with branches wide enough to drive vehicles along. My people lived in the forests and made homes in the trees. We lived in almost perpetual darkness. I wear this visor because even the light in this cabin would hurt my eyes, to look on your sun with out protection would blind me instantly.”
“Ahh,” the journalist was satisfied, “now I understand. Trees a kilometre high: that must be a sight to see. I would like to visit your world.”
Cat put her glass down and appeared to contemplate it for some time. Eventually she looked up. “I said that my home was covered by forests. That is because my home no longer exists. If fact I am the only one of my race left.” Deep emotions made the words tremble slightly. The journalist looked across the table startled. First the Arcturans and now Cat and before joining the ship she had heard Star’s story. Was this whole crew made up of the remnants of dead races?

Cat ended her revere by gracefully flowing to her feet. The journalist felt like a newborn foal or deer against this person: all gangly legs and no balance. Every movement she made was unhurried, perfect, and precise with all the grace of a ballerina. Could this be the product of living in kilometre high trees? The journalist mused. One slip and you are road kill.
“We must go. We are expected on the bridge.” The journalist grabbed her notebook and pencil from the desk area and followed her to the door, which slid open. Behind them the table, chairs and the remnants of breakfast melted into the floor.

The corridor stretched for hundreds of metres in each direction with no obvious points of reference and was wide enough to accommodate at least tem people walking abreast. Instinctively the journalist took a mental note of the symbols on the door of her cabin, which were made up of two columns consisting of dots and horizontal lines. She assumed it was some sort of numbering system but had nothing to base it on. This was a big ship and she would hate to get lost trying to find her cabin again. She still had no recollection of getting there in the first place. She could feel the floor tugging at her feet each time took a step. As they walked the floor gently pulled them forward. It was like a cross between skating and water skiing only there was no wake or mark in the floor behind them. They were now moving at a fast run although they were only walking at a leisurely stroll. They passed the occasional crewmember but the floor smoothly traced them a safe course without breaking speed. She held back an urge to cling onto Cat in fright and tried to imitate her nonchalant manner.

Their progress began to slow until they arrived at a bank of twenty doors, one of which slid open on their approach. Inside was a cubicle some two metres square with a column of buttons and symbols by the door. A lift! Finally, something the journalist could understand. Quick, check the floor numbers. Cat pushed button ‘dot’. Deck number one? The journalist jotted down the symbols from her door then started noting the symbols on the lift’s panel. Underneath was deck ‘dot dot’ then deck ‘dot dot dot’. Aha, a pattern was forming. Then there was a line, a line with a dot above, a line with two dots. The doors opening interrupted her concentration; she did not even feel the lift move. They stepped out into a long anteroom some thirty metres wide and at least fifty metres long. Each wall was lined with doors and the ceiling appeared open to the void showing a panorama of stars. The end wall had only one door this is where they headed. The room was deserted and took seconds to cross as the floor assisted their progress. The door slid open as they approached.

Beyond the door was a parabolic room at least another hundred metres long and the same at its base. It was built on two levels. They had entered on the top level that consisted of a platform, where they were now stood, and a mezzanine floor that followed the curve of the wall. The wall was lined with instruments and high backed chairs, some occupied but many not. The chairs, unlike those in the bar, were permanent pieces of furniture but glided silently an effortlessly as the crew went about their business. In fact the whole room had a different feel to the rest of the ship; the floor was metallic rather than the substance that made up the living areas. The ceiling was domed and completely transparent; the journalist was beginning to feel a little agoraphobic. The level below was also lined with stations but they were mostly deserted. The floor was dominated by a single circular plinth with a holographic display of stars hovering above. The mercenary was stood thoughtfully contemplating the display. He looked up at them a waved for them to join him then went back to studying the hologram.

Cat indicated an area of the platform with no guardrail and walked towards in and the journalist followed. Without pausing Cat walked straight off the edge. The journalist gasped and rushed forward to see Cat, five metres below, walking towards the mercenary with not a hair out of place. They both looked at the journalist and waited. Cat may have the reflexes of, well, a cat, the journalist thought to her self, but I am not going to risk my neck on a jump like that and she looked around for some stairs or lift. She found none. The other two were stood waiting; the mercenary with a look of amusement and Cat’s stance indicated irritation. The journalist could feel herself blushing furiously. The mercenary touched Cat’s shoulder and nodded towards the stranded journalist. With a head movement that indicated a ‘tut’, she strode forward. At the foot of the platform she rose quickly into the air until she was on a level with the platform and strode off without breaking step. In a single fluid movement she turned round, put a hand into the small of the back of the wide eyed journalist and propelled her off the edge. The journalist closed her eyes and screamed until she realised she was now standing on the lower level and the eyes of everyone on both levels were on her. She flushed furiously with a mixture of embarrassment and anger.
“Don’t ever do that again!” She hissed furiously at Cat, who cocked her head to one side.
“To survive, you must learn trust. If we are to trust you, you must first trust us.”
“Next time, at least warn me before pushing me off a ledge.” Cat smiled with her small pointed teeth and walked over to the mercenary. The journalist stomped behind still blushing.

“We have reached the out edge of the solar system and it is now safe to begin the next stage of the journey.” The mercenary said, without greeting or looking away from the holographic display. “I thought you might like a front row seat and we can continue out chat. How’s your head by the way?” The journalist contemplated this: she had woken up floating above a bed that she had no idea how she got to, manoeuvred into a deadly confrontation with an alien with two inch claws, been offered a full English breakfast that had materialised out of the floor, and pushed of a five metre ledge. All that considered, her head was coping, just. The mercenary’s mouth twitched in amusement. “I meant that Arcturan spirit can have some odd side effects on the unprepared and the Arcturan you went off with had a huge smile on his face when I saw him in Engineering earlier.”
“WHAT!”
“As I said: ‘unexpected side effects.’”
“But I never, couldn’t have … did I? I still had my clothes on!”
“He said you were the best …”
“Stop it!” The journalist was frantic.
“… story teller he had met for some time.”
“Story teller?”
“Yes, the Arcturans have no concept of journalism; story telling is the closest they can relate to. Apparently you were giving a vivid account of your life from birth right up to the moment you passed out. He had some difficulty with your turn of phrase and the translator has difficulty with colloquiums so I had to explain that the boy you met on holiday did not actually steal any fruit from you.” There was that momentary twinkle that passed for mirth and then it was gone.
“Everyone seems to be having fun at my expense today.” The journalist said, a little petulantly.
“Come,” Cat butted in, “it’s nearly time.” And headed for the upper level, the others followed.

They left the bridge and took a lift that opened up at the back of the bar. The bar was already more crowded than it had been for The Departure and more were arriving every second. The three moved towards the front and the panoramic view of the void. The mercenary indicated a suitable spot and a table and three chairs oozed from the floor. As they sat an attendant deposited a glass of vodka for the mercenary, a bottle of wine with glass for the journalist and a glass of a brown pungent liquid with the consistency of tree sap for Cat.

The journalist’s mind was bursting with new questions and she made to speak but the mercenary raised a hand to cut her off. The fusion engines had been shut down and the RAM scoop had been retrieved. The ship now rode the magnetic fields of the universe again, not dissimilar to a sailing ship using the tides and winds to propel itself.

“Now we are comfortable, I have news that will lighten your day.” His eyes had softened and a smile played over his lips as he spoke. This, for the mercenary, was akin to jumping for joy. “Star has been revived!”
“What!” The journalist was stunned, emotions played over Cat’s features as she regarded the mercenary silently.
“Her heart has been repaired and is now beating and she is breathing. However,” he cautioned, “there is still serious brain damage because it took us too long to get her out but she has the best we have repairing her synapses. It will still be some weeks before we know for certain.” A single tear rolled down Cat’s cheek from under her visor. The journalist wanted to throw her arms around her in comfort. The look Cat shot her and the set of her jaw put paid to that thought and she took a long swallow of wine.

“Hyperspace entry in one minute, drive is charged, all stations have reported ready.” A disembodied voice cut through the silence. “Hyperspace entry in 30 seconds, drive is discharging, entry point creation started.” Ahead a blood red tear appeared and began to grow rapidly. The tear lengthened and widened, the edge was now a jagged maelstrom of energy with discharges flashing every colour of the rainbow as the universe fought with the ship to end this assault on its very fabric. The centre of the maelstrom was pure nothing, no stars, lights or colours of any kind. The ship rushed on. “Hyperspace entry in 4, 3, 2, 1…” The assembled throng cheered and the band of energy holding the two universes apart flashed past mere metres from the ships hull. “Hyperspace drive shutdown, entry complete.” The voice concluded. The entry point had closed behind them. The absolute blackness outside seemed to ooze round the edges of the windows and encroach on the space inside the ship. Suddenly the bar seemed small and claustrophobic. Many of the crew looked uncomfortable, a few even on the verge of a panic attack. The journalist was one of the latter, even Cat’s unflappable mask had slipped a little and her glass was suddenly empty. It was like a huge blind spot that you could not focus on and was at the edge of your vision where ever you looked. She felt that the whole universe was compressing into this nothingness and she was having difficulty breathing. After a short delay the windows polarised and became opaque. All the ships external ports would now remain opaque until it was time to rejoin normal space. The oppressive atmosphere ended and the crew returned to chatting. The ritual now complete some got up and left. Their seats and tables melted back into the floor as they walked away, some more unsteadily than others.

“Why do they do that?” The experience had shaken the journalist: she had finished two glasses of wine in quick succession and was trembling visibly.
“Bravado mostly. I suppose it’s partially my fault, I instigated the departing ritual, I used to come here alone and eventually others joined me and it grew from there. There is no need for the windows to be transparent during entry, they want to feel what the first pioneers of hyperspace travel felt; although they know it is only for a few seconds. You will never get used to it, it’s just as disturbing the hundredth time as it was the first.”

“Also,” he continued, “hyperspace travel is still very dangerous. As someone once said, ‘travelling through hyperspace aint like dusting crops, kid.’” He put on a bad American accent for the quote. “You are using a enough energy to rip a small planet apart, and tearing a hole between two realities. One miscalculation or failure and this ship is toast. I suppose it’s nice to see it coming. Would you take a blindfold to face a firing squad? I wouldn’t.”

Trying to grapple with ideas well beyond her comprehension she probed further. “We discussed last time that travelling faster than light only existed in science fiction so what are we doing this time?”
“We have simply gone somewhere that operates under a different set of rules from our own universe.”
“Explain that to me, in simple language.”
“Ok, we have four means of travel on this ship, the designers were pure scientists who put all their knowledge and expertise into it without the constraint of budgets or governments and that includes the engines, weaponry, defence measures and crew facilities. We can out manoeuvre, out run, out gun just and shrug off more damage than just about anything in the galaxy and still have a three course dinner and cocktails.” The journalist smiled appropriately at the mercenary’s humour. “Two engines are for normal travel, one uses the natural magnetic fields that occur everywhere, not particularly fast but highly manoeuvrable, for such a bulky vessel. The second is the fusion drive, uses hydrogen for fuel: light the blue touch paper and stand back. The other two are for interstellar travel.”

“The Compression Drive, we have talked about already. The hyperspace drive tears a hole between two realities. Basically we fly into a reality where the laws of physics are different. I never took Quantum Physics at school but as far as I understand it, in hyperspace we do not exist as a three dimensional object, we are spread out like oil on water and if left unchecked will eventually touch all corners of the universe. The trick is to find an ‘anchor point’ where you what to end up, create an exit point and pull your scattered molecules to that point and out into normal space again. As I said, this takes massive amounts of energy and you never enter hyperspace unless you have enough to get back out again.” Not for the first time, a wave of vertigo swept over the journalist. Too much, too fast and no time to assimilate the information.

“How long do we spend in hyperspace?” The question was logical but delivered with a degree of apprehension.
“About five months in hyperspace and another month under full Compression Drive.”
“Where are we going?”
“My dear, we are going to introduce you to the Hunab Ku, the Galactic Centre, and the birthplace of all things. You are to meet the oldest and most venerable beings in the galaxy. Cheers!” He raised his glass to the journalist in salute, put his head back and poured the contents down his throat.