by Saxon Keeley
POST-TERRA FIRMA
THE FAMILY
SAXON KEELEY
Also by Saxon Keeley
Some Velvet Morning
Blue Light
For Danny,
Thank you for my education in the deepest and darkest recesses of all things ‘nerd’. Without it, I fear life would be taken too seriously and I may have succumbed to the mundane routine of everydayness. Heaven forbid!
POST-TERRA FIRMA
THE FAMILY
POST-TERRA FIRMA
RESONANCE
Book I…From the Dust
THE FAMILY
Book II…Operation Ba’al
Book III…The Family Part I
Book IV…The Family Part II
Book V…Revolt on Maia
RESONANCE
FROM THE DUST
Jotunhiem
The dust is dry. It is swept up by the blustering winds. Inhaling it irritates the back of the throat. Coughing, the lone figure hocks up a combination of dirt and phlegm. Unfazed by the unpleasant mixture residing in his mouth, he waits for the wind to settle before he spits it out onto the ground.
Refusing to take another breath until he is certain he won’t get another mouthful, he zips up his long, black coat, which reaches from just above his knees all the way up to the ridge of his nose. The high collar is tight enough around his face to ensure most of the dirt does not fall through the gaps. The material is tough, protecting his body from the elements.
As another gust of wind howls, more dust is blown into air. In the middle of a thick grey cloud, he uses his arm to shield his face. Squinting, his eyes are open just enough to still see the dim sun light shining through.
Subsiding once again, the lone man looks out into the distance. Along the horizon emerges a small settlement. Low in stature, but large enough to call it a town.
Jotunhiem is littered with small mining colonies. Each isolated from one another. Despite colonies spread throughout the Charted Systems, life on the Outer-Core colonies is pretty much the same wherever. Neighbouring town’s folk are foreign enough for those living on planets such as this. Prospects of ordinary people are defined by a crude economic structure. There are plenty who are unfortunate enough to be born on the wrong rock. Either the planet’s soil is rich in nutrients and the climate is mild enough, so the land is used to farm, or if the soil fails to grow crops, then it is used to mine natural resources. Nothing could ever grow on the barren earth of Jotunhiem. It scarcely rains. This is not a land of plenty. It is a cog in a much larger and systematic machine, under the control of the Loyalists. So long as they provide metals, the Loyalist governments will provide them with water and food.
The man wanders into the outskirts of the town. Amongst the grey, characterless buildings, an almost silent humming can be heard from underfoot. Just below the ground are machines busy at work, separating and cleaning the ore from the mines.
Children play in the dust that has been swept into town. Women and men wrap scrap cloth and scarfs around their faces for protection. Compared to their rags, the lone wanderer seems well dressed. Something alien to the base needs of the colonists. Every one of them has a well-built physique, muscle carved from a lifetime of work in the mines. A sooty grime covers them, as if it were a proud second skin.
Walking further into the centre of town, more people stop what they are doing to stare at the stranger.
Momentarily the planet is shrouded in darkness as one of Jotunhiem’s moons eclipses the sun. Everything grey disappears. The white of the miner’s eyes shine through the dark. Not concerned by the attention he is drawing; the man looks around for someone to ask for directions. Under a makeshift porch, an old man on the verge of sleeping rocks back and forth on his chair.
“Ni hao,” said the wanderer perfectly.
“No one out here speaks none of that Chinese son. Relax, just say ‘Hello’ for heaven’s sake,” interrupted the old miner.
The wrinkles of the old man are deep. His hands grip to the arms of his rocking chair, but are stiff and numb, lacking any real strength.
“Hello,” replied the stranger.
“That’s better,” said the old man with a smile across his face. “What can I do for you?”
“I think I’m lost…”
“Lost? Ain’t any wonder, dressed like that. Don’t tell, me you came in from the dust? No one coming in from the dust is ever good news,” explained the old miner.
The stranger smiles from behind his coat.
“I’m supposed to be meeting someone. They said to head to The Cackler. Not even sure if I’m on the right side of the planet,” he admitted.
The people closely watch the interaction with the stranger.
The old man chuckles. “Well, you’re in the right place. Down the block, and head right. You’ll end up on Main Street, or what we call Main Street. Just behind the Supply Station, you can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” said the stranger, then walks off down the street.
“Now don’t be causing no trouble, you hear?” called out the old man before he is completely out of earshot.
Either the words of warning were lost to the wind or fell on deaf ears.
Just as the old man said, down on Main Street and behind the Supply Station. You can’t miss it. The stranger looks at the makeshift sign hanging above the entrance. Rusted scrap metal that has been lovingly crafted. Back lit, a dull light barely penetrates through the grey of the planet, unlike the smell of cheap stale alcohol.
Excitement and hesitation washes over the wandering man. A moment of lost composure overwhelms his thoughts. He holds his hand out towards the door handle. He breaths in a deeply. Holds his breath for five seconds and exhales slowly. Again, another five seconds.
“One drink, until he gets here,” he muttered to himself under his breath.
With that he pushes open the door and quickly closes the it behind him so to keep out the dust. As he unzips his coat he notices the bar has fallen quiet. The men and women of the bar all turn to check out the stranger.
Behind the bar stands the owner and a waitress. The owner looks as well built as any of the miners, but the definition of his muscle is different. Less mass around his arms, instead his build is more evenly dispersed. Burns and scars scatter the owners skin. On his right arm is a tattoo of an old insignia from the war. Though the stranger cannot place the exact regiment of the insignia, he knows it did not belong to the same side he once fought for.
To break the tension in the bar, the owner nudges the waitress with his elbow, gently pushing her towards the bar.
“Hey ya, what you are having?” called out the waitress.
She is young, clean skin, hair that glows, physically dainty, but she has the same strong Scandinavian features as the rest of the people of the colony.
Her nails are clean, notices the stranger as he approaches the bar and takes a seat on one of the stools. Her perfume is sweet, floral and cheap. Her smile puts her out of place. It doesn’t seem like she’s ever done a hard day’s work in her life, unlike the rest of the colonists.
“I’ll have a scotch,” he said while nodding to what looks to be the fullest and most expensive bottle on the shelf, pleasantly surprised to see a drink like that in a place such as this.
“Er…You sure about that Mr?” she questioned, looking back behind her at the bottle she has never once poured a glass of. “Shall I check the price for you? It could be quite expensive.”
The stranger reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out a real brown leather wallet. She watches bemused at the sight of the authentic material. Out from the wallet he finds out an emerald card. The card glimmers in the light of the bar. On each side is the Chinese symbol for ‘family’.
“I’m sure thi
s will cover it,” he smiled arrogantly.
“Oh,” remarked the waitress, not quite sure what the card is, questioning if she should be wary of the stranger or comforted.
Once the payment is taken, she hands back the card and lays out a glass in front of him. The smell of a smoky whiskey hits the stranger’s nostrils. The waitress is generous on the serving. Just as he puts the glass to his lips, someone takes a seat on the stool next to him.
“Hey Freya, can I get another one. Cheers doll,” demanded the miner in a raspy voice.
The stranger sips his drink, ignoring the presence of the man sitting next to him.
“You know,” said the miner to the stranger, “you look familiar. Don’t I know you?”
The stranger takes a second from his drink and looks the miner up and down. He then looks him straight in the eye, indifferently he turns back forwards.
“I think your mistaken. Never met you in my life.”
“Nah, nah,” protested the miner, “I know you. I’ve seen your face somewhere before. Where have I seen you before?”
He begins scratching his cheek. The bristles of his stubble being ran over by the rough skin of his fingers make the sound of a match being slowly struck. Flecks of dry skin sprinkle the bar. Then, in a moment of clarity his face lights up. He leans in closer to the stranger, a waft of sour ale following him. Physically repulsed, the wanderer tips his head away and straightens up to the drunk miner.
“I knew I recognised you. You’re that big hero guy? Aren’t you,” the miner said with a bitter resentment in his voice. “You’re Daniel Hayward.”
Daniel nods to himself, before turning back to his drink.
“I think you have the wrong guy. That ain’t me,” said Daniel.
The miner places a hand on Daniel’s shoulder, holding him in place.
“Yeah, that’s you. You killed a lot of people in the war. They called you a hero. Your face was all over the news when Nibiru fell. You’ve got one of those faces…hard to forget. I don’t know, maybe it’s because you killed a lot of people that day. I don’t think there is a single man or woman in this here establishment that didn’t lose someone because of you. Daniel Hayward…The Family’s dog. How does it feel? Scurrying around with the rest of us.”
He shakes the miners hand off from his shoulder with little effort. With a single glance, Daniel looks at the miner as if he were nothing.
“I wouldn’t know.”
The miner, shaken by the response takes his pint and begins to down the drink. Breathing deeper and more frantically through his nostrils, the ale begins to spill from the glass and runs down his chin. All the while the miner glares at Daniel, who pretends not to see him. Once finished, the miner slams the glass onto the bar. His hand still tightly gripping it.
“Look around you,” yelled the miner with a gargle in the back of his throat, “this place is hell! Dust covers our clothes, it’s beneath out nails, gathers in our hair. It is in our lungs. Killing the weak, old and young. If they don’t die because of the dust, then they’ll die down in the mines. We brake our backs working so that we can have just enough to survive. None of us fought to keep this. We fought because if we didn’t, even this ball of dirt would have been taken from us. Seven years and you have the nerve to look down on us. Your nothing but murdering scum.”
The bar falls silent. Everyone watching the couple. Daniel notices the look on people’s faces. Looks of anger, despair and a deep sadness. He can feel the tension in the bar. He closes his eyes and counts in his head.
One. Two. Three. Four…
This was supposed to be an easy job, Daniel thinks to himself.
Five. Six…
Daniel reclaims his composure. He limbers up by rolling his head from left to right. When he opens his eyes, he smiles at the miner. The grin across his face looks almost harmless.
“I just wanted to come in, take the weight off my feet and have a nice quiet drink. Here, let me buy you one of these. It’s good stuff, from Earth no doubt,” said Daniel, waving his whiskey about.
“Fuck you,” screamed the miner.
Glass in hand, he throws his fist wildly towards Daniel’s face. As if Daniel had rehearsed the scene before, both of his hands automatically raise to block the strike. The sound of glass shattering and a desperate scream of pain fills the bar.
Guarded by his coat, none of the pieces of glass penetrate the material, leaving him completely unharmed. He lowers his arms to finds the miner holding his hand, blood dripping on the floor.
Daniel approaches the emotional miner. Before he can offer help, he feels a stool brake against his back.
Stumbling forwards a few paces, Daniel turns and looks at the man behind him, gormlessly standing there with the broken stool legs. The man looks back and forth between Daniel and the legs, shocked that all that force had only set Daniel momentarily off balance. Once again, he raises what’s left of the stool above his head, ready to take another swing.
Lightening quick, Daniel rushes in towards the man and plunges his fist under his ribs. Before he can even react, Daniel straightens up and throws another punch directly at his face. With the power behind the punch, the miner loses the strength in his legs and his face is lunched towards the bar. His head bounces off and a bloody print is left on the side.
At this point Daniel notices Freya’s screams, but pays little care as he turns to the miner’s friends who leap up from their seats to join the fight.
Each of them have a smirk across their face as they surround him. Slowly each of their nerves are shaken when they realise Daniel is smiling too. Breaking the standoff, one of the miners jolts forward only to be interrupted by the sound of a gunshot.
The men look at the end of the bar to find the owner holding a shotgun aimed at the ceiling. The barrel still smoking. As he lowers his aim, holding it steady waist high, the miners step back, returning to their seats.
“Everyone back down. Take a seat. The next round is on the house,” he instructed to the pleasure of all the patrons. The owner then aims the gun towards Daniel. “You. Come with me.”
Without arguing, Daniel walks towards the owner, ignoring the glaring eyes of the bar. The owner gestures to the door with an exit sign hung above it. Daniel opens it and glances back at the two he just had an encounter with. He nods gently to himself when he sees the miner picking himself up from the floor, blood still trickling down the side of his face.
“Freya, get the medical kit from behind the bar. I’ll be back in a minute,” instructed the owner further.
Stepping out into the backstreet, dust covers the pavement and once again he is met with the greyness of Jotunhiem. Behind him the owner waits in the doorway.
“What are you doing here?” asked the owner with a commanding tone.
“I’m here to see a guy called Loge. He has a job for me,” he explained honestly.
“You’ll find him in the underpasses of the town, if you’ve reached the smelting works, you’ve gone too far. You can find an entrance to the underpass just down there,” said the owner while pointing to the end of the backstreet.
“I’m sure I can find it,” Daniel thanked the owner as he begins walking off. After a few steps, Daniel turns back around and inspects his tattoo once more. “Why let me go?”
The owner mulls over his response for a few seconds.
“The war is over. I just want to be left alone and live out the rest of my days in peace.”
“Peace?” questioned Daniel.
The owner chuckles as he returns to the bar.
*
Below the streets of the colony, the sound of heavy machinery and materials clanking against one another is deafening. The metallic roar echoes throughout the narrow underpass, an interconnecting maze that runs under the whole settlement. Daniel begins to question how any of the colonists manage to get a decent night’s sleep with all this noise just underneath them.
The walls are cold blackened steel, the floor is covered with a thin ca
rpeting layer of dust. Even in the underbelly of the colony, dust can be found. Dark, humid and it smells faintly of sewage.
Despite the conditions, it is far from being devoid of life. Venturing farther in he finds a small community of refugees living under the surface. Whole corridors and kicked in ventilation shafts have been sectioned off to establish living quarters. Old women slave over boiling pots of grey liquid. Sickly children run around playing chase, wheezing as they try to escape one another. Mothers stitch together old clothes. The lack of men hardly surprises Daniel.
Quarantined corridors house the bedridden. Coughing and spluttering colonists are tended to by the unqualified but caring. Dirty moist towels are used to dab the sick. The precious water is shared out sparingly. Those who have little time left are prayed for. A far too common sight.
Daniel makes his way through the community enquiring after Loge, every time receiving general directions to his apparent location.
Finally, Daniel turns a corner and is greeted with the scene of a man comforting a dying child. Loge stands out from the rest of the people with his fiery red beard and hair. He gently replaces the damp cloth over the boy’s forehead, soothing the boy in a language Daniel does not know. He rinses the old cloth into a metal pan. A grey milky substance is squeezed out. The mother of the boy weeps.
Loge looks up to find Daniel watching him. As if snapping out of one role and into another, Loge grins and welcomes him.
“My friend, it has been a while. One year if I’m correct,” Loge said while embracing Daniel.
Daniel barely moves, uncertain about the display of overfamiliarity.
“This is miserable,” said Daniel into Loge’s ear. “Who are these people?”
