There are four escape pods. They’re almost identical to the models on Endeavour and despite a few obvious upgrades I’m confident I can operate them.
Natalie is in one of the bathrooms. The door is locked and I can hear running water. I leave her and look through the laboratories. In one of the storage spaces I locate Natalie’s bags, which I place outside the bathroom for her to find when she exits. Wearing her own clothes might bring her some small comfort.
Cortez lies dead on the flight deck. He is at the foot of one of the main control panels, where he desperately reached the emergency alarm. Natalie had already severed his right hand so he couldn’t grab his weapon. She then took his hand-cannon and fired a shot into the back of his head. The damage explains why Natalie was covered in gore. There are more gaping bullet wounds in his back.
I sit in the captain’s seat and inspect the expanse of switches, gauges and meters in front of me. I can operate the Santa Maria, but never do I entertain the idea of flying it back to Earth. In front of me, through the thick windshield, is the orb of Heaven. Stars flicker in the black backdrop.
“Hey,” says Natalie’s voice, softly, somewhere behind me. “What are you doing?”
“I’m just deciding what to do with this marvel of modern spaceflight.”
“Can you fly it?”
“Yes,” I say. “I could program a delayed trajectory into deep space, and give us enough time to escape in one of the pods.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” says Natalie, sitting in the co-pilot seat next to me. She’s clean of blood, wearing a pristine white dress, her hair limp from the shower. “Land it.”
“Land it?” I say.
“We can learn from it,” says Natalie. “Perhaps we can be prepared for when your people return.”
“There are nuclear weapons on this ship,” I say. “Bombs that can turn a city to dust, vaporising every person that lives there. There are biological weapons on board that could wipe out your entire species.”
“Don’t we deserve to learn of these things?” asks Natalie.
“You’ve done nothing to deserve them,” I say. “You don’t know what destruction they could bring.”
Natalie stares out through the windshield, thinking. She then steps out of her chair, walking around the cabin, gazing at the floor to ceiling banks of dials and devices. Every so often she stops and takes a closer look at one of the meters, monitors and gauges. I hope that her silence means our conversation on the future of the Santa Maria is over. I intend to set it in on a course into deep space and destroy it.
Natalie stops and points at something. “This looks familiar?”
“That’s the entertainment unit,” I smile. “They look quite similar on both planets.”
Without any encouragement, she presses the play button. It doesn’t occur to me to try and stop her. The sound of Kansas’s ‘Carry On Wayward Son’ appears from speakers all around us.
Natalie stands and listens. “I know this song,” she says. “It’s one of your songs.” A voice other than my own has appeared. Natalie listens, concentrating. “Is that you singing? It sounds different.” I leave my seat and turn off the song. Realisation is already on her face. “Did you…?”
“I’m not in the mood for music right now.”
Natalie extends an arm to hold me away. She skips to the next track. I can see from the digital display that there are many songs loaded into the playlist. Pearl Jam’s ‘Rearviewmirror’ plays, which is unlucky for me. It’s a Big Bang Theory fan favourite. Eddie Vedder’s voice appears and Natalie knows immediately that it’s not my own.
“Have you been…? Have you been playing other people’s music? From Earth?”
I face away, pretending I haven’t heard her. Natalie keeps flicking through songs. Many I haven’t released with Big Bang Theory, but every so often she finds another familiar tune. The Shins, Ryan Adams, Neil Young and Manic Street Preachers. They’re all in the playlist of the Santa Maria.
“Could we please focus on our escape?” I snap.
Natalie smiles. She switches off the music. “Land the Santa Maria,” she says.
“Seriously, Natalie −” I say, before she cuts me off.
“Jack, bring us the gift of this ship and prove to me that you’re one of us.”
It’s a compelling offer, but a bad idea.
“The weapons on this spacecraft never brought us any peace,” I say, shaking my head.
“You need to trust us,” she says. “We can even study the bodies of the crew. They won’t have died in vain.”
“I don’t know…” I say, shaking my head.
“And I’ll keep your secret,” she adds, nodding towards the entertainment unit. “I can keep playing these songs. I’ve got a feeling I’ll find more Big Bang Theory classics.”
The unit could have a hundred thousand songs in its playlist, which, if I successfully download and sneak off the ship, would ensure my continued genius. But allowing Heaven to learn our technology could bring its end. On one hand, they are a levelheaded bunch. But they can be corrupted. It’s a complex decision. But, in the face of losing Natalie’s trust forever, I relent.
“Okay,” I say. “You keep my musical inspirations a secret. I’ll land this ship and explain to your scientists how the bastard works.”
“Deal,” smiles Natalie.
I locate body bags in a supplies closet. They’re lightweight, airtight and durable. Natalie and I seal each crew member and together we drag and carry them through the long, winding corridors of the spacecraft, from the place of their final moment to the freezer off the kitchen and communal dining area. We lay them tightly across the floor, like pilchards in a tin. Then I lock the door. Natalie’s face remains knotted in anguish.
“I can’t believe I’m responsible for that,” she says, softly.
“Not all of them,” I offer. “I killed Atticus. And I’m partly responsible for Louise’s death. But regardless of who did what, it was self-defense. You can’t give guilt a second thought.”
“I don’t feel any better about it,” she says, and walks to the silver communal dining table and sits at one of the bench seats.
“If you hadn’t taken them down then, as we speak, your body would be in fifty different containers.”
“And that would be your fault,” she says, eyeing me.
“Indirectly,” I stress. “Indirectly my fault.”
“So did you write any of Big Bang Theory’s songs?” she asks.
I sigh and sit down across the table from her. “Let’s not talk about this. I’m hungry. How about I cook us something? I think I saw corn chips in there. I haven’t had them in, like, five years. You will be mind- blown.”
Natalie scoffs. “Answer my question.”
“What do you want me to say?” I bark.
“Just tell me the truth,” she shrugs.
“That’s really rich coming from you. The queen of deception and manipulation.”
“I was doing a job,” she says, tersely.
“You were,” I nod. “And you definitely went above and beyond the call of duty.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m too tired for this,” I say.
“Why won’t your answer my question?” Natalie pushes. “I want to know if any of those words that you sung, the words I’ve been hanging on since you appeared, are yours.”
“They’re all mine. They’re all part of me. I just didn’t write them.”
Natalie takes this in and then gives a small nod of acceptance. I can’t decipher her expression. Then, after a heavy pause, she asks, “So who are you then? What do you do, Jack?”
I smile. “That’s the first time you’ve asked me that.”
After calling another truce with Natalie, I convince her that we both need sleep before I land the aircraft on Heaven. She agrees, but chooses separate quarters and locks the door. I swallow my annoyance and lie alone. I wait half an hour until I believe she could be asleep a
nd then quietly step into the corridor.
On the flight deck I log into one of the computers and find that it’s password protected. I try my main access password from the Endeavour and it doesn’t work. Perhaps they didn’t trust me. I then search through the crew’s quarters until I find the room that housed O’Connor. He wasn’t a very clean individual. Clothes are strewn over the floor and there’s a small dresser next to his unmade bedding. On one of the cream walls, opposite the bed, is a large television. Around the other walls are a dozen digiframes with pictures that cycle continuously. Two of the larger frames show only pictures of scantily clad and naked women. Others display various sports stars and random holiday locations. Nature and weather shots. On the dresser is another digiframe with pictures of his family and friends. Pictures of home. I watch for a few minutes. I jolt slightly when I see my own face appear among the images. But it disappears in the cycle of photographs in the frame.
I rifle through the drawers and storage cupboards of the room, looking for anything that might contain his password. On a shelf in a cupboard I find a tablet. I switch it on and start flipping through the documents in his personal folder. I find his ID file, which is a comprehensive history. His service records, education, background information. It’s all here. I stop at a page and stare at his date of birth. It’s the same as mine.
In his walk-in closet is a small metal safe. On the keypad I type my date of birth and the bolt lock clicks open. Inside is a small firearm, a small container of what appears to be cyanide and also a few loose pieces of paper. One has a twelve-digit number on it.
Back on the flight deck I use the password and it works. In their system, I scan through the spacecraft’s files until I find the recorded audio logs of my conversations with the Santa Maria’s crew before their arrival. My updates, my debriefings. I put a comms headpiece on and listen through the recordings, systematically deleting them.
Natalie emerges from her quarters and sits in the co-pilot’s seat. I flick on the thrusters and they build in heat before exploding in white fire. Together we descend from our orbit, Heaven slowly filling our view through the windshields. I reach out to take Natalie’s hand and she accepts it for a moment before pulling from my grasp.
Heaven opens its legs for me again, its eyes glazing over with sweet, reflected light. Somewhere a planet faces the consequences of its actions. While I’ve protected my new home from those that covet its beauty and exquisite sensibilities, I cannot shake the feeling that I am a single cancer cell for which Heaven has no cure.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nick Milligan embarked on an entertainment journalism career in 2002. Since that time he has become one of Australia’s most respected film and music pundits. His articles have appeared in publications such as Rolling Stone, Hotpress, Frankie and Smash Hits. Milligan is the former editor-in-chief of Reverb Magazine and the former Music and Film Editor of YEN magazine. He has interviewed and profiled a wide array of entertainers and writers, including Matt Damon, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Frank Black, Kim Gordon, Alice Cooper, Juliette Lewis, Ice Cube, Dylan Moran, Bill Bailey, Marlon Wayans, Joe Perry, Pete Townshend, Marilyn Manson and Bret Easton Ellis.
Milligan works as a sub-editor and entertainment writer at The Maitland Mercury.
He lives in Newcastle, Australia.
Follow Nick Milligan’s blog at www.nicholasmilligan.com
Follow Nick Milligan on Twitter at @NickMilligan_
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