Darwin's Sword: Savannah - Book Two

by C. P. McClennan

  Graven’s blue eyes shifted from Nigel’s and locked with Sheila’s. “This really wasn’t the plan.”

  After flashing from the rooftop with Graven’s thugs, Nigel and Sheila had been flashed into a nondescript warehouse. Then a second flash sent them upwards towards this waiting spacecraft. It had been three hours since they had been abandoned in the brig.

  Sheila had already nicknamed it The Garbage Scow, as her initial experience of the place was all dull, scratched, metallic, and with the fragrance of rotting garbage.

  The cell consisted of two metal cots and a bucket. At the end of each cot was a pillow on a folded brown fleece blanket.

  Shock would be the only way to describe her feeling, and she imagined Nigel felt the same.

  He sat on his cot with his bald head propped on a fist with his elbow on his knee for support. His red eyes gave clues as to what was going through his mind. His black Pink Floyd concert T-shirt was rumpled and untucked from blue jeans.

  Sheila imagined she looked similar, just with better hair. There were no mirrors in the cell, but she was certain she looked as disheveled as she felt.

  “The plan? You fucker…” Nigel shook his head and lost words to continue.

  Graven’s brown eyes locked with Nigel’s before he expelled a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, I am.”

  “You’re fuckin’ right you are.” Nigel turned his head violently to Sheila for a moment before returning. “How many did he kill? Seven billion?”

  “Almost eight,” Graven corrected. “And I hate it.”

  “You hate it?” Nigel asked at a pitch Sheila had never heard him hit before.

  “You humans have a lifespan of what, eighty of your Earth’s rotations?” Graven paused and quickly decided an answer was not coming. “We’re not immortal either, but we live a lot longer than you do.”

  “How much longer?” Sheila wasn’t sure why she asked the question.

  Graven shrugged.

  “Ten times?”

  Graven shook his head. “More like ten thousand times. One of you saw me as immortal.”

  “You said it wasn’t a joke.” Nigel whispered.

  “It wasn’t.” Graven smirked. “Earthman, do you know how long I was on your little planet?”

  Nigel opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  “You realize that you are the only humans on this ship, right?”

  Sheila gasped. “So you’ve said, but what about…”

  Graven waved his hand to dismiss her. “We’re in a convoy. You’re the only two on this ship.”

  “What’s your fucking point?” Nigel’s question was barked with a glare that would kill most mortals.

  “I was on Earth for one hundred and thirty-eight of your years. What’s that?” His eyes flicked over to Sheila. “That must be four times how long you’ve been alive?”

  She nodded without giving it thought.

  “And have either of you ever been told,” Graven’s voice pitched higher to mock witch-like realms, “No more sex on the bridge, I mean it! It fucks with the light speed controls?”

  Nigel shook his head. “I can’t say that I have, no. And now I’m not entirely sure what you’re on about.”

  “That’s not part of the normal human experience,” Sheila agreed.

  “Right now you are well outside the comfortable normal human experience.” Graven’s eyes shifted between them. “And I’m sorry for this.”

  “How far outside our experience?” Nigel gulped hard.

  His eyes went up right as he considered his answer. “About three hundred and thirty light minutes, so far. We just passed Pluto.”

  “Light minutes?” Sheila turned to sit up on her cot.

  “Ah, Earth measures put us at more than seven point five billion kilometres away. Two and two-thirds billion miles, if you prefer.” Graven waited for either of them to say something a moment. “I had only just settled into the human experience when this mission went wrong.”

  “How did it go wrong?” Nigel’s voice was a whispered growl.

  “When they figured out I wasn’t human.”

  “Who’s they?” Sheila glanced around.

  Graven sucked at his lips and let out a long breath. “If I let you out of here and to more comfortable quarters, would you hear me out?”

  Nigel glanced over at Sheila.

  Sheila nodded slightly.

  “These bars aren’t exactly high tech shit, but I suspect we aren’t exactly qualified to storm your boat.”

  Graven chuckled and cracked a smile. “We have more than enough tech for energy force fields, but why waste the energy when bars do the trick? Unlike the Levensides, you humans are flexible enough to squeeze between them.”

  “Unlike the Levensides?”

  Graven held up a finger. “Nigel, my friend, you don’t want to know.”

  “I’m not your friend.”

  Graven sighed. “I know.”

  “Yes, we’ll listen,” Sheila interrupted before allowing the men to reignite hostilities. She wanted out of this cell.

  “Okay, I’ll get you some more comfortable quarters and some clean clothes.”

  “I’m not wearing any fuckin’ Star Trekkian jumper,” Nigel quipped.

  Graven chuckled. “No need. I heard your radio show. Knowing who you were, I had some appropriate clothes brought up for you. I suspect Johnny Fever would be impressed.”

  Nigel turned his head to look at Graven. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “Which question was that?”

  “What was your best idea?”

  Graven’s eyes widened. “I did fill one of the ship’s holds with rum.”

  V

  The Garbage Scow – Captain’s Mess

  February 15, 2018

  “I hope the new quarters are more to your liking?” Graven stood at one side of the table.

  As with the rest of the ship, the room was designed in dark metallic gray. A large window showed distant stars behind Graven, but otherwise, the room was industrial in design. Only three chairs were around the table, one on Graven’s side, and two opposite him for Nigel and Sheila.

  A single white blob floated at the head of the table.

  “Much more, thank you.” Sheila was surprised how calm her voice was as she answered. With her arm looped through Nigel’s elbow, she pulled him towards their seats.

  Their new quarters had been, again, done in the same metallic dark gray, but a large plush king-sized bed was the centerpiece. The closet was filled with clothes, of which Sheila had chosen a long black dress with spaghetti-straps.

  Nigel had found classic rock T-shirts that were much to his liking. For two hours he went through them, sharing stories with Sheila about his experience with each of the bands. He selected a plain black tunic over black denim jeans for dinner, claiming the shirts were too valuable to be worn.

  Graven gestured to his right. “This is Vake, the captain of this vessel.”

  The blob turned green. “Captain? What is this?”

  Graven laughed. “Captain is the human word for the leader of a ship’s crew.”

  “Ah yes, that I am.”

  “Captain Vake,” Nigel said with a nod. “I am Nigel, and this is my wife, Sheila.”

  Vake turned a light purple. “It is just Vake. We do not use titles in our language.”

  “I’m sorry, no disrespect intended.”

  “No disrespect was taken, Nigel. Much as I do not understand your wife and…” Vake turned a darker purple.

  “Husband,” Graven whispered.

  “Yes, your wife and husband culture I do not understand. There is never any disrespect so long as we try to understand each other.”

  Graven held a hand to their seats. “Please.”

  Sheila sat in the seat closest to Vake and felt Nigel pushing her seat in behind her. Turning, she watched him sit down.

  “Under the circumstances, we were uncertain what you would eat at this point,” Graven said.


  “I could eat a horse,” Nigel said with a laugh.

  Vake turned even darker purple. “I do not believe horse was part of Graven’s recommended menu.”

  “It’s a figure of speech,” Graven corrected with a laugh. “It means he’s very hungry.”

  “Indeed.” Vake turned back to light purple. “We have a wide selection of American and British cuisine that we have in storage for your voyage.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Sheila began but stopped. “I’m sorry. Thank you, Vake.”

  “Again, Sheila, no offense will be taken should you call me this word. Just please do not expect a human response from it.”

  “Do you have steak?” Nigel looked around to see if there was a waiter to take his order but found none in the room.

  “Oh yes, “ Graven growled. “You could have steak every meal on this vessel…”

  “The Garbage Scow,” Sheila blurted out.

  Vake turned yellow. “Garbage Scow?”

  Sheila blushed and looked at the metal table in front of her.

  “I like that.” Graven smiled. “Vake, humans like to give their larger vessels names. This vessel has now been dubbed The Garbage Scow.”

  “So be it,” Vake agreed. “Sheila, what would you eat.”

  “A salad, please. Caesar if possible.”

  “Absolutely,” Graven said with a nod. He lifted a pad and thumbed in a few details. “Will that be enough for you?”

  Sheila’s eyes turned to Nigel. “Unlike my husband, I’m not ready to eat mighty steeds just yet.”

  Vake turned purple for a brief moment before returning to yellow. “These figures of speech will be difficult to adjust to.”

  “Okay, drinks?”

  “Water,” Sheila answered quietly.

  “Beer,” Nigel blurted out overtop of her.

  Graven thumbed in more. “In the meantime, while our food is prepared, I believe I promised you a story.”

  “Yes, you did,” Sheila agreed.

  “It shall be a story of romance, alien abductions, immortality, and murder most foul.”

  “I hope I can stay awake.” Nigel glared across the table.

  The door behind Sheila and Nigel opened. A second white blob floated in carrying a tray of drinks. A tentacle lowered a golden pint in front of Nigel, a clear glass of ice water in front of Sheila, and a dark carbonated drink in front of Graven.

  “Vake? Are you not eating?” Sheila asked.

  “We do not partake of nourishment as you do.”

  “Even I don’t require it.” Graven lifted his glass to his lips for a sip and followed with a lick of the lips. “I must say one thing about humanity I enjoyed was eating and drinking. It doesn’t do much for me, but the taste is wonderful. And don’t get me started on the liquor.”

  “Here’s to holds full of rum.” Nigel raised his pint.

  “Cheers!” Graven agreed.

  Sheila raised her water. “Sláinte!”

  Each sipped in silence.

  Graven wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “My story shall go to the beginning. I’ve no idea what you need to hear to understand what happened, so probably best just to tell it all.”

  “Okay, where did it start?” Nigel took a long sip from his beer.

  “In Ireland in the fall of 1876.” He turned to Vake. “Humans use this number as an arbitrary count of how many times their planet had rotated their star.”

  “An Irish fall, no doubt.” Sheila held up a hand. “Do you happen to have any red wine? A Merlot, maybe?”

  “I suspect we do.” Graven lifted and thumbed his pad again.

  “Think I may need some alcohol for this.”

  Graven nodded. “And it was an Irish fall, indeed. My personal vessel landed in a treetop. My face was the first thing to touch Earth after I fell from that very tree. It was an area they now call…”

  “Did call…” Nigel interrupted.

  Graven blushed. “An area they did call Swords County Dublin. It was little more than a four-corners town back then, so my landing in an empty field went unnoticed.”

  “What good is an alien landing if no one sees it?” Nigel’s voice was lighter with this comment.

  Graven put an elbow on the table and leaned in to point across at him. “I do say, sir, that none of the alleged Twentieth Century UFO sightings were real.”

  “The Twenty-first Century?” Sheila watched as the blob-waiter set down a stemless wine glass full of burgundy liquid.

  “Being you, yourselves, saw a UFO.” Graven cocked an eyebrow as his eyes glanced around. “In fact, you’re now riding in one. I left that out on purpose. Anyhow, on to Ireland.”

  “To Ireland,” Nigel and Sheila said in unison, raising their glasses.

  Graven stopped for a moment, but joined them in their toast. “My first few years were uneventful as I explored the city of Dublin. Being I was given this human body with what would later become known as an Americanized accent, there were a number of people who found me intriguing.”

  “That was always something I thought the time travel stories got wrong.” Nigel lifted his pint in anticipation of a final gulp after completing his thought. “Time travelers would have to fuck up as language evolves.”

  “It does, yes.” Graven thumbed his pad. “It was a minor issue. They all thought I was Scandinavian or some such.”

  The waiter returned with a refill for Nigel.

  “But then I traveled across to England where I met, of all things, an Irishman named Bram.”

  “Bram?” Sheila said with a shrug.

  “He was the first human to express an interest in me beyond how my accent sounded. He and I were both working at the Lyceum Theatre in London. I was a stagehand and he was a business manager, but for some reason, he seemed fascinated by me.”

  “I see.”

  “He turned me on to your writing craft. It seems that I’m rather good at that.”

  Nigel chuckled. “You write?”

  “Writing makes one immortal, dear sir. And remember, I told you that some humans thought I was immortal.”

  VI

  London – Behind The Lyceum Theatre

  August 5, 1885

  Graven slowly pushed his erection into the woman. He had no idea what her name was, and was more concerned with enjoying the roundness of her ass and hips.

  “Oh, that’s the spot,” Amanda hissed. Her brunette curls swayed with his thrusts from behind her. The skirt of her blue dress was raised well up on her back so he could have easy access. She was a barmaid at Vincent’s Public House and could never resist a handsome actor.

  “Yes, it is,” Graven agreed. His long blonde hair swayed to the same rhythm as hers. He was never sure if the look that Quelver had given him was that of Fabio or how Jamey Sheridan had looked in the miniseries of Stephen King’s “The Stand”. With both being from the late Twentieth Century, there was little concern of him being recognized in the late 1800s. Originally the look was to be short brown hair, but Graven had insisted on the longer blonde hair. He also added the goatee for further flare.

  “You there!” The voice was male and nervous. “What are you doing?”

  Graven’s eyes shot across the alley.

  The man at the alley-mouth wore a black vest and tie over a white shirt with a black suit jacket and light gray slacks.

  A quick scan had Graven convinced that the man only saw him, and not the bent over prey. “I’m sorry?”

  “Are you dancing?”

  Graven opened his mouth, but stop to consider his words for a moment. “I’m stretching. My doctor says that I must stretch in private on occasion.” It sounded stupid enough, even to Graven, that it might convince the stranger.

  “Are you Graven? Lawrence Graven?”

  Her scream was the first sign to Graven of her orgasm, and the first sign to the other man of her existence.

  “Are you…?” The man took a single step forward and stopped.

  “Am I what?”

  The b
ent over blonde turned to dust and collapsed onto the ground.

  Graven attempted to put his cock away without being too obvious. Stepping back, the only remaining sign of the woman was her dust on his shoes.

  “Who screamed?”

  Graven looked around, feigning innocence. “I heard no scream.”

  A few brisk steps had the man over close to Graven. “I thought I heard a woman scream.” His eyes searched the area.

  “The theatre, perhaps?” Graven shrugged and pointed to the building behind him. “Oh, and yes, I am Lawrence Graven.” He held a hand out knowing the human tradition of shaking hands.

  “Man, your hand is wet. Were you urinating…?”

  His hand had been inside the woman before his cock, but this was not information Graven was ready to share. Instead, he shrugged.

  “I’m Abraham Stoker, but call me Bram. Seems you will be working with me.”

  Pulling his hand back, Graven smiled and gave a half bow towards the man. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “You have? From whom?”

  “Oh, here and there.” Graven looked around the alleyway. “We both landed in Dublin, for example.”

  “Landed?”

  “Came from. I’m sorry, I’m a writer like yourself, and my head is always in the stars.”

  “Your accent is odd for an Irishman.”

  “Yes, I know.” Graven searched for further explanation, but decided just to let this mystery sit.

  “Well, Lawrence, shall we find a spot of lunch? I’m famished.”

  “I just ate, actually.” Graven eyed the dust pile. “But I’ll join you for an ale.”

  “Brave man, having ale for lunch.”

  “It is a wonderful thing to wash my lunch down. Besides, help me write more freely when the shackles of inhibition are whisked away by brew.”

  Bram winked at him. “Perhaps I’ll join you in that endeavor.”

  “Bram, if I may ask, why were you back here?”

  He shrugged. “Doyle told me I’d find you. He saw you wander out the back with someone.”

  “Ah, no concern then. How about that drink?”

  VII

  The Garbage Scow – Captain’s Mess