A Memory of Violence

by Percival Arbogast

  A MEMORY OF VIOLENCE

  A VOYAGE OF THE BATTLECRUISER METHUSELAH

  VOYAGE #1

  By PERCIVAL ARBOGAST

  COPYRIGHT 2014 by PERCIVAL ARBOGAST

  A MEMORY OF VIOLENCE

  VOYAGE #1

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  --CHAPTER 1--

  --CHAPTER 2--

  --CHAPTER 3--

  --CHAPTER 4--

  --CHAPTER 5--

  --CHAPTER 6--

  --CHAPTER 7--

  --CHAPTER 8--

  --CHAPTER 9--

  --CHAPTER 10--

  --A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR--

  A MEMORY OF VIOLENCE

  CHAPTER 1

  She was known by many names, though most referred to the Battleship Methuselah simply as “The Undying”. She lingered in the vicinity of Mars when the SOS came through; the fourth or fifth one in as many hours. Her engines gave off a powdery blue glow as they idled in the void. Measuring about a quarter of a mile in length, her pock-marked hull was a sea-sick olive green, a testament to more than half a century’s worth of hard-won skirmishes.

  Inside, her crew was growing restless. It was no secret that the whole of space was being bombarded with frantic transmissions from Earth. News of these transmissions spread like wildfire so that, before long, even the ship's cook and janitors suspected that Earth was in trouble. There could be no other cause, it was reasoned, for the Earthlings to reach out to the space-born.

  It was the latest transmission, in particular, that caught the interest of Quartermaster Kanpei Inazawa and compelled him to approach the vessel's captain. Though they'd received numerous messages from the Blue Planet in the preceding hours, only this latest dispatch carried the name of so rarified a personage as the Prime Minister of Neo-Eurasia, a man called Kessler. Taking a mobile viewing unit from the deck, Kanpei made his way to the captain's quarters and knocked on the heavy door.

  Only a few on board had actually seen the transmissions; the Captain, the Quartermaster and perhaps a handful of mates in the command center. Even without knowing what the transmissions were about, the rest of the crew took to wild speculation, however. Already there was a segment of the crew that thought it wise to ignore any transmissions from Earth, no matter the subject. Left to their speculations, the Captain not yet sharing the details or making an address, they were becoming more vocal. Unrest was brewing.

  The walls and floors, once a brilliant, polished steel, were now scuffed to dullness, tread and abused over the course of years. It would have been a lie to call any of the ship’s many chambers inviting. The omnipresent fluorescent lights threw a bright glow across the worn metallic surfaces, resulting in a slight glare that was not a little overwhelming to the uninitiated. The air, recycled through a complex filtration system, had known the lungs of every crew member and was scented heavily with steel and toil. Such were the conditions under which most space nomads lived. Those without the wealth to finance more comfortable housing on space stations or trading posts had learned to make do on ships like Methuselah.

  Varied were the far-flung inhabitants of space. In the course of centuries, the space-born had developed a diverse culture, a sort of caste system, whose barriers were largely material. Those who managed a degree of financial security surrounded themselves with luxury, while others chose to take up piracy, surviving by preying on the rich and the careless. In greater numbers were those who fit into neither of the aforementioned castes and lived more or less in poverty. These folks, neither rich enough to mingle with the wealthy or powerful enough to compete with the pirates, were forced to take whatever menial jobs they could find to sustain themselves. The rich owned space stations of their own, outfitted with comfortable amenities and hard-won through years of work or the gambling of earlier assets. In the last hundred years, some of the wealthier space-born had even begun colonizing extrasolar planets. Most pirates were confined to ships, enjoying shore leave once in a great while on trading posts or private space stations, while the poor drifted about the galaxy in overcrowded, antiquated cruisers, or were packed like sardines into old space stations. When members of each socioeconomic group met, it was usually in violence.

  Captain Alberich Faust, the ship’s owner, had retired to his quarters to reflect upon the many transmissions and cries for help from Earth. He’d asked not to be disturbed unless there was something urgent that required his attention. A message from one of Earth’s most powerful leaders, Kanpei reckoned, qualified sufficiently. The Captain’s rough voice drifted out into the hall, retaining its characteristic punch over the din of the ship. “Come,” he said, simply.

  Kanpei pushed open the door and peered into the dimly-lit chamber. The Captain's quarters were simple; simpler, even, than those of his subordinates. He kept a bunk and a small chest for his personal effects. Save for these two items, there was little else to be found in the Captain's spartan quarters. He didn't even bother with a chair, preferring to sit on the floor. It took the Quartermaster a few moments before he could locate the Captain inside, his eyes struggling to adjust to the scant, yellowish light.

  The Captain was seated, cross-legged, with only a thin, tattered rug between him and the cold steel flooring. His powerful form was illuminated by the frail light of a single bulb, which remained tethered to its socket most precariously by a black wire. He was a large man, muscular and tall, with broad shoulders and at least half a foot in height over anyone else on the ship. Faust opened his eyes narrowly, looking up at the Quartermaster. “What have you got for me, Kanpei? The Earth-pigs... are they squealing for aid yet again?” he asked, scarcely stirring.

  Kanpei wasn't keen to waste the Captain’s time, and held out the mobile unit meekly, avoiding his gaze. “Have you had ample time to think? The crew is growing restless. I haven’t told them anything yet, but evidently some of the mates have been talking and word has gotten out to the rest of them. They know something is happening on Earth and they’ve got questions…”

  “I have not,” replied Faust curtly. He then added with a sigh, “The Earthlings wanted peace, so many years ago. And they got it. It is not a little amusing that they should now try and reach out to those same people they exiled for aid.”

  Kanpei nodded. “Yes, I see what you mean.” The Grand Exile, as it was known amongst the space-born, had been a joint effort by the leaders of Earth about three centuries prior. As Kanpei recalled, it had been a catastrophic nuclear strike that had prompted the many governments of Earth, hitherto engaged in perpetual warfare, to take pause. Millions dead and a large swath of the Middle East reduced to radioactive rubble, the Earthlings found themselves open for the first time to peace. It might've been a noble pursuit, had it not been executed with such barbarism.

  The unified governments rounded up the prisoners in Earth's jails. The newly-minted authoritarian regime, acting in the interest of peace, tapped into public databases, taking prisoner all those with violent histories. Their families, too, were apprehended, and in a purge that lasted nearly a decade, the violent, unpredictable of the species were gathered on giant ships and launched against their will into space. They were provided the resources necessary for their survival, including the technology they would need to produce food and water, but brought little else with them to the void, save for their hatred.

  It'd been considered humane and just at the time-- a necessary hurdle that needed jumped in mankind's pursuit of lasting peace. It had been anything but, however. The exiled humans continued to receive aid in the form of technology until the construction of the Solar Reef was completed nearly twenty years later. When the Reef was built and functional, the aid stopped cold and the two groups were cut off from one another, seldom interacting. Thus began the dive
rgence of the human race. The segment relegated to space were never to return to their home and began a perpetual struggle against their new, savage environment, while those that remained on Earth took to improving their lot, developing sustainable technologies that would preserve the planet's resources and ushering in a new era of world-wide peace and cooperation. For those in space, Kanpei's forebears, the years of hell began. It was not until nearly one hundred years in space that the exiled, growing accustomed to their new environment, began to truly develop a complex society of their own, utilizing industrial advancements to build ships and space stations that they would use to explore the galaxy and branch out throughout it.

  “I find it interesting that Earth thinks any of us will come to its rescue,” continued Faust, cracking his knuckles. “We've no investment in it, us space-born folk. We've never set foot on Earth. Most of us have never known fresh water or proper gravity, for that matter. I imagine that their cries for help are falling upon deaf ears.”

  Kanpei's eyes traveled along the grooves in the worn metallic floors. “It seems that you're listening, at least.”

  Faust glowered. “Don't be--”

  “T-there's another dispatch,” interrupted Kanpei. “I thought to show it to you; it's from the Prime Minister of Neo-Eurasia himself.”

  “There's been another, has there? From Kessler this time?” Faust arched a brow and stood. His black hair spilled almost to shoulder length, obscuring his face somewhat as he stepped forward and took hold of the mobile. His cheeks had grown somewhat gaunt as of recent, and were marked in dense stubble, which only served to further define his powerful jaw. He cast his cold gaze upon Kanpei once more before switching on the unit, the greyish-blue of his eyes piercing, even in the darkened chamber. “Kessler's begging for help, is he? Oh, Kanpei, you know how I love watching those in a position of privilege grovel. Let's hear him make his case.”

  The screen lit up and the transmission began. Faust paced about slowly, a smile spreading across his lips as he watched. A slight, wrinkled man with silvery hair appeared on the holographic display, his eyes heavy with apparent distress and his feeble lips quivering. He began with a weary sigh:

  Greetings. I am Prime Minister Kessler of Neo-Eurasia on Earth. I seek to make contact with any in space who care to listen. It is not often that our peoples interact, however the Earth, a planet of great significance to us both, is under attack by an ominous new foe.

  Faust chuckled, leaning against the wall. “A planet of great significance? To me? My fathers knew it, once. But to me, it is nothing.”

  The transmission continued, showing a brutal recording of an alien attack. Small, black starfighters rained hellfire on buildings, reducing them to simmering piles of rubble.

  Just one day ago, an enemy from outside our world somehow bypassed the Solar Reef-- the boundary erected to keep Earth insulated against threats from space-- and decimated a massive city. The loss of life has been catastrophic, and though the attack has subsided, there is no telling when the invaders will return to wreak more havoc. We are powerless to combat them and we do not know their reasons for attacking. We are a peaceful people here on Earth and have no weapons with which to repel them. Diplomacy has failed us as well; our messages to them, if the monsters can even comprehend them, go ignored. We have met the beasts, queer things that they are, in the flesh. They seem interested in our planet, but to approach them, even peaceably, is certain death. It is for this reason that we call out to you, our brothers in space...

  Faust gritted his teeth and continued to pace. He peered up at Kanpei, who waited quietly near the entrance of the room. “What do you make of this?” he asked expectantly.

  Most space-born would laugh at the notion of helping the privileged people of Earth, the ones who had forced them into space three-hundred years prior. And yet, though he felt no closeness to the planet or its people, he still felt sadness at the news of such horrific bloodshed. Such sights as were included with the transmission provoked a strong reaction in him that no deep-seated grudge could restrain. And Kanpei suspected that the Captain, too, felt the same, despite his practiced facade of disdain and casualness.

  The dispatch wrapped up shortly thereafter, and Kessler's voice grew shakier as he finished. Though cosmic interference had degraded the integrity of the image very slightly, tears could be seen brimming at the corners of his old, tired eyes:

  We will pay a considerable sum to any who assist us. They are strange creatures from some far-flung world, totally unlike humanity in appearance and behavior. Their weapons are advanced and devastating. Beyond this, we know precious little about them. They seem to have come from the very edge of our galaxy from deep in interstellar space, and they attacked us without warning. Our greatest defense has proven useless in the face of this threat and billions of lives now hang in the balance. In the spirit of humanitarianism, I beg of you: Please help us vanquish this insidious force. Respond to this dispatch as soon as you are able!

  The recording came to an end and the mobile unit powered down, leaving the room eerily dark once more. Faust stood with his back to Kanpei, silent. Then, sniffing the air, he dropped the unit to the floor and buried the heel of his boot in the screen, smashing it to pieces. He threw his head back and loosed a great, terrible laugh.

  Kanpei looked on nervously. “Sir?” When frustrated, the Captain was known to lash out. Better that he smash the device to pieces than take his frustrations out on me…

  Faust ran a hand through his hair and leaned back, laughing harder still. Wiping tears of laughter from his face, he gasped, “The Earthlings once ousted my fathers, Kanpei. And yours, too. They sent them into cold, dead space for their rowdiness. And now, after three centuries of suffering, my people are expected to answer their call?” He turned and faced the Quartermaster, his expression quickly draining of amusement. “Do you not see the humor in it?”

  “So, I take it this means you won't be helping them?” asked Kanpei quietly.

  Faust drew in a deep breath and stood rigidly, his towering form outlined in the yellow light. “I am not in a giving vein this day,” he snarled, kicking the busted mobile across the floor. “Why should I bother to help them? Give me one good reason.”

  “Do you think that Earth will be the only target? That these things will simply turn a blind eye to the rest of space?” asked Kanpei, stepping forward. “It won’t end here, Captain. If we don’t help them now - “

  The Captain massaged the bridge of his nose. “What would you have me do? I see your point, but is Methuselah to meet the challenge alone? And the crew - there are at least a handful who are bound to protest. Perhaps violently.”

  “What seems more dangerous to you, sir? A few angry sailors or a new, violent species settling on Earth?” Kanpei’s face was flush with annoyance. “At least you can offer the crew some sort of prize for their cooperation - some sort of monetary reward. The Aliens? I doubt Earth will have much luck getting them to budge with a bribe.” He cleared his throat. “At any rate, any decision is better than this damned indecision of yours. And don’t act like that horrific footage isn’t upsetting to you, either. They may be Earthlings, but--”

  Faust threw his hand up to interrupt the Quartermaster. “Leave me, Kanpei. I'll be out when I've had time to think this through further.” He shook his head, chuckling dryly. “Ordinarily I find your counsel insightful, but today your lectures have proven most grating.”

  You know I’m right, damn it. I can see it in your eye, thought Kanpei. With a nod, he turned and left, closing the door to the Captain's quarters behind him and leaving Faust standing at the center of the room, scowling. A mutiny or a potential alien invasion of the galaxy. Your choice, Captain.

  ***

  A number of the crew were now assembled on the bridge. Chattering amongst themselves in hushed tones, they quieted down as soon as they saw Kanpei emerge from Faust's quarters. Each of them wore an expression of curiosity, and Kanpei didn't have to say a word to know precis
ely what was on their minds. “You're all curious to know what the Captain has planned, yes?” he said, approaching the command chair and shooing them all away like flies. What could he tell them? That the Captain had thrown a fit and was now brooding in his quarters? “Well, the Captain hasn't come to a decision yet, so take your gossip elsewhere. You'll find no answers with me.”

  Some of the assembled crew sauntered off, while a few lingered behind. Among them were Bosun Barnaby Jones and the ship's chief mechanic, Cleo Stewart. Present also was the cabin boy, Gene Disalvo. The three stood near the command chair, eager to press Kanpei for answers, despite his claims of ignorance.

  “We've received, what, five... perhaps six dispatches today?” began the Bosun, his hands behind his back. “I expect that the Captain has watched them all, no? I find it hard to believe that he hasn't an opinion on them. Come, Mr. Kanpei. Tell us what you know of the Captain's mind.”

  “I heard that Earth is in trouble,” chimed in the cabin boy. He was a young man, very nearly sixteen years, and perhaps too enthusiastic for his own good. He was sandy-haired and lanky, but had an earnest look about him and was always ready to learn. Ordinarily he was the ship's gopher, assisting the crew with their tasks and learning how to run a ship in the process. Like the others however, he'd gotten caught up in the rumors.

  Kanpei frowned and dropped down into the command chair, rubbing at his forehead with his palms. “There is nothing to tell. When the Captain has made up his mind, I'm sure he'll make an announcement.”

  “Well, what of this most recent dispatch?” continued Barnaby. He was an older man, somewhat bent and fragile-looking, though his cloudy eyes carried in them an unmistakable vigor. Despite his advanced age, his mind remained sharp, making him a meticulous book-keeper. He tugged at the collar of his shirt a bit as he paced before the Quartermaster. “You rushed in there in a hurry to show it to him.” Barnaby gave a sly grin, his jagged, yellow teeth glimmering in the fluorescent lighting. “Was it... a particularly juicy bit of footage, that one?”