Jack Strong: Dark Matter

by Heys Wolfenden

  He looked back towards the dead astronaut as a dagger of sunlight jagged off her visor, streaking the space station with gold.

  “Of course!” he shouted, grabbing the broken visor with both hands, trying to wrench off a piece of the glass.

  His arm was almost numb now, like it had been locked in a freezer for an hour; his right leg wasn’t much better. Then there was an eruption of air from his left leg, followed by one over his abdomen. Two more appeared on his back. The coldness spread, intensified. He had to escape. Had to.

  With all the force he could manage he fought against the micro-gravity, against the Scourge, Gaz, Jorge, against anyone who had ever held him back and said he was no good and that he would never accomplish anything.

  Jack never heard the sound the glass made as it snapped free in his hands, but he felt the tremor all the same. He held it aloft, like he had just won the World Cup final or an Olympic Gold Medal. It was no bigger than two fifty pence coins, but for him it was huge, it was life.

  Cutting as quickly as he could, he attacked the wires at his feet, sawing back and forth, back and forth. It seemed to take forever. His heart hammered away in his chest like a machine gun. The cold spreading. So numb. It wasn’t going to work. He was going to die. Here. Alone in space. Without her.

  A slither of plastic floated away.

  Then another.

  Then a gap appeared in one of the wires. It got bigger as he yanked at it with all the hope and energy he had left.

  Jack felt the glass slip through the wire and into vacuum, shearing it in two. He almost cheered, but didn’t. He still had work to do. More wires. More cutting. Cold. Cold. Cold.

  Five minutes and five wires later he was free, bits of wire floating all around him. It looked like he’d just been to an arts and crafts fair in space. Grabbing hold of the last wire, he swung himself to his right, holding onto the charred entrails of the spaceship at the first attempt. He had to be quick, not long left now. Not long left for a lot of things, he thought as he looked back down towards Earth, a mushroom cloud lighting up the sky of some far-off European city.

  He stumbled through the spacecraft, past two more dead bodies, their blackened corpses looking like the charred embers of a bonfire. He felt faint, fuzzy, nauseous. He’d taken too long cutting himself free. Air gushed from his body as more holes appeared in the Asvari spacesuit.

  He staggered towards the hatch at the back that marked the entrance to the space station. He tried to yank it open. It held firm. Like a vice. Like an executioner. His own. He tried again. Weaker this time. Same result. Again. Not even close.

  He slumped to his knees, distraught. I’m sorry Vyleria. I did all I could.

  His last thought was of that mushroom cloud. So many dead in so many cities. For nothing.

  Chapter Thirty: The Battle of the I.S.S

  Jack was in his kitchen in Rockingdale again.

  A plate load of fish and chips was on the table, steam curling towards the ceiling like party streamers. He drowned the mound of food with a river of vinegar and a desert of salt. He was so hungry. He felt like he hadn’t eaten in an eternity. Perhaps this was what death was like. Limitless hunger. Limitless food. He smiled at the thought of it.

  After wolfing down the fish and chips, he turned towards the dessert bowl in front of him. He took a spoon from the pile opposite him, plunging it into the yellow and green mass. He ate it hurriedly, gladly. He went back for a second helping, then a third, until he was full to bursting.

  “It’s not like you to have gooseberry crumble, Jack.”

  Jack turned round to face the middle-aged woman in front of him. “What are you doing here Mum?”

  “Where else would we be?”

  “You’re here too Dad?”

  “Of course,” said the man in front of him, wrinkles cascading from his forehead and eyes.

  “But…”

  “We’re always here. We never left.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What on Earth for?” asked his Mum.

  “For the attack on Nevada,” said Jack. “If I hadn’t gone on the spaceship this would never have happened. You would still be alive.”

  “Nonsense,” said his Mum. “We’d planned that trip for ages. We were going to Las Vegas with or without you. If you hadn’t been on the spaceship then you would have been there, with us, in Nevada.”

  “And then you would have died too,” said his Dad. “And then you would never have met Vyleria, Padget, Ros...”

  The room rumbled slightly, like there had been a tremor.

  “Did you feel that?” asked Jack. “Are there earthquakes in heaven?”

  “Heaven? Is that where you think you are?” said his Dad.

  “Where else would I be?”

  The kitchen rumbled again, louder this time, more violent. The spare chair at the end of the dinner table fell over, followed by an explosion of cutlery and crockery.

  “There it is again,” said Jack.

  “Yes, I know,” said his Dad. “We have to go now.”

  “Go? Go where?”

  “You already know the answer,” said his Mum.

  “But that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Trust your instincts, Jack.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t doubt yourself, don’t second guess. You know the truth even if it is too difficult to accept. Vyleria…”

  “But…”

  “Ni Hao!”

  Jack sprang to his feet and came face to face with a tall Chinese man. For a second, he thought that he had somehow fallen back to Earth and gotten rescued by the Chinese. Then he saw his spacesuit, a large red flag attached to his right arm.

  “Where am I?” he asked, still trying to hold onto the image of his Mum and Dad. What were they going to say about Vyleria? Was she in some kind of trouble?

  “You’re on the International Space Station,” said the man in a strong Chinese accent. “We were assisting the Americans when it was attacked. That’s our capsule outside. We barely made it in time, some of us didn’t.”

  “Yes, I saw the bodies. Their sacrifice will not be in vain, I assure you.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “What’s happened to the gravity?” asked Jack. “It’s…”

  “Normal, for now,” said another man in a strong Russian accent. “They have a machine of some kind that can alter the gravity. It’s in the next module. When they want to punish us, they increase the gravity field, make us feel like nails in a coffin. I can’t take much more.”

  “That’s the point,” said another man in a strong Texan accent.

  “What do you mean?” asked Jack.

  “There’s only one way out and that’s through that hatch,” he said, pointing to the door behind him.

  “Well why don’t we try it?”

  “Can’t,” the American continued. “The greys shoot at us if we try. That’s how Giuseppe bought it.”

  “Giuseppe?”

  The American nodded towards a spot about twenty feet in front of him. Jack saw the feet first, then the pool of blood.

  “Our only way out is down that corridor; and the greys know it.”

  “Hey, what’s that?” asked the Chinese astronaut, picking something from Jack’s shoulder.

  Jack turned around and looked to where he was pointing. Creamy bits of material were flaking off from all over his spacesuit, even his head was coated with the stuff.

  “That’s the space skin, it’s how I escaped from the Asvari saucer,” said Jack. “I couldn’t have got here without it.”

  “No that!” said the Chinese man, looking intently at his right hand.

  Jack followed his gaze. Coiled in between his fingers was a large L-shaped piece of metal.

  “My space pistol! The Asvari space skin must have been interfering with it somehow.”

  “That evens things up a bit,” said the American, his blue eyes like pulsars.

  “Oh, I don’t plan on getting even
,” said Jack, a bright, glittering sword materialising in his hand. “Not one bit. Where are the rest of the Asvari?”

  “They’re in the main habitat module,” said the Russian, hair as black as space. “They have been since this all began.”

  “Good.”

  “Why is it good? You’re not going to do something stupid, are you? If any of the capsules are breached, we’ll be dead for sure.”

  “We’re dead already,” said Jack. “Unless we get moving. Who’s with me?”

  The American’s hand went up first, then the Chinese astronaut’s, after a couple of minutes the Russian followed suit.

  “Come on let’s take back this station,” said Jack.

  “But how?” asked the Russian.

  “If I told you that it would take out all the fun.”

  “I’m not going to put my life in the hands of a pre-pubescent boy.”

  “Hey, you calling pre-pubescent?” said Jack.

  “I…”

  “Look, you’re just going to have to trust me; I’m more experienced than I look, I’ve done more spacewalks than you have had hot dinners. Stay behind me at all times, I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Jack rushed forwards instantly, sprinting down the corridor, senses alert, on edge, waiting for a sign, a shot, a mistake, anything.

  He got it.

  Just when he was about to step over the Italian’s body a dagger of blue light whistled towards his head. He deflected it with his sword, pinging it in the direction it came. He heard the Asvari screech out in pain and then fall silent, but he didn’t stop, he kept on running like a battering ram. I’m coming Vyleria…

  A second laser blast thudded in his direction, then another. Both were repelled into the chests of the two waiting Asvari. The space station looked like a modern art masterpiece, blood and guts everywhere. He heard what sounded like someone being sick behind him, but he carried on regardless. This had been going on too long. He wanted the dance to end.

  He could hear shouting now, screaming. He could discern a boy’s voice and a girl’s. Vyleria, it had to be. Almost there…

  A little further down the corridor Jack found a large metal box stuck to the wall of the corridor. One of the Asvari’s hands was still stuck to it. More shouting, more screaming. They were in the next room. It was going to be over soon.

  “That’s it!” shouted the Russian astronaut behind him. “The gravity device. No don’t!”

  Before the Russian astronaut could finish his sentence, Jack brought his sword up into a wide killing arc, slicing the device in two. The gravity leeched from the space station immediately as arms and legs twirled about in despair, in desperation.

  But not Jack.

  Jack was ready for this, born for it, hungered for it. He bounced from one bulkhead to another, swirling into the room that held Vyleria like some kind of space hawk.

  A blue light grazed his head, another deflected off his sword, sheering the Asvari who fired it in two. Then mid-cartwheel he brought out his space pistol and fired four shots into the chest of the last remaining Asvari.

  He landed on his feet like an Olympic gymnast, certain that the Gold medal was his, and turned to face Vyleria.

  Gaz and Jorge stared back.

  “Where’s Vyleria?” he asked, thinking that she was hiding behind him somehow, ready to trick him. “I was told that she was here. With you,” he said, trying not to look at Jorge.

  “Who told you that?”

  “One of the Asvari guards back on the spaceship.”

  “You mean the enemy? The ones who are trying to kill us?”

  “No, it wasn’t like that. They had nothing to lose.”

  “I don’t believe what I’m hearing! Jack, they took Vyleria away before we got onto the flying saucers, she’s still their prisoner.”

  “But why?” asked Jack.

  “Because Ren knows you still like her,” said Jorge, eyes on fire. “She’s his insurance policy. I swear if anything happens to her…”

  “Nothing will happen to her, nothing at all.”

  “How do you know Jack?”

  “I…”

  “We’ve got to go back and get her straight away,” said Jorge. “Before it’s too late, before they…”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean? Who are you to tell me anything?”

  “I’m your captain,” said Jack, looking him straight in the eyes. “If we go back to save Vyleria we’ll get shot down before we even get within a hundred miles of the spaceship. Not without Ros’ help anyway. We are going somewhere else first.”

  “Where?” asked Gaz.

  “Back home,” said Jack, glancing towards the viewing portal. Lights and flashes seared the clouds all the colours of the rainbow - a rainbow of blood and violence.

  “Come on, someone’s got to stop this invasion,” he said.

  “But why us?” said Jorge.

  “Because there’s no one else,” said Jack, eyes fixed on a dark pall of smoke as it drifted over Los Angeles.

  Chapter Thirty-One: Revelations

  Grunt ran for what felt like forever.

  When he stopped he was in some dark, catacomb-like rooms. The first thing he noticed was the cold. A strong wind blew through the halls like a holocaust, bringing with it the stench of death and decay. Faintly, he could hear a series of sighs, sobs and moans, like a nest of half-starved snakes. He peered into the drab darkness.

  There were Xenti everywhere. On floors, benches, slumped over chairs. He walked towards one of the rooms, only for a damp latticework of iron bars to deny him entry. He peered into the cell and saw several Xenti cramped into one room; some were even sleeping on top of each other, their fevered snores resounding like slurred thunder.

  Suddenly there was a loud grating sound, like the sound of a reverberating drill. There was a flurry of limbs, pincers and gnashing teeth as the Xenti rushed over towards the far wall, fighting off one another until only one remained.

  The victor stood prostrate before what looked like an iron-grey pipe, grime and mold coating its rim. Then the drill started-up again, followed by a loud deep bellowing.

  An explosion of black ooze spurted into the Xenti’s face, his claws and tongue feverishly lapping up the liquid, the other Xenti following suit.

  When the first Xenti had had his fill, he sloped-off to the other side of the room, before his position at the front was violently contested again, the slop flowing freely now. More hands. More claws.

  Grunt turned away disgusted.

  From somewhere far-off he heard cheering, shouting, sounds of celebration. What was there to be happy about around here?

  He stalked away as quickly as he could, stepping in the occasional dark pool, the scenes from earlier eerily repeated along the entire length of the corridor.

  The sounds of the party were getting louder, closer. What was going on?

  Grunt stepped into a clean, well-lit room, with a clear glass table in the centre. Around this were eight of the helmeted figures he’d observed earlier. One of them stood to his feet.

  “Here he comes,” he declared, holding up a glass of dark, black liquid towards the far end of the room. “The all-conquering hero. The champion.”

  A Xenti in full battle regalia was brought through a door and made to sit at the head of the table. Grunt recognised him instantly. It was the Xenti who had killed Xylem. Hate and anger flowered inside him for a second, but he brushed it away. What was Xylem to him? He was glad he was dead, he deserved it.

  “We salute you, noble warrior,” the figure continued. “For your bravery, for your ability in battle, your ferocity.”

  “When will I get my ssship?” the Xenti slurred. “And freedom?”

  “Soon. Soon. All in good time. There’s no need to hurry. We are quite comfortable right here. And hungry too. Please sit.”

  The Xenti did as he was told, looking nervously around the room. “What’sss on the menu?” he half hissed, half slurred. “I haven’t had
ssscuttleworm in agesss.”

  “YOU!” boomed the giant, his football-sized fists impacting with the table.

  The Xenti jumped up immediately and tried to run away, only for some unseen force to stop him and hold him in place. It was like he was trapped in a giant vice. Then he started to rise and float, drifting over the cups, knives and plates. He came to a rest in the middle of the table, his body prostrate, face gripped by fear.

  “Pleassse, I’ll do anything,” gasped the Xenti, before a nest of tubes shot down from the ceiling, impaling his arms, legs and chest. The biggest and longest cut a path through his throat and chest, exiting his abdomen, coming to rest over a huge glass pitcher in the centre of the table.

  Grunt expected the Xenti to struggle, to cry, to beg, but he just hung there suspended, a look of absolute terror covering his face.

  Then the liquid began to flow from the main pipe, just a trickle at first, but then faster and faster, until the blood gushed and spurted, filling the jug to the brim.

  Then the giant lifted the pitcher to his metal lips, gulping down the oil-like liquid. Once he had finished, he passed the container around the room. They drank like it was life itself, heavily and without pause. When the last drop had been slurped up the leader looked up at the Xenti. “You made a nice starter,” he said, running a scalpel down his chest. “Now it’s time for the main course.”

  The Xenti screamed.

  Grunt turned around and ran back down the corridor, the sounds of drills and cutting tools filling his ears.

  By the time he had stopped running, the Xenti had stopped screaming. All he could hear now were the sounds of chewing and the occasional cracking of bones. He wanted to be sick.

  “Grunt, isss that you?”

  Grunt spun around at the sound of his name. He peered into one of the cells. It was like looking into a dark cave of misery. Xenti lay everywhere, shivering, moaning, dying. The stench of feces wafted on what little air there was. They didn’t deserve this. Nobody did.

  “Sssorry,” the voice hissed again, in between violent coughing fits. “Thisss isss all my fault.” It was coming from a figure propped up against the far wall. Grunt stepped closer, the shadow getting clearer, more distinct.