I, Spaceman

by Anthony North

  'And where do you intend to look?' asked Nulyn.

  'In myth, dear friend,’ suggesting the life form could well be remembered as a god.

  It was Decider Hooke who expressed the general opinion concerning Newton 2's declaration. 'It's absolute nonsense,' he said to anyone who would listen. 'The man thinks he's a prophet. We should be building a weapon to attack it, not try to turn it into a deity.'

  It was at the end of the week that Newton 2 reported back to Nulyn: 'Both the Angerian and Lustacean myths show evidence of such a life form,' he said, 'but being oral traditions, they give little away. Both describe it as a kind of storm, which electrifies the air until it makes a whole region glow. Anything in the immediate vicinity disappears. However, the Pridians were the most advanced race, and they DO have further evidence in various hieroglyphics.'

  He placed a number of books on Nulyn's desk. Opened them. And sure enough, images were recorded of a swirling mass of an unknown energy.

  'What eventually happened to it, the myths do not say. But there is evidence, as the Pridians developed writing proper, of an old spell.'

  Newton 2 opened more books, recording the spell.

  'There are distinct memories in the writing of something they called the Superbeing. And if we look at this chant, we can see clear references to guarding against the storm of the gods.'

  Nulyn read the chant, and had to agree the evidence was compelling. 'So what does it tell us about what we should do?'

  Newton 2 smiled. 'You will see, above the words, certain squiggles and other imagery. This is clearly related to old Pridian music. It is, in effect, a musical score, which is obviously meant to accompany the words. I've recreated the words with the notes. It is almost impossible to sing. That is because it reaches frequencies way out of our range. But created electronically, the variations in the notes are capable of some striking physical effects, from shattering glass, to causing vibrations in a matter-reacting way.'

  Nulyn said: 'Isn't it such ranges of sound behind the development of sonic weaponry and propulsion systems?'

  'It is indeed. And it seems the Pridians worked out a similar system to fight the Superbeing hundreds of years before we developed the technology.'

  Decider Hooke remained sceptical as Newton 2 flew off in his shuttle, equipment on board to recreate the ancient Pridian chant. 'Spells and curses are just that,' he said, 'and I doubt if we'll be seeing Newton 2 again.'

  But as usual, Decider Hooke was wrong.

  It was a deeply traumatised Newton 2 who returned.

  'It worked,' he said, 'of sorts.' And indeed, the Superbeing, and the time anomaly, were no more. He continued: 'I felt a definite existence of consciousness. And I gained the impression that the Superbeing is from an ancient evolutionary phase of life.’

  'But now it is gone?' asked Nulyn.

  'Gone from that space, yes,' replied Newton 2, 'but gone from the sector? No. It appears that, until we work out a means of communication, or a means to destroy it, we are sharing the sector with a god.'

  THE TRUTH ABOUT NEWTON

  If Newton 2 prided himself about anything, it was his ability to turn a violent situation into peace by his absolute refusal to do violence himself. Hence, he employed an impressive arsenal of talk and guile. But even he had to admit that he was about to lose control.

  The smugglers had been easily tracked down, but now, as they ran through the Angerian town close to his castle, his plan to corner them had backfired seriously. And here they were in the town square, people milling around, and four sonic guns trained squarely upon him.

  He calculated how long it would take for reinforcements to arrive, but he really didn't have the ten seconds required. And so it was that, in a supremely violent moment, the smugglers opened up on Newton 2 in a blaze of sonic blasts.

  Predictably, he was thrown to the floor. And as the smugglers made their escape, a crowd gathered around their trusted Decider. The general voice said: 'Is he dead?' To which the reply was: 'He must be.' Yet it took no time at all to realise the lack of blood. And when Newton 2 opened his eyes and stood up, a sense of wonder permeated the crowd.

  However, it was a wonderment that turned to horror as the crowd noticed the pulsating electronics and machinery within his gashed body.

  'He's an android!' screamed the first person to put two and two together. And even in his weakened state, Newton 2 became immediately aware of a definite hostility amongst the crowd.

  Of course, to Newton 2 it was illogical. He was quite capable of thinking in human terms. Indeed, he often thought he could be more rational than humans, keeping emotion out of the problem, but nonetheless having the compassion and altruism to do right by humanity. Yet time and time again, humanity had reacted against control by machines.

  Maybe that is why Space Commander Nulyn had been so adamant that his android status should be kept secret. But such musings were of little help to him at that moment.

  The Angerian night came, plunging the town into darkness, and that dark affecting the people about him.

  'Well we're not putting up with it,' was the general sentiment, and as the crowd grew uglier, Newton 2 decided the best course of action was to run.

  To the casual observer, the scene must have seemed like a throwback to some more primeval time upon Earth - or maybe a reenactment from some Gothic novel. Indeed, Newton 2 loved those, so he would no doubt see the irony in it.

  Hand held laser lights bobbed up and down the streets as the crowd grew in size and in ugliness. One could even hear the occasional chant of 'kill,' which was ironic in itself, in that they didn't believe a machine could be alive to begin with.

  As for Newton 2 himself, he had taken the most obvious escape route, towards his bastion of security - his castle - which was equally obvious to many in the crowd.

  Thus, as Newton 2 scurried up the cliff path towards his domain, an angry crowd was upon him, as if a wolf pack snarling at its prey. And as such a supernatural entity held within itself a power above the mere human, it was to Newton 2's fate that he was surrounded before he made the gates to his home.

  He stood impassively in the middle of the crowd as a silence descended. Here they were, successful in hunting down their prey, but whilst there was a smattering of Angerian, of Envin, and Lustacean, the predominantly human crowd suddenly remembered their innate humanity. Until, of course, the obvious voice of unreason ...

  At the later enquiry, it was soon pointed out that, had Newton 2 wished to defend himself, he possessed both the strength and the guile to have done so easily. Yet the eventuality of such an action would have left a considerable number of people dead. And as Space Commander Nulyn made clear, arguing for his continued existence:

  'I suppose the fact that he didn't fight proves his humanity to be greater than yours.’

  Which was, perhaps, the most important thing to ponder - as we shall all do, as Newton 2 remains in store, in bits, and quite, quite dead.

  OLD SPACE DOG

  THE FLAG FLIES PROUD

  Old Space Dog had spent his life wandering around the Graveyard Sector. 'Why do you do it?' he was once asked, to which his only reply could be: 'I haven't seen it all yet.'

  It got him into many a scrape, even in his old age. And on this particular occasion, he found himself close to the action, the Gred having attacked Lustacia.

  'How dare they,' he bellowed as he drank his Angerian mead. Lustacia was known throughout the Sector as Planet Holiday. Only the Lustaceans knew how to give someone a good time.

  'Maybe that is why,' said one of the Pridian soldiers he found himself with. 'What a good way to damage our morale.'

  Old Space Dog looked at the detachment of Pridians with their blue hued skin and bald, conical heads. Then he looked over the makeshift defences that had been put up. To his front, he could see the Gred amassing for another attack.

  'You could be right,' he said. He waved his bottle of Mead. 'To the defence, my men, and fight to the last man.'


  He became quiet a while as he thought: 'I remember my first battle with the Gred,' he finally said. The Pridians sighed. They, too, had heard of Old Space Dog. 'It was before you lot had joined in.' His sneer was obvious. 'But I hold no grudge, my blue friends. They had attacked one of the early mining colonies. And as you know, the old prospectors were not ones to be roused by patriotism or anything like that. They were hard nosed men who looked after themselves. I know. I was one of them.

  'Well, the Gred came over the rise and attacked in large numbers. I remember thinking, I'm gonna survive this, so I took my sonic gun and began blasting at them. I think I was the first one to fire, and as I did so, the others realized that our only chance of survival was to work together and kill them.

  'That's what we all did, and in no time at all, we had repelled the attack. We all cheered, I can tell you, but we knew it was only the first of many attacks to come. And over the next two days we turned wave after wave of Gred, and never giving ground.'

  The Pridians seemed to like this. They were warriors themselves and could understand. 'Oh,' said Dog, 'I know what you're thinking, and you're maybe right. It was maybe the eighth attack that was the most dangerous. The Gred nearly got through, but at the last moment I saw an old Confederation flag and I held it high and waved it.

  'Well, our little band of brothers was so overwhelmed by the symbolism that they gave it their all and we prevailed.'

  A Pridian spoke up then. 'It is good that you fell back on your flag in the end. Patriotism is the most important thing to a fighter.'

  Old Space Dog laughed. 'Patriotism be blowed,' he said, 'We were as fragmented then as we were before and as we were after. The flag was just a symbol of all the individual things we all held dear.' He paused - threatened emotion. 'It was just, at that moment, we held the same thing dear. And there was no way we were going to give up the bar.'

  The Pridians laughed. And then they went to their deaths.

  FAST FOOD

  'I remember these old tramp ships,' said the Old Space Dog as he sat down. The starship was ancient, and he had indeed traveled in many in his earlier days. The other passengers paid attention a moment, realized the old storyteller was on board, and sighed. 'You can sigh,' he said, looking at them through his one good eye, 'but I can tell you a thing or two about traveling on these old hulks.'

  As the starship went into hyperspace, the passengers settled down, and it was inevitable Old Space Dog would grab their attention.

  'I was spacewrecked once,' he said. 'I was only a junior hand in those days, but we got caught up in a particle storm.' He winced for effect. 'Those damn particles, when they get agitated like that. Space was being ripped in all directions, the hull taking the strain as it was compressed in one part and expanded in another. I thought every sonic rivet on it would eject.'

  The passengers looked at the superstructure of their own vessel, hoping it would make it to their destination.

  'Well, the captain called for abandon ship, so off we all went into our pods. They could only take four men at a time in those days, so we needed three to take the whole crew. No passengers; they couldn't afford the pods then, so passengers kept away from the model.

  'Well, the pods were ejected, and just then the hull expanded again, agitated by those damn particles. It just came right out and seemed to occupy the same space as two of the pods. When the agitation was over, I looked, and if the pods weren't melded into the superstructure. Weird, it was, I can tell you. I guess their bodies had been melded as well, so I guess they were well dead; part of the ship's composite structure now'

  The passengers looked incredulous, unsure whether to believe the Old Space Dog or not.

  'Nearly a week we were in that pod, me, the captain and two hands. And what a week. Typical organization. There was no food, you see. We had water, but nothing to eat. Well, I can tell you, by the fourth day we were ready to take lots. You know, which one of us was going to be carved. After all, we had to eat something.'

  Gasps filled the cabin. Surely he didn't indulge in cannibalism?

  The Old Space Dog smiled. 'No, I didn't. Not then. Because on the seventh day we found the ship again. Somehow it had survived, although it was a twisted hulk with no power and, it seemed, no food surviving either.

  'So what were we to do now, you may ask; especially when the captain reckoned it could be a month before we were found?

  'We began to look at the fattest in our number, our juices flowing. But it was then I had the idea. It took us some time to get to the two pods stuck in the superstructure, but with eight well preserved bodies, we managed to hack off enough meat to keep us going for ages. Only thing was, it tasted of plastic.'

  THE DRUNKEN SKIPPER

  Old Space Dog enjoyed the reunions. They were never organized affairs, but when the old pirates got together in groups of more than three or four, you could guarantee the Angerian mead and Pridian brandy would flow. Indeed, he'd drunk so much that he thought he was getting double vision - which was, of course, impossible. He only had one eye.

  He had spied the first one to arrive with his one eye and shook his one hand, and as the next arrived he had clapped him on the back, to which the old pirate had attempted to kick him with his one leg and ended up in a pile on the floor. The next arrived and laughed at the furore, finding humour with his one brain cell.

  'It’s just like old times,' said Dog, drinking in the atmosphere. The others could only agree.

  Old Space Dog laughed, then. 'You know, if we tried it now, we'd get booked by some jobsworth Decider for piloting a starship under the influence.'

  A roar of laughter erupted. 'Like old Drake,' said one of the old pirates.

  'Old Drake.' Dog had suddenly gone serious, and his mood affected the others. 'What a captain he was,' Dog continued. 'No one could do the business like he could. He was the scourge of the sector. Confederation convoys went in fear of old Drake.'

  'Until he was caught,' offered a companion. 'When he refused to fight. When he became the coward.'

  'Yes,' said Dog, 'but there was a reason for that.'

  'And what might that be? Don't tell me, you were there.'

  'I was indeed,' said Old Space Dog. 'And it was an amazing end to a fine career.' He took a theatrical pause. 'It had been a heavy night before the Deciders arrived to surround him. We'd drunk merrily into the early hours, and we were all fast asleep when they arrived.

  'We'd left men on the perimeter of our camp, but they were rubbish and we were soon cut off from the starships. It was obvious we'd have to stand and fight.

  'Drake went off alone for a while and when he came back, he was as white as a sheet. "What's wrong?" I said to him, but he could only answer in a mumble. Well, the Deciders and their men came in then, hitting us one by one. When it got too hot to take, I legged it over the hill and somehow managed to evade detection. But I watched from my hiding place.

  'They were all dead except Drake, and instead of going out in glory, he seemed to crumple and then he began to cry, I tell you.'

  The others looked on in shock. 'Well, why was that?' asked one, unable to believe such a sorry end to a fine career.

  ‘Why, it's obvious,' said Old Space Dog. 'He'd gone off by himself to get the last bottle of Pridian brandy to swill down his throat. Only I’d already taken it. And the simple fact was, he was sober.'

  PRIMEVAL DESIGNS

  Old Space Dog relaxed in the huge chair, an Angerian mead in his hand. He adjusted his black leather eye-patch, pushed back his unkempt, white hair and took a long drink.

  As usual, he had found an audience, even as the buffet awaited them in the reception lounge of the Lustacean Homeworld. He thought of the pleasures people enjoyed in the Sector with this tall, almost mesmeric pleasure-seeking race.

  ‘Of course, I remember when Earthers first came here,’ Old Space Dog said. ‘Their pleasures were even greater then – before …’

  Memories flooded back to him of his youth, exploring this new Sector, i
nvolving himself in all manner of adventures, legal and illegal. He came back to the present – noticed some of his audience heading off to the buffet, which was no good at all.

  He coughed, loudly. Continued: ‘And my friend and I were among the first to sample their ways.’ The audience was immediately back – the myths of their early ‘ways’ were legend.

  ‘As soon as my friend and I arrived, two Lustacean females smiled and seemed to lure him away – which, as you can imagine, was not difficult. And I was left to experience the eroticism of this place by myself. And I can tell you, it was dangerous at times, very dangerous.’

  Someone interjected: ‘There are stories of …’

  Old Space Dog raised him hand to stop him. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ve heard the stories.’ A dullness came to his one visible eye. ‘I’ve seen it for myself.’

  He remained transfixed for many seconds before continuing: ‘It was many hours later that I again saw my friend; at least, in part. It was obvious he had “gone all the way” with the Lustacean erotic ceremonies. And it was with a sickness in my very stomach that I put my plate back on the buffet table, and left.’

  And for once, as indeed it had been that night, Old Space Dog kept his mouth firmly shut.

  A DAY WITH THE SLOTHY

  Old Space Dog always felt right when he visited the homestead on the outskirts of the small Angerian town. He seemed to fit, his well worn leather one-piece and unkempt, white hair complimenting the flaming red complexion of his old Angerian friend.

  ‘They’ve come a long way since the early days,’ he said, and his friend had to agree.

  ‘They’ were a family of Slothy living close by. They lived in what could almost be seen as a home, and their huge, lumbering, shaggy-haired bodies were attired in rudimentary clothes. Indeed, clothing had been the latest sign they had made in the last twenty years; and there was excitement that one Slothy professed himself a teacher and, in his basic sign language, had expressed a wish to open a school.