Paws and Planets

by Candy Rae

  Camilla watched her diet carefully, anxious to keep herself attractively thin. She often yearned for a metabolism like Gerry’s.

  “Must get it defensible,” she said half to herself.

  Gerry heard her.

  “Won’t take long,” was his answer. “I wasn’t kidding when I said it was perfect. The rocks and ridges go almost the whole way round. We just need to fill in the gaps. We can hold out forever there.”

  Camilla admired his confidence but was wary of such sentiments.

  “We’re still heavily outnumbered,” she cautioned.

  “But it can be defended,” argued Gerry. “Nowhere else we’ve looked at is even remotely suitable. If there was water they were not defensible and that high plateau we investigated was as dry as a bone. The mechanics are saying that the vehicles can’t go much further anyway. They’re having the devil of a job keeping them going in this sand and dry heat. The fine sand gets everywhere. The engines keep clogging up.” Patting his sturdy mare, he added, “give me a horse any time.”

  Camilla knew this, the vehicle batteries were recharging, it was the engine mechanisms that were letting them down. This last day had seen more breakdowns than all the previous days put together. She had to make the decision, now.

  The price of command, she thought dryly, but this is what I’ve been waiting for all my life. Didn’t think it would be like this though. Her dilemma was that she wanted to get as far away from the ship as possible and knew they were still too close to the river and the trail the prisoners would follow. But they might not find anywhere else as good as the spot Gerry and his scouts had found. If she decided that they must go on and then the trucks stopped altogether they might find themselves in some forsaken spot where they could be easily overrun. At least if they stopped here they had the choice of ground from where to make a stand. The nightmare of being run down in the open filled her with dire dread.

  Perhaps the prisoners will give up and not come after us; perhaps they will follow the false trail south. She stood in front of Gerry, lost in thought.

  “Perhaps we can beat them off. We certainly can’t settle anywhere not knowing where the convicts are and what they are planning,” she said at last, “and I want the chance to try. The lecturers at the Space Academy did say that a defender was in a position of strength, but I’m sure they weren’t thinking about a scant seven hundred adults holding off twenty thousand!”

  As she weighed up the pros and cons, Gerry waited.

  “All right then,” she said at last, looking him in the eye. “We’ll do it, let’s get started.”

  Gerry let out a whoop and the grey mare lifted her head restlessly, her ears flattened against her head. Why was her beloved master making such a noise? She was cold and hungry and wanted her nosebag, so she nudged him with impatience, stamping her right hoof on the hard dusty soil. With a smile and a pat, Gerry led her away for her well-earned rub-down, rest and food.

  * * * * *

  The following day, as the families were starting their climb towards what was already being called ‘the Fort’, the prisoners were approaching the river environs. They came across the truck abandoned by the escapees and Murdoch insisted that it be got going again. His men fell to this task with a will with improvised shovels mattocks and within a short time it was up and over the sand dune. It started first time. The members of Murdoch’s inner circle travelled in style over the last miles.

  “They’ve been here,” said Smith as he parked the truck under some likely looking trees. These were eerily similar to the palm trees on Earth although their foliage was a dusky maroon rather than green. They would provide much needed shade from the sun. The men who had been given a ride spilled out and Murdoch turned to face them.

  “Go find out what way the families have gone. When the rest get here they will obliterate any tracks they might have left.”

  The reports when they returned were as he expected, two sets of tracks, one going north, the other south. Very clever but they wouldn’t fool him! Sure enough, the men he sent south reported that the southern trail petered out after a few miles. They would go north.

  Over nineteen thousand prisoners had elected to follow him, for the time being at least. He assumed that there were many amongst them who were waiting for the right moment in which to stage a coup. They were waiting for him to make a mistake. He would have to make sure he made none and if anyone rebelled against his rule ensure that they were dealt with. Also, Murdoch was not above a bit of bribery and corruption, some were of the opinion that they were going to have the pleasing task of dealing with the guards when they were caught. Others could be bribed with promises of a chance with one of the women.

  Not all of the men were killers like Smith and Murdoch. Although the majority had been transported as a punishment for capital offences, there were other long-term prisoners. There was even a master computer hacker, who had managed, in the halcyon days of his youth to strip the main world coalition bank on Earth of a fair percentage of its assets. There were doctors and dentists, lawyers and farmers and others who had the misfortune (from their point of view) to be caught and punished for their misdeeds, but they were survivors, hard and resilient men who had managed to survive prison life for many years, on Earth, on Moonbase Three and on the ship.

  A few men had elected to stay with the ship at the landing site. Murdoch had agreed with their request, he wanted with him only those who had the guts to follow. He had walked away from the ship without a second thought. He had not however walked away from some other prisoners. Like many criminals, Murdoch had a soft spot for children. Whatever he did to his fellow man (and woman) when they were adult, he would never willingly hurt a child. With access to the ship’s data banks (the security codes had not been difficult to circumvent) he had learnt exactly who had been incarcerated for crimes against children, however minor.

  Those who had in Murdoch’s opinion, committed these more minor crimes, well, he had come up with a simple and effective way of dealing with them. He had sealed them up in the smallest hold on the Electra and left them there to die. With no fresh air being pumped in, suffocation crept up upon them. Unconsciousness came first, then death.

  For those who had used physical or sexual violence on children other more painful punishments were devised, under the direction of Smith. These paedophiles met their deaths in a slow and agonising manner, castration (without anaesthetic) being only the start of their torture and pain before the blessed oblivion of a knife across the throat.

  It had been quite an achievement for Murdoch to get the unanimous agreement to do this from the other block leaders and by agreeing to the killings they had unwittingly established precedent. They had obeyed Murdoch and would do so again.

  The executions had another more devious purpose, they were an object lesson and demonstrated just how vicious Murdoch and his henchmen could be to those they did not like and how future misdemeanours were likely to be punished. Certainly no one would put a hand on a child with the intent to hurt or harass during Murdoch’s tenure.

  So he had a following of some nineteen thousand, perhaps not whole-hearted followers as yet, but followers for all that. Time would tell as to who would survive and prosper in this society in the making.

  That evening, whilst waiting for the other block leaders to arrive for a meeting, Murdoch watched the crowds of men milling around the riverbank. There was much splashing and laughter. They were free at last and the only thought in their minds was of enjoying this newfound freedom. Realisation would hit them later when the last of the food ran out and they had to start providing it for themselves.

  At the meeting the leaders discussed their next move. Murdoch let them talk, it would do no harm, but he had already decided what they were going to do next.

  “We have time,” he interrupted when the conversation seemed to be going round and round in circles and not getting anywhere, “but I don’t want all of us going north to destroy the crew. I don’t want anybody s
lowing us down. We only need those who can keep up and fight at the end of it. The crew won’t stand a chance.” He laughed and the other leaders joined in.

  “They’re in the hills?” asked Baker, leader of Block F, pointing northwards with a grimy hand.

  “Only place,” was Murdoch’s terse reply.

  “How do we get there and more to the point, how do we fill the men’s bellies while we march?” asked Mahler, one of the other block leaders.

  Like the crew and families who had preceded them to the river, they had also noticed the scarcity of large game in the vicinity.

  Cracov, a hard muscular man (undefeated block wrestling champion for the last nine years) and who had appointed himself head of Murdoch’s personal guard, had commented on this fact earlier in the day. “Seen us coming, don’t worry General, they’ll be around somewhere. We saw pictures of what must have been herds of game on the ship remember?” Murdoch had liked being called General by the man. It made him feel and sound important. Cracov was being encouraged to continue using the title.

  “Another reason to get there as soon as possible,” said Murdoch.

  “We follow the river north?”

  Murdoch nodded, “and the trail; you can’t hide the passage of a thousand people.”

  “Need to get more food soon,” reiterated Baker. “Problem is that we don’t know what’s edible and what’s not.”

  “I know how to sort that out.” Murdoch smiled a conspiratorial smile. He lowered his voice and they drew closer the better to hear what he said.

  “The old and the sick,” Murdoch announced in a low voice, “they won’t last long anyway. They are expendable. Test the roots and fruit and whatever else on them. Simple really, if they live then its edible, if not, it doesn’t matter. Least we’ll know.”

  So it was agreed. The rules of this new society were forming without most of them being aware of it.

  Rule one had become survival of the fittest.

  Rule two was the pre-eminence of those clever and strong enough to take charge.

  Rule three was the disposal of the weak and unwanted.

  “We’ll rest here for a few days,” decided Murdoch. “Get organised. We can start the men’s military training. Take care when you choose the men you are taking with you. Make sure they all have a weapon of some sort and enough provisions to last them for at least three days, more if you can manage it.”

  “What about those who will be left behind?”

  Murdoch looked at the man who spoke. It was obvious that this one did not yet fully understand the full import of the new order of things. He shrugged his shoulders, fact was; he didn’t much care.

  What happened next is revealed in the first in the Planet Wolf Series, Wolves and War.

  * * * * *

  EPISODE 6 - MOONS AND WATER

  A conversation Tara Sullivan (Wolves and War, Conflict and Courage) had with her father on the WCCS Argyll, some months before the cosmic storm and an explanation as to why the family decided to join the convoy to Planet Riga.

  Tara’s recollection of the conversation takes place whilst in the emergency decompression cabinet when she is waiting for rescue after the storm.

  As the hours passed, her thoughts began to wander. Tara was too young to remember the planet of her forebears. She herself had been born on the ship, a scant two months into the convoy’s journey. Her parents had told her of what had forced them to sign up for the colony. Her teachers in the ship’s classrooms also taught her the story, but she much preferred the tale when recounted by her father. He made it sound interesting, not merely a difficult and incomprehensibly technical lesson as when taught in class.

  She remembered their conversation.

  “Tara,” he said, “you do understand the effect the Earth’s moon has on the tides back on Earth?”

  “I think so,” Tara replied. “At least, partly. When the moon is full and new, high tides happen.”

  “Yes,” he answered, “and have you heard of Proxigean Spring Tides?”

  “The teachers have told us, but I don’t understand it all.” She continued, a worried expression evident on her earnest young face, “and if I don’t understand it I’ll fail the test tomorrow!”

  Papa was patient. Perhaps when he was twelve he had found the concept hard to understand as well.

  “Right. I’ll explain it again. A Proxigean Spring Tide happens when the moon is closer than usual to the Earth. In the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries this type of tide happened perhaps once every one and a half years. Something happened to the moon at the end of the twenty-first century and the moon’s elliptical path round the Earth changed. Are you with me so far?”

  Tara nodded.

  “A small ten per cent change in the moon’s orbit can cause a twenty-five per cent increase in the abilities of the moon to affect the tides. The result of this change was that these tides increased in frequency over the next two centuries. It is called tidal triggering. By the beginning of this century, these tides were happening over two times a month and some of them were very high indeed. Can you think of what that might do to low-lying lands?”

  Tara thought for a moment before she answered. “Floods?” she ventured and was pleased to see Papa nod.

  “Yes, floods. Now this meant that a lot of land that people lived on became wet and boggy, also they couldn’t grow food on it because it was always flooding. The flooded land also became polluted and large areas were abandoned, especially the Low Countries in Europe and parts of New England in America. The population was increasing and food became scarce. At the same time, the number of volcano eruptions and earthquakes increased.”

  “I know that part, we studied it in history,” Tara interrupted.

  “Yes,” her father replied, “many clever scientists believed that this increase was caused by the bigger tidal stresses on the Earth’s plates. This meant that there was even less land for people to live on. Mummy and I realised that the problem was only going to get worse. Other people realised it as well and some had already left to colonise suitable planets.”

  “So you and Mummy decided to join them?” ventured Tara.

  Papa looked at her. “Yes, we decided to leave and that is why we are on our way to a new planet where there is plenty of land. Do you understand now?”

  Next day, Tara failed the test, but not by very much.

  * * * * *

  EPISODE 7 - DEATH IN SPACE (PART 1)

  At the end of Valour and Victory, the final book in the Planet Wolf Series, the fate of the WCCS Melbourne, one of the original convoy ships which had set out from Earth for Riga was mentioned. This is their story …

  (AL 0)

  The WCCS Melbourne survived the cosmic storm that destroyed the WCCS Oklahoma and sent the WCCS Argyll and the WCPS Electra on their epic journey across the galaxy to the planet that would become known as Rybak.

  Like her sister ships, she sustained damage although as with the WCPS Electra and unlike the WCCS Argyll her livestock, food and water appendage remained intact. Only one of her colony sections sustained irreparable damage with the consequent loss of life.

  However, the blast wave of force and debris sent her spinning into an area of the galaxy containing a plenitude of suns and orbiting planets.

  We join them as the WCCS Melbourne comes to a floating standstill.

  * * * * *

  Captain Wanda Lambert regained consciousness to find herself lying spread-eagled on the floor of her ready cabin which was situated aft of the bridge. Her first thought was of surprise, the second of disorientation. Surprise that she was alive after what had happened; she had a vague recollection of hitting the upper deck when the ship had flipped over. Disorientation because the tiny cabin (really not much more than a sleep-space) looked different than she remembered it, the possessions she kept here were bestrewing the deck and the bed-mattress was tipped on one end and resting against the starboard bulkhead.

  I am alive, was her first thought, t
he second was for her ship and for the crews and passengers. Better see if I can get up. She moved each limb in turn.

  “That’s encouraging,” she said aloud as her arms and legs responded. She sat up. Her head felt woozy and her exploratory fingers encountered a bump the size of an egg on her forehead. That accounted for her bemused state she decided with some effort. Touch of concussion probably. Wonder if I can stand?

  She managed it; eventually, using the bunk-frame for leverage and balancing herself against the bulkhead.

  She staggered over to the console on the unit to the left of where the bunk should have been. The screen was blank but the comms buttons were each and every one flashing so that she knew, even in her present state, that at least some members of her crew were alive and trying to contact her.

  She depressed the first one that her trembling fingers reached.

  “Captain speaking,” her voice was slurred and the words emerging were rather more than a mumble. She tried again. “Captain speaking.” There, that was better.

  The voice at the other end was faint. There were problems with the comms links and the main computers were rerouting the contact via a roundabout route. Some of the connectors were fried, Wanda correctly assumed, they had most certainly been damaged if the row of red warning lights at the top of the console was anything to go by.