by Saxon Keeley
Left in the middle of the street are a set of marbles. No one there to play with them. Static. Frozen in time. Waiting for the next move to be made.
*
Daniel kicks open the door to the maintenance storage room. But no one is there. Nothing is there. All Loge’s comforts, supplies and resources are gone. Daniel stares at an empty room. All that remains are the upturned metal tub and an unopened bottle of whiskey. Taking the bottle, Daniel exits the room and wanders up to the surface.
Walking into The Clacker, he is met with angry and fearful faces. One of the miners in the bar has his hand wrapped in bandages.
Sitting alone at the bar is the old man who he first spoke to upon arriving at the colony. Ignoring the tension in the room, Daniel takes a seat next to him. Freya smiles uneasily at Daniel. He orders a shot of the expensive whiskey.
“Don’t suppose you could extended a favour to an old man, could you?” asked the miner.
“Sure, don’t see the harm,” Daniel replied. He looks behind and catches the glares from the group he had a run in with. “Hey, could I just buy the bottle? And can I get six glasses with that?”
“There you are honey,” said Freya as she places the bottle and six glasses out in front of him.
Daniel pours himself and the old man a generous measure, then carries the rest over to the table of miners. He lays out the glasses and places down the bottle.
“No hard feelings about the other night,” said Daniel.
They grumble under their breath, but accept the token of apology nevertheless.
At the bar, the old man swirls the liquid around until the whole glass has a thin coat of whiskey. Taking his time, he places it under his nose and gently inhales. The warmth of the aroma makes the old man groan in satisfaction.
“Heard you caused trouble,” the old man japed.
“Well you know what they say about men who come in from the dust,” Daniel said back in the same manner. “It seems like there is enough trouble without my being here. Jotunhiem is going through hard times.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“I guess.”
“We do the best we can for people. Hope that if it happens to us, people would do their best in return. In times like these, it’s important to retain our humanity. Isn’t that all we can ask for?”
“I assume Loge skipped town?” Daniel asked, ignoring the old man’s comment.
“You mean the red-haired fellow? Yeah, he comes and goes. Never too sure when to expect him next,” said the old man.
“I’d expect you’ll be seeing him sooner rather than later this time,” he explained.
With one large gulp Daniel finishes his drink. From his wallet, he pulls out the emerald card and places it besides the old man on the bar. “Here.”
“What is this?”
“Think of it as a back-door key to The Family’s treasury. If you’re careful enough, you’ll never get caught. I haven’t yet.”
The old man stares at him shocked. “How could you just give something like this away?”
“I’m not giving it away,” said Daniel. “I’ll be back for it. Besides, favours tend to be worth more than money these days, so don’t consider this as a free loan. Just make sure those people down there are well fed.”
“Who would even accept these credits?” questioned the old man.
“Smugglers, black markets. The only ones you can trust to be honest when it comes to money. There are a few large neighbouring settlements that’ll have what you need. They’re not hard to find either. I expect most the younger people around here trade a few things here and there when they make shipments. They’ll know,” explained Daniel.
He jumps off his stool and just as he is about to leave, taps his fist on the bar, remembering there is one last thing he must do.
“By the way. There were three children who survived the Purge of the Golden Ring. Water is running low and I doubt they can hold out for much longer,” Daniel informed the old man.
“Consider it done,” the old man smiled.
And with that Daniel walks out of the bar, though the grey streets of the colony and back into the dust in which he came.
*
Almost buried by the dust sits the Mazu, a small craft which Daniel has learnt to call home. Four wings protrude from its body, the span unnecessarily long for the boat and the front wings inverted. What seems like two blades extend far out beyond the nose. The cockpit’s shutters are down protecting the glass from being scratched. None of the edges are smooth or perfectly curved, almost everything about the boat seems to defy aerodynamics and yet in the hands of Pilot it manoeuvres unlike any other dual craft. On Jotunhiem the black of the Mazu contrasts with the dust, but in the depth of space it disappears completely.
Climbing the docking door at the back, Daniel is met by Yuri in the airlock. The young man is blessed with unusually rugged hansom Slavic features. His hair shaved, his cheeks still youthfully smooth. Yuri holds out a clear bag with an air seal along the top.
“Pilot said you have to strip down and place your clothes in the bag,” Yuri relayed the message.
Daniel laughs and begins to take off his coat. “Nice to see you too.”
“Don’t complain, unless you want to clean out clogged up machinery…Captain,” said Pilot over the intercom.
“I promise I won’t look,” joked Yuri.
Dressing down to his underwear Daniel places each item of clothing in the bag. Once it is sealed, the airlock opens and the two step inside the Mazu.
Running down the centre is a tight dark, metallic corridor leading to a living space at the front of the craft. The interior is clean and well-kept despite the boat showing its age. History has stained the surfaces with deep dark red splashes. Patterns can be identified, depicting abstract stories of events that long preceded Daniel and his crew. The limited lighting coming from the floor and ceiling is enough for people to navigate where they are going, but offers little else. On each side of the corridor are three compartments. The doors look heavy, but slide open effortlessly.
Yuri turns to the first compartment on his right. “I will give these to Ben to clean up for you.”
Thanking him with a nod, Daniel continues to the next compartment on the right. Entering his quarters, he throws off his underwear and turns on the shower. Knowing that water is a limited commodity since the purifier busted, he steps in before it’s had a chance to warm up. Scrubbing hard, he gets the dust out from every crevice.
A game of Chaupar between Ben and Pilot is put on hold as their captain joins them in the living quarters.
With only three years’ difference between her and Daniel, Pilot’s experience of the war was similar as they both served in the last few years of the conflict. South Asian, Pilot always wears her long dark hair up and is more comfortable in her old pilot’s uniform than in civvies.
Ben on the other hand has started to go grey. Wrinkles define his mahogany face. From his neck down, scars cover his body. Scars not to dissimilar from the young children in the Golden Ring.
Taking a seat at the table, Daniel waits for Yuri to finish brewing the tea.
“You look tired,” said Ben.
“Nothing that a good cup of tea won’t fix,” Yuri called out from across the room.
“Did you make contact with Loge?” asked Pilot.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“Did we get paid?” asked Yuri as he brings over the pot of tea. He pours everyone a cup before taking a seat.
“Not yet.”
“Oh,” remarked Pilot.
“Are we getting paid?” joked Ben.
“The job is not quite done yet. Loge said we can pick up our payment at the same time we deliver the goods,” explained Daniel. Tasting his tea, he smiles. “That is damn fine.”
“It is only the dried-out leaves from the last pot…and the pot before that,” said Yuri confused.
“He’s pulling your leg kid,” said Ben. He takes a sip
of his own and shudders at the foul tasteless liquid.
The four of them sit in silence as they drink. The bright and vibrant colours of the living quarters make the boat seem more homily. Blankets and silks that they have acquired over the years cover the seats and are pinned to the hull. Each decorated with a different Chinese, Indian or Arabic patterns.
“Where are we headed off to then?” asked Pilot.
“Neo-Shanxi.”
His crew are shocked. Yuri chokes on his tea, thumping his fist against his chest. Each of them turn to look at one another, hoping that someone else will challenge their captain.
“We are not that desperate. The old girl has more in her than we’re giving her credit. Let’s hold off the repairs. There is bound to be someone in the Charted Systems that can have a look at her,” protested Ben.
Daniel glances over at Pilot. “You know as well as I do that we don’t have many options left. If we turn this down we run the risk of getting left a drift.”
As dangerous as Neo-Shanxi is, she knows the captain is right. The Mazu is not your run of the mill spacecraft. Few people know of its existence, even fewer could ever hope to understand it’s design. Parts, along with able mechanics, are rare. Placing her cup on the table, she tightens the straps around her gloves.
“Buckle up,” she sighed.
Pilot leaves the table and climbs the ladder to the cockpit. Yuri rushes to pack away the teapot and cups. He pours away the dregs of the tea and is a little dismayed to be throwing away the leaves too. Ben gathers up the pieces of the game and puts them neatly away in the draw underneath the table, making a mental note of Pilot’s strategy.
With everything securely locked away, Ben and Yuri re-join Daniel and strap themselves in. Over the intercom, Pilot confirms everyone is ready.
Once satisfied she flips the switch and the Mazu begins to hum. The boat shakes as it lifts off the ground.
One last time Pilot confirms their destination.
“Captain?”
“Neo-Shanxi.”
THE FAMILY
OPERATION BA’AL
Earth
Magpie
The rain has left an acidic taste in the back of her throat. Though the night is bitter, it has been a long time since she has felt the cold. Above New York City, the sky is stained with a pale pea green tinge. The lights of the city twinkle. Up on the rooftops, there is a calming silence.
A scar forms a crater in her cheek, it is one of countless many wounds that she has collected in her long years of service. Her hood flaps in the wind. Through the scope of her rife she watches the silhouetted figure in the hotel room across the road.
“Do you see him?” asked Wolf in her ear.
Magpie lets the trigger go and presses the communication piece closer to her ear.
“Affirmative, awaiting further orders,” she replied, her French accent makes such a cold response seem somehow poetic.
Under the rain mac she hides her identity. On her chest, an emblem with the letters S.E.L. Few people have ever heard of the division. Even fewer know it’s purpose.
“What is he doing?” asked Wolf.
Magpie watches the man through the scope carefully. Mesmerised, she follows the figure as he paces up and down the room.
In the wind, she is sure she can hear strings of an ancient musical instrument being plucked. Each note played sounds as it were fighting against a typhoon just to be heard. She beings to fill lightheaded. Her finger returns to the trigger.
Thoughts rush through her mind, it would take nothing more than a second of defiance and she could end it all here and now. Visions blind her slight. Images so lucid they seem more than mere imagination or dream. Red and gold liquids unveil a past yet unlived.
A man stands naked surrounded by flames. Crawling along his skin is a dragon. The breath of fire from the creature scorches the man’s face, obscuring his beauty. As he burns away, all that remains are three stars slowly colliding with one another, tearing each other apart from the strength of their gravitational pull. The destruction of the stars stokes the fire. Shapes flicker in the flames, as if ghosts were devouring spiders and snakes. From the ashes of the man, twin dragons arise, intertwined with one another, they grasp at the suns as they ascend. The chaos is held in the palm of a hooded girl. She closes her fist and the smell of cinders fills Magpie’s nostrils.
“Do you read me?” asked Wolf again.
“Nothing,” Magpie snapped.
“Stand down. Operation Ba’al is a no go. A helicopter has been sent to pick you up.”
“Understood.”
A second of defiance, for a future of security. Terror to prevent terror. Committed to the contradiction. The words of S.E.L. Tactics used to end the war twenty-seven years ago. Ideals used to prevent further unrest. Actions lost because of cowardly governments.
Charles Jung
The audience whispers while the show is off air for yet another round of commercial breaks. Spotlights shine down on the centre stage, hiding the rest of the studio. Only gloomy figures can be made out in the background by the people watching at home. It feels as if it is a modern-day colosseum.
Makeup are touching up the host, a pale woman with beautiful western features. Once a small-time news reporter that used to do the fluff stories, now a major chat show host. She is playing very little mind to Charles who sits patiently for this all to be over.
Charles straightens his thick rimmed glasses and lets out a deep sigh.
Charles could be described as an unassuming man to those who don’t know him. His blonde slicked back hair gives him a serious and yet unthreatening appearance. Due to his mother’s influence, he is always dressed impeccably. Clean shaven and flawless skin, Charles’ European heritage gives him defined handsome features.
All the chatter ends abruptly. The makeup artist quickly scurries off and around the studio camera men perk up. The hostess flicks her hair over her shoulders and sits back in the chair. Over the ear piece the producers give them the green light.
“Welcome back to all of you at home. Our next guest on the show is Dr Charles Jung. He is one of the greatest scientific minds of the century having solved the problem of terraforming at the age of twenty-one. I don’t know about you guys, but I was up to all sorts of no good at twenty-one, not solving scientific quandaries. It is a pleasure to have you on the show. So, Charles, explain to the viewers at home a little bit about the history of terraforming and the myth of the ‘Mars Question’,” asked the hostess after an enthusiastic introduction.
Charles’ eyes light up and in a perfectly composed temperament he begins to explain.
“Fifty years before the war, humankind was exploring the farthest reaches of our solar system. With major advancements made in space travel, for the first time in our history we could send manned voyages to study the most distant planets in our system. Our knowledge and understanding flourished, answering and opening questions about the mysteries of the universe. Once we reached the edge of our sun’s immediate gravitational influence, scientists and pioneers began look to the stars beyond. That’s when we began to experiment with Electromagnetic Relays, or EMRs if you will. Using electromagnetic technology to accelerate projectiles to enormous speeds, this allows for great distances between our solar system and other systems to be traversed within minimal time.”
“So, light speed?” the hostess interrupted.
“Something like that,” chuckled Charles. “The problem then arose; how do we stop the projectile once it reaches its destination? That’s where Electromagnetic Nets come in, otherwise known as EMNs. These series of nets would gradually slow down the projectile until the final net which would bring the projectile to its original speed when entering the EMR. This allows travel between systems to happen with relative ease. These journeys between systems were dubbed ‘trajectory shots’, pilots would have to be constantly vigilant long the predicted line of trajectory, adjusting the craft mere points of degrees so not to miss the EMN target
.”
‘’So, what has this got to do with terraforming?” interrupted the hostess again.
“The original mission was to scout twenty planets that existed within the inhabitable zone with the aim to mediate their atmospheres so that we could eventually colonize them. This was based on numerous expert’s research of Mars. Mars once had an atmosphere and with the confirmation that there was frozen water beneath the planet’s surface and even the discovery of fungi, many then considered Mars a potentially viable planet. Attempts to jumpstart the planet’s atmosphere was underway, however, limited success was ever made with Mars. That was until Professor Neil Harrison.
“Harrison took the lead in the field of terraforming and his research on Mars was deemed highly promising. Despite never succeeding in terraforming our neighbour, his research was duplicated on each of the twenty planets. Nine of which were successful. These planets became known as the ‘First Nine’. The atmospheres were unstable and change was slow and arduous. Regardless, after the war the USA government insisted in colonizing the planets, endangering all those lives who were sent out there.
“During this time, I was a student at Oxford, my professor, none other than Harrison himself. He was a boastful man, littering his lectures with personal anecdotes of his time on Mars. What never sat well with me was that he was enjoying the riches of his research in a lecture hall down here on Earth, while his research and engineering teams where off planet trying to keep afloat a sinking ship.”
“I sense some bad blood here Dr Jung,” the hostess perked up, leading forward in her chair. “Please, do go on.”
“As a student of his, I had direct access to his research. Very quickly I began to unravel its flaws. Ultimately, it was nonsense to assume terraforming would lead to homogenised environments and the fact that Mars was a failure meant his whole premise was fundamentally wrong. My behaviour as his student became increasingly hostile and more and more of my fellow cohort began questioning his research. Before I could submit my thesis, Harrison had arranged my expulsion from the university.”
