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What follows here is the first part of the first chapter of a story I am writing. It is still a bit raw and some parts still need fleshing out. I am posting it here in the hope of some feedback on style and content. Basically, do I carry on or do I ask for the day job back. 😕 Enjoy.
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“Well?” The mercenary looked over the table at the journalist. His blue eyes stared steadily back at her green over his glass of vodka. He sipped and put the glass on the table without taking his eyes from hers. Ice blue and hard as granite: eyes that had witnessed so much seemed to fill her vision. Her vision telescoped in until his eyes were all she could see. He seemed to be sucking her in. His head tilted a fraction to the right and his left eyebrow rose quizzically.
“Well?” He repeated, his voice little more that a whisper. The eyes drew her closer, she felt cold. She felt like he was stripping away her privacy layer by layer to reveal her inner most thoughts, even her very soul. She felt as if she would tell him anything he wanted to know. He did not even have to ask, she was there for the taking. Stop! With an inaudible snap her vision pulled back to view the whole man. The mercenary’s eyes softened slightly and, was that a twinkle? A small, mischievous lift to the mouth confirmed her suspicions. “Sorry,” he apologised “That was rude and unforgivable, I am sorry.” She nodded in acceptance; she was in no position to say any different. “Thank you. Your motives are unclear and I need to know but maybe now is not the time.”
In order to steady herself and recover her composure she raised her glass and took a sip of her wine and appraised the man opposite. The bottle said it was a Montrachet 1978 from Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. Although she knew that the contents had never seen the inside of a winery that did not lessen the pleasure. Unlike the wine he was unremarkable, except for the eyes, which had returned to their ice blue hardness, waiting. Close-cropped fair hair topped a slightly bulbous nose and ears that did not lay quite flat, lips that belied the hardness of his eyes by curled and twitched into an occasional smile. She estimated his age at no more than twenty-five although she knew it was at least double that. Around his throat a simple grey band of about two centimetres wide, as thin as paper, with a single blue stone. Simple? On closer inspection the band rippled in seemingly random patterns of every shade of grey. The stone had no setting but seemed to merge with the band and pulsated with intricate patterns of its own. In a similar fashion the band itself appeared to merge with his skin towards the nape of his neck. His gunmetal grey jumpsuit had no badges or marks of rank, or indeed any visible means of entry or exit.
“Well?” He repeated as he pushed his chair away from the table and readjusted his posture, leaning back with his hands behind his head. On first inspection, the chairs, table and floor appeared to be moulded from the same piece of translucent material, yet the chair moved, silently and smoothly. There was a slight pause before the chair modified itself slightly to accommodate the new pose. She searched for a beginning.
“How’s Star?” She said finally.
“She always did hate me calling her that. I don’t know,” he replied evenly, his eyes taking on a look of deep sorrow and regret.
“Will she die?”
“She’s already dead but that is the wrong question”
“Will she recover?”
“She must,” he finished simply, “but that’s not why we’re here is it?”She took another drink and looked around the bar. It was starting to fill, as it always did just before a departure, especially one that included a hyper-spatial jump. Off duty crew drifted in, in small groups. Wherever they stopped, a table and the requisite number of chairs oozed out of the floor and became solid. A hovering ‘attendant’ floated in from an unseen room and dispensed drinks in a myriad of colours in drinking vessels of every conceivable shape. The bar ran the full width of the ship, about four hundred metres, and occupied the middle deck’s most forward position. Open on three sides and about four metres from floor to ceiling with one complete ‘picture window’, it commanded the best possible view of the void outside and the blue and green planet dominating the forward view. The journalist guessed that about four hundred people of nearly as many races now sat and chatted. An air of expectation was gathering and although the bar could be no more that ten percent full a party atmosphere was growing. Without exception the patrons were all bipeds and of humanoid construction, mostly discernable as male or female but each had unique attributes. Many wore a ‘breather’ under their nose. This device, she had been told, supplemented particular gasses that each crew member needed that were not available in the ship’s atmosphere and filtered any potentially poisonous ones. At the next table sat a veritable giant of a man, she guessed at two and a half metres, but painfully thin with pale yellow skin and eyes. He was sat with another of no more than one and a half metres but with a barrel of a chest and powerful arms and legs. Noticing her looking, they stopped talking and bowed gracefully. She and the mercenary returned the bow and they continued their conversation, glancing occasionally outside. Each crew member wore similar one piece jumpsuits as the mercenary with no adornments although the colour varied. She pulled her attention away from the surroundings and focused on the mercenary again.
“How did it all start?” She asked. She pushed a recording device between them.
“That’s a question with many answers.” He replied levelly, “Do you want me to begin with the dawn of time, how life evolved, my birth or how I got here?” He continued indicating the immediate surroundings. “They’re all linked, you know.” There was that twinkle again, then it was gone.
“It’s your story, you choose the appropriate beginning.” He nodded, satisfied and tossed off the rest of his vodka. Almost immediately an attendant appeared at his shoulder. The empty glass vanished and a fresh shot appeared on the table.“I was born in England in 1959, the year Sputnik was launched. You could say I was born at the birth of the Space Age.”
“That makes you fifty five.”
“You win a cookie.” His head inclined in mock acknowledgement. “I was born to average parents and had an unremarkable childhood. I was one hundred percent average at school except for a hatred of mathematics that bordered of pathological. I took an instant liking to computers when, in my primary school, a forward thinking teacher remarked that one day computers would do all our work for us. It was then I resolved never to try at mathematics, there was no point.” The journalist smiled appropriately.The blue green planet outside started to slip to the port side, slowly at first but gathering momentum as the great ship manoeuvred majestically on its axis. All sound in the bar ceased as all the assembled crew raised their drinks in a silent salute. Everyone except the mercenary, his stare fixed on the journalist, pointedly ignoring the events outside. The great ship moved out of orbit riding the surrounding magnetic fields provided by the planet and nearby star to propel it silently forwards. The mercenary glanced momentarily at the receding planet and gave a little snort. The planet’s single moon appeared and hung in the forward view.
“I left education in 1975 with hardly any qualifications; drifting from one dead end job to another.” He continued, oblivious to the external events. “Eventually I got a job selling computers. I earned good money; I had friends, girlfriends and even had sex occasionally. Life was good.” The Moon was now growing slowly in size and sliding slowly off the port side as the ship accelerated. A slight haze suddenly distorted the Moon’s features indicating that the ship’s ram scoop had been deployed. The scoop extended in a one thousand kilometre wide radius around the front of the ship, a prelude to the firing of the ship’s fusion engines.
The mercenary watched the Moon for a few moments. “I never did take you to dinner on the Moon.”
“I bet it would drive the scientists nuts if they found empty wine bottles and leftover food at Tranquillity Base next time they went up,” she smiled.
“No one will ever go back,” he replied with finality. She knew he was right but that simple phrase had a second meaning to her. She fought down the sudden wave of emotions that struck her: sorrow, bitterness, loss, loneliness, panic. What have I done? She had the sudden urge to beat on his chest and scream.His eyes caught hers and held them. Calm, slight euphoria, the feeling of wanting to sink into goose down pillows…
“Better?”
“Yes, my turn to apologise, very unprofessional of me. You must teach me that sometime.”
“No need to apologise. You will learn, in time. You are a long way from home.” He finished, glancing momentarily at the vista outside before returning his cool, steady gaze to the journalist.A very faint vibration indicated that two miles away at the stern of the ship the six massive fusion engines had ignited. The Moon began to grow visibly in size, the assembled throng watched in silence as was the custom that was carried out at each departure. The vibration faded as the ship continued to accelerate steadily and the engines reached their peak efficiency. There would be a point where the ram scoops would be gathering more hydrogen than the engines burned. This meant that the ship refuelled its self thus minimising the amount of bulky fuel carried. The remaining debris and gasses were broken down into elements and stored for recycling through the ship’s systems: water, atmosphere, metals for emergency repairs. There would be a delay of a couple of hours while the ship made a safe distance from the nearby planet before a jump to hyperspace could be made safely so the crew returned to drinking and chatting.
“You’re blocking me!” The accusation came from a lithe female that had just appeared at the table. Jet black shoulder length hair shot with blue gloss, her eyes covered by a one-piece, form hugging visor with a highly polished mirror finish. Her posture gave a haughty and superior air. She inclined her head towards the journalist in recognition and smiled with small pointed teeth. Without visible eyes to convey emotion she looked like a cobra preparing to strike. This one always unnerved the journalist.
“I’m blocking everyone Cat,” replied the mercenary, “what do you want?”
“The Hunab Ku is expecting us.” Her voice rolled smoothly, almost like a purr.
“Thank you. It’s going to be a long trip.”
“Time enough for healing.” The emotionless visor held the mercenary for a second before he looked away, pain and sorrow crossing his face once again. She smiled or was she about to strike, the journalist could not tell, before turning and walking away. The journalist watched her go, her stride long and stately, each step precise, perfect and unhurried.“Did you ever marry?”
“No, I just never got round to it. Just as well really.”
“So, you are enjoying your life. What happened?”I’m afraid my brain simply isn’t up to very constructive critiquing these days, but I thoroughly enjoyed reading that. The formatting looks good. It works well. Definitely worth continuing.
Logan wrote:I’m afraid my brain simply isn’t up to very constructive critiquing these days, but I thoroughly enjoyed reading that. The formatting looks good. It works well. Definitely worth continuing.
…..
I, for one like this beginning. An older mysterious man, some wine, a story to unfold with a spectacular view. I’m waiting to see what else happens!
Chapter II part I is now in rough draft and posted here. What’s missing is a flashback to the mid 1980’s to introduce a yuppie character with no loyalty to anyone but him self who subsequently looses all his family in a train crash in which he is critically injured. Yup, it’s the mercenary. Now on with the sci-fi
I am not fully happy with this yet, it seems a bit tacky in places so any suggestions would be apreciated. Planet names are place holders as well.
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The Moon was now behind them and the ship was well clear of the gravity wells created by the planet and its satellite. The fusion engines had accelerated the ship to a cruising speed of around 200 000Km/s or 66% of the speed of light. Theoretically, the ship could be powered to close to the speed of light but as the ship accelerated it required more power to overcome the resistance and drag caused by a 2000m diameter RAM scoop and the law of diminishing returns took over.
An party atmosphere continued to grow in the bar and all eyes turned to the void in front as the fusion engines were throttled back and the RAM scoop reduced to a mere one hundred kilometre radius. The lights in the bar dimmed enough to accentuate the void outside. The mercenary looked up at faced the front of the craft.
“Do you like firework displays?” he asked, “Because you are going to love this!” His face lit up in a rare moment of simple joy, this was his universe and he loved showing it off.
“What’s happening?”
“They’re about to kick in the Compression Drive.” She looked puzzled. “We can’t, correction we shouldn’t, jump to hyperspace inside a solar system. It is a very violent act and the effect can be felt for tens of thousands of miles. In a crowded system a badly planned entry or exit can cause havoc. It would take about eight days to clear the solar system using the main RAIR drive; with the Compression Drive we can do it in one without breaking a sweat.”
“We are going faster than light?” The journalist asked in anticipation, her stomach lurched in a mixture of excitement and apprehension.
“Travelling faster than light is impossible,” the mercenary corrected, “but we can bend the rules a bit.” The journalist looked confused. “Watch, I will explain later.” He indicated the front view. She followed his direction where millions of specks of light filled her vision, not just white as on first glance but subtle yellows, reds and blues, all steady with no atmosphere to distort the view. Lying over the black velvet were deep magentas and purples of distant dust clouds picked out be the rapidly retreating sun. She wondered at the beauty and majesty of the greatest act of creation and destruction being enacted before her. How many of those distant points of light still exist? Which ones had died long ago? How many are too new for their light to have reached them yet? How many contained inhabited planets? The eternal question that had kept writers and scientists arguing for years and she was going to find out. She was no trained astronaut or scientist; she was a television journalist and minor celebrity, yet here she was, embarking on the adventure only dreamed about by science-fiction addicts. She suddenly felt how inadequate her journalistic training was to describe what she saw. “I never knew that there could be so many stars and so many colours. Even space is not just black. I could look at that all day.” It was a lame comment, not worthy of moment but she had to say something. The mercenary gave a half smile and sipped his vodka.She mused idly at the world she had left behind: since man had understood what the stars were, many had imagined and written stories about life on other planets, many others strove to prove that the human race was alone in the universe, or at least out of reach of any other sentient race. A few weeks ago all speculation had ended at the arrival of a two mile long spaceship. There could be no secrecy, no cover-up, no ‘weather balloon’ explanations; it could be seen in orbit, in detail, with the simplest of telescopes. At night it was the brightest object in the sky. The single most momentous moment in human history had happened and to cap it all, the most important occupant was human. He had come to deliver a message and now he was leaving, never to return, but now the ship had two humans on board. They had left the planet in an uproar, politicians were pointing fingers at each other and denying everything, others were trying to prove it was all a hoax or was a mass hallucination, the whole of the USA was now under marshal law and the mercenary’s closest friend was dead. The message had been delivered, their future was now up to them, she had chosen her future and it did not include banal new reports, endless chat shows, cocktail parties, the inevitable obscurity that goes with being a minor celebrity and dreaming of retiring in Spain.
Without warning a jolt ran through her body, startling her out of her reverie, not a physical discomfort, more like the feeling you get when you have suddenly remembered something important when it is too late. She winced as her stomach momentarily tightened and turned to lead and her heart seemed to stop for a long second. All the stars turned shades of blue then streaked back on all sides of the ship like millions of copper meteor trails of varying brightness and thickness. As each trail came level with the ship, the blue faded through the colours of the rainbow to red as it passed behind.
“Wow, that’s incredible!” Her sudden discomfort passed and forgotten, the journalist jumped up and ran to the widow to watch the streaks disappear to red behind the ship like a small child watching the passing scenery on a speeding train. The assembled crew toasted the void, as was the custom, and returned their attention inside. Some groups got up and joined other groups. Table and chair configurations changed to accommodate the movement. There would be no further developments for some hours so the assembled crew got down to some serious partying. In one corner musical instruments were produced and songs were raised in strange tongues. Some danced, some clapped to the rhythm, some just leaned back to enjoy the spectacle, either inside or outside the ship. The mercenary smiled and turned his attention back to his vodka.
After a while the journalist returned to the table, a puzzled look on her face.
“I thought you said that we cannot travel faster than light.” She accused.
“We are not travelling faster than light.” The mercenary replied flippantly. The wine had dulled her senses a little and quickened her temper; she did not like being fobbed off and her journalistic training took over. He raised a finger in remonstration and a rebuke was forming on her lips, the Doppler Effect she had read about in a magazine somewhere, was clearly visible outside. She saw his face turn to stone and felt the icy blast of his stare as he caught her intent. She pulled herself up, she had witnessed the result of the mercenary being called liar before. She swallowed hard, sweat beaded over her top lip. What she would normally use as a throwaway line or as a challenge to have something explained to her was tantamount to calling the mercenary a liar and could, in her new life, have more serious and lasting consequences. Star, lying somewhere in the bowels of this huge craft with a hole through her chest and heart was testimony to that. She felt sick and turned away. The mercenary remained silent and impassive. She gathered her shattered wits and thoughts together.
“How can it look like we are travelling faster than light,” she nodded outside, “but you say that it is impossible? You did say you would explain later.” She finished lightly but still shaking. Good recovery, she congratulated herself, just be more careful next time.
“Yes you should.” Said the mercenary quietly. The journalist looked at him, startled. “The Compression Drive,” he continued without apology or explanation, “as the name suggests, compresses a corridor of space for us to travel through. Rather like all the atmosphere in this room being compressed into a gas cylinder; same volume of gas but less space to move through.”
She nodded understanding but clearly did not. “Inside the cylinder we are travelling at less than light speed,” he continued, “but outside it looks like we are going faster than light. Imagine a very long, speeding train and you riding a motor cycle very fast through it. You are only doing one hundred kilometres per hour but the train is going at two hundred. The net result is that you are travelling at three hundred kilometres an hour.”Light dawned; she remembered a similar conversation with an old boyfriend at three in the morning after drinking far too much wine. The boyfriend did not last much after the wine was finished but somehow the conversation reared up from her sub conscious. “Just like Warp Drive on Star Trek!” She interjected. The mercenary winced visibly.
“However, compressing or warping space, if you insist,” he corrected him self acidly, “is all straight forward but you still need forward motion so we still need to have the RAIR drive lit to push us through.” The journalist looked puzzled, he indicated his vodka glass. “How can I move this glass from one end of the table to another?” She shrugged and pushed at the glass tentatively with one finger. “Just so, now no matter what I do here,” he waved his hands in front of the glass, “it will not move unless you push it. The Compression Drive just manipulates space, it does not cause motion. Now do you understand?” The journalist nodded. Not quite like Star Trek then. “No.” Said the mercenary.
“I thought you said that was rude and unforgivable.”
“The wine is making you lose some control, you are starting to babble.”“What are they singing about.” she hastily changed the subject to shift the focus away from herself.
“In remembrance of happier times:” he replied, “lost loves, dancing naked in the moonlight, swimming in bottomless azure lakes under a clear rose coloured sky, remembered friends, family. Simple pleasures they can no longer enjoy.”
“Happier times, are they not happy?”
“They are the last of the Arcturans, their planet was devastated by a war they never asked for or played any part in. They occupied Arcturus 2, a beautiful planet with an abundance of natural resources and perfect climate; you would term it a paradise. Although they had a complex civilisation, their culture was to live with the land rather than from it. They had developed highly efficient forms of energy production including orbiting solar panels and had no need to burn their world to fuel their industry so there was very little pollution. Unfortunately, they had two neighbouring planets in the same system, Arcturus 1 and Arcturus 3. Arcturus 1 was closer to the sun and that much hotter and arid, Arcturus 3 was further out and colder. Both Arcturus 1 and Arcturus 3 were rapidly running out of their natural fuels and polluting their atmospheres. They regarded their neighbour with a high degree of jealousy. Both planets attempted to annex their neighbour for their own consumption. There was a long and bloody war using some weapons that should never have been invented. The peaceful Arcturans had no means of self defence and just got caught in the crossfire. Eventually the atmosphere became so poisoned and the water polluted by the by-products of war and biological agents that the whole planet became useless as a commodity but the warring factions still carried on. We picked up a desperate plea for help but arrived too late to make a difference. By the time we made orbit there was only a few small communities high in the mountains with no more than a few thousand left and most of those were in a terminal condition.”
The Journalist was aghast. “What did you do?”
“The only thing we could: we evaluated the situation to asses which of the warring parties was the aggressor then blew the crap out of anything that flew and carried a weapon, both in orbit and in the atmosphere. We ended that war in less than two rotations of that planet. The ground troops would die off eventually without food, clean water, breathable air and protection from all the poisons they had inflicted on this world.”
“Revenge?” The journalist was startled, “That does not sit well on you.”
“No, we were furious at the stupidity of it all but revenge is not our way, not even on behalf of another. We were there to protect the true inhabitants against aggression; even though it was a futile gesture on our part it did feel good. For good measure we visited both Arcturus 1 and Arcturus 3 and took out any orbiting military ships or space docks we found and left warnings of dire consequences if any vessel were to find its way to Arcturus 2 in the future. An empty threat but satisfying none the less.”“We gave what help we could to the survivors but most were beyond even the resources of this ship. The small party you see over there asked to join us in an attempt to save their race. It was their payment for our help.” The journalist looked puzzled. “We are mercenaries when all said and done. Their planet was dying and will be uninhabitable for many hundreds of years but they want their children to return home eventually and they are wonderful engineers. The arrangement works well for both of us. After a while, if we find a planet they can live on undisturbed until they can go home again, they will be free to leave.”
An unbidden tear streaked the journalist’s cheek, how could a whole race be destroyed because of another’s greed? Then she remembered Earth’s less than exemplary history: the Aztecs, the American Indian, the African pygmies, all decimated because of greed, stupidity and arrogance. She turned her attention back to the mercenary who had just had his vodka refreshed.
“So, the train crashed what happened next?”
Yowza, 7th, are you sure you don’t write professionally? Me thinks I smell someone who is at least published if not more.
You are right, it does need some fleshing out but I’m sure as it unfolds it will. Nice description of the bending of space, the wonderment of stars, and the story of the Arcturians. Those who reside in the middle ground do get the mightiest storms from both sides, but it’s like you said, paradise when all calms down. That would be my planet, heck, all of ours, if we could only get there, and not on a spaceship; in our minds and actions. The question is, how DO we get there? It’s like that line from The Hand of God in nuBSG, “Sometimes you have to roll the hard Six. ” Sometimes, fallible and imperfect people have to take risks, for a higher purpose. They have to be willing to take their stripes, from those ignorant of a higher purpose
. It is like the Arcturians let’s say, to use your story, a group of forward thinkers going to Arct 1 and 3 and saying, if you continue to go in this direction you will kill your planet and yourselves and us as well. This is may be 100- 200 yrs BEFORE the planet dies. They are not only ridiculed, and sent back home, but they have to endure slanderous lies and possibly imprisonment and death and the hands of those that do not think ahead, but they do this, they keep trying, because they love their fellow Arcturians on all planets and they still cherish hope they will avert what they see. The result was their species survived. This love, this feeling is real.
Sorry OT
Please continue. 😀
”mandara wrote:Yowza, 7th, are you sure you don’t write professionally? Me thinks I smell someone who is at least published if not more.
I appreciate the praise but I am 100% amateur and this is my first attempt at creative writing since school (a long time ago). I have made my first mistake though: Arcturus is actually a red giant incapable of sustaining habitable planets. 😳 Oops. Xi Sigma 5 looks like a better option, I may need to rewrite although it does not roll off the tongue like Arcturus.
The second part of Chapter II is almost ready and involves a second flashback to the mid 80s. I did not post the first flashback but the second is more Sci-fi orientated. I will probably post next week.
7th,? Where is the next installment? Hmmmm? Been too long in the beer vs. Lager thread, I bet.
If Rowling can make millions so can you, so get clacking! 😀
Indeed very nice. And you are right, the sigma name does not easily roll off the tongue.:lol:
Hi Mandara, I called you yesterday, but you were out. 😀Chapter 3 rolled to a logical conclusion a couple of days ago and is a marathon. I had a severe case of writer’s block where I could not get her out of the bathroom for days (all will become clear). I took a literary laxative (4 large export quality vodkas) and the subsequent deluge would not stop! Chapters 1 & 2 have gone through some significant rewrites so C3 references conversations and situations not in the versions posted here. I am going to have to edit C3 ‘for the web’ but I will post Monday evening (GMT).
I am glad people are enjoying. 😀
When I have blocks I use music, now i use Led Zeppelin’s Kashmir
here’s some exerpts….
Oh let the sun beat down upon my face, stars to fill my dream
I am a traveler of both time and space, to be where I have been
To sit with elders of the gentle race, this world has seldom seen
They talk of days for which they sit and wait and all will be revealedTalk and song from tongues of lilting grace, whose sounds caress my ear
But not a word I heard could I relate, the story was quite clear
Oh, oh.And for pilots as in this story…
Oh, pilot of the storm who leaves no trace, like thoughts inside a dream
Heed the path that led me to that place, yellow desert stream
My shangri-la beneath the summer moon, I will return again
Sure as the dust that floats high and true, when movin’ through kashmir.Oh, father of the four winds, fill my sails, across the sea of years
With no provision but an open face, along the straits of fear
Ohh.Just do what you need to do to get unstuck, I don’t have probs with stories, it’s the wording so they all sit in my journals and my head until i try to get them down.
Thus and thus…. this is my burden so reading a great writer helps me, not in plagarizing, I am all for original ideas belonging to the originator, but i way into a story is where i am remiss without bogging it down with too much description. I do like my ideas more than what’s on the tele now or even in the theatre.
I should go on The War of the Worlds thread and rip that. 🙄 What happened there? The whole Tim Robbins thing and the rip of monitors from Minority Report! C’mon, where are the glowing minds here?
I enjoy this story better than that FX’s nightmare and stupid ending.
my opinion of course.
I tried playing a variety of music to keep the creative juces flowing (Pink Floyd, Yes, Anouk, Sheryl Crow, Judie Tzuke, Gustav Holst) but I always ended up listening to the music and writing nothing. Now I prefer as close to silence as I can manage, traffic and neighbours willing.
Anyway, fashionably late, here is episode 3. It has been heaviliy edited and the flashback sequences have been removed along with the bad language. This is still a final draft because there are still sections and ideas that I am not happy with and need some work. However, please enjoy.
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.
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