Challenging Destiny #23

by Crystalline Sphere Authors

  Two nights later, unable to sleep, Collin asked the computer to show him Victela and she appeared on his monitor having sex with Amir. Collin didn't mean to watch but he didn't shut the monitor off as quickly as he might have. As he should have. For a while he wanted to go to her cabin, explain why he'd refused her advances, confess to being her watcher and promise to keep her safe. He didn't, though; instead he sent Lynette a text message saying simply that rule one sucked and rule two was worse.

  Having finished their survey of the unexplored system, they leapt again. Victela was too busy to notice, seemingly unaware of the tie just broken. They were no longer on Elpenor time; back on Victela's home world history went on without her. Collin watched, digging through the records, trying to find the Captain's reason for choosing him. He found nothing.

  A brief survey, barely four weeks, and they leapt again. Three days in the new system and Collin, watching on his monitor, saw the look on her face. It was in the hesitation of her smile, the new wariness in her eyes. A quick check of ship's systems proved Victela didn't need Collin's help to turn an antenna towards Elpenor anymore. Collin sent a text message to Lynette; her response was quick.

  I KNOW—WATCH HER.

  Collin's monitor showed Victela climbing down the spin, sitting in the empty lounge as gravity pulled tears down her cheeks. Shaking his head, Collin shut off his monitor.

  Reaching the bottom of the ladder Collin walked, whistling to announce his presence, down to the spin lounge. Lynette was there, her face hastily dried on her sleeve, a drama playing on the lounge's screen.

  "Oh, hello,” Collin said, hoping to sound casual. “What are you watching?"

  "Nothing really,” Lynette answered, her tone unreadable. Since Collin had declined her invitation there had been a distance between them.

  "Is it something from Elpenor?” Collin asked as innocently as he could.

  Victela nodded. “I'm probably the only person in the universe who remembers it,” Victela mused.

  "Probably,” Collin agreed. “Mind if I stay and watch? Could we back it up, see it from the beginning?"

  Her shrug of acceptance was casual but she watched the drama avidly. When it was done they both stood and stretched. Collin studied the woman out of the corner of his eye; her expression was settled. The smile that danced across her features, the broad smile of a thousand inflections and degrees, was lost in uncertainty but Collin was confident she wouldn't harm herself tonight. There was a lifetime of nights ahead of her, though.

  "Thanks, Collin,” Victela said, looking up at him. “That was fun."

  "I had a good time too,” Collin admitted. He'd surprised himself by enjoying both the drama and the quiet company. More than that, Collin knew now why the Captain had chosen him to be her watcher. The answer had been in the drama and in the way Victela looked up at him. Climbing out of the spin, they bid each other good night and Collin went back to watching her on his monitor.

  Her break-up with Amir was sudden and dramatic, played out in a corridor before many watching eyes. Amir sulked in his cabin, coming out only for duty shifts, while Victela took up with Byron. They leapt again, putting more history between Victela and her world. Byron was out, Helen was invited in. Another survey complete, another duty cycle over. Leaping again, they found a data buoy left by another Commonwealth survey ship a mere one hundred and fifty years before. In terms of interstellar travel it was a near collision. Everyone talked about it, about how strange it would be to encounter another crew out here, while Victela quietly ushered Helen out of her bed. Victela flirted but there was something needy in her eyes now, something unsettling. Everyone knew what it was, what might happen, what was almost certainly going to happen, but they chose not to speak about it. Failing to acknowledge her need freed them from having to take action.

  "What do you expect, Collin?” Lynette demanded after he complained to her. “She's in the bad-lands, driving for the edge. They've all been there, none of them want to go back. They're protecting themselves and it's a good thing they are."

  "Someone could help her.” Collin's words were bitter. “If it weren't for the damn rules I'd—"

  "No, Collin, you wouldn't.” Lynette's blue eyes were uncompromising. “You'd keep your distance. You'd protect yourself and, in doing so, protect the ship. You care for her because you've spent so much time watching her. If you weren't her watcher you'd be acting just like the rest of them. And even if you were sleeping with her, Collin, I'd be running into you in some private corridor and warning you to be careful."

  Collin fumed, knowing Lynette was right and hating the fact. Angry but unable to refute her, Collin snarled the first words that came into his thoughts. “I know why the Captain chose me for this."

  Lynette shook her head. “And does it matter anymore? We're in this now, we need to see it through. For Victela's sake, for the safety of the ship. Don't forget rule three."

  "Save the ship,” Collin answered. He stood and walked toward Lynette's door.

  "Collin, I know how much you're watching her—"

  "I just want to be ready,” Collin countered.

  "Fair enough. It won't be long now. I'm trimming your duty schedule so you'll have more time to watch but Collin—"

  "Yes?"

  "—take care of yourself too. If she can't be saved, don't follow her down. Rule four, Collin. We need you too."

  Nodding, Collin returned to his cabin and the monitor that had become his universe. Victela was spending a lot of time stretched in her bunk, inactive and unresponsive, rousing herself only for the duty cycles she dragged herself through without any enthusiasm. Collin noted how Lynette had a second team double-check Victela's work. The Captain and Lynette were good at this; they were obviously experienced. If they had to, they'd watch Victela die just as they'd watched others die before her. Their concern was the ship, first and foremost; they made no pretense otherwise. Collin knew that if it came down to a choice, they'd vent Victela before risking the ship.

  Collin thought Victela was worth some risk.

  The ship leapt again and Victela again turned an antenna towards her distant home. As the ship unfolded and the survey began, Victela seemed to improve. She became more active, going to the rec-pods and lounges more, taking more care while completing her duties. People around her relaxed, spoke more easily with her. Collin wasn't fooled; he started watching her while she slept, certain she'd act if he looked away. He was a mess, he knew it, but it would be worth it if he saved her. And if he couldn't—

  Rule four was heavy on his mind these days, the rule against suicide. If he couldn't save Victela, Collin had decided he would wait the promised year before taking his own life. If he couldn't save her, he didn't think he'd be able to live beneath the weight of his failure.

  One more survey complete, the ship began folding up in preparation for the leap. Collin begged off his duty schedule, claiming his was sick. He watched the monitor, following Victela from camera to camera. Even so, he still almost missed it.

  Scheduled to work on the main gantry during the leap, Victela traded with Venks so she could work the primary forward sensor array. Once there she composed a brief note and sent it to herself. Collin read it and hurried out of his cabin. He had to reach her before the leap.

  Rushing through corridors, shoving his crewmates out of the way, Collin considered contacting Lynette. He still had no idea how Victela was going to do it but he didn't think she'd jeopardise the ship, not on purpose anyway. It wasn't like her. Collin reached for the hatch leading to the forward array and, as the universe collapsed into a pearl before him, screamed his fear, frustration and failure into the nothing. Falling back into the real, Collin's hands scrambled at on the hatch.

  "Victela?"

  She jumped, startled. He reached out to steady her.

  "Collin, how you'd get in? You weren't there when we leapt."

  Shrugging, Collin examined her dark eyes. “I guess I just recovered more quickly than you. “Victela—" />
  Now that he was here, he had no idea what he should say.

  "You'd better leave Collin, I've got work to do."

  Collin's eyes darted around the room, looking for some sign, some clue as to what she planned. “Okay,” Collin said lamely. “I just wondered if you wanted to watch a drama with me tonight, something from Elpenor."

  "Some other time, Collin.” Her voice was flat, a still surface concealing depths of meaning. Collin's mind was racing, searching for something—anything—to say. He couldn't tell her he knew, couldn't tell her he'd been watching. It would buy him time but it would be a betrayal. She'd know then they hadn't trusted her, she'd misunderstand. He needed something else but what?

  He couldn't think of anything, then he remembered why the Captain had chosen him.

  "You know, I'm from Elpenor too,” Collin admitted.

  Victela turned towards Collin, looking up at him distrustfully.

  "I mean, it wasn't called Elpenor when I left,” Collin admitted. “Didn't even have a name then, just CTE-82, one of dozens of terra-forming experiments. My parents always believed their work would be rewarded but I lacked their faith."

  Her eyes were fixed on him; he had her full attention. Collin paused, to give her a chance to speak, but when she didn't say anything he continued. “I didn't know, when we were in orbit. Didn't know the world had earned a name—I stopped checking years ago. There was a crisis—it seemed like the bio-functions were collapsing, and I was afraid the world would be abandoned and my family's lives spent in vain. Rather than hear the bad news I just stopped checking. I'd never have known about Elpenor if you hadn't come aboard. I used to be the shortest person on the ship, you know, until you arrived. The high gravity of Elpenor, no amount of terra-forming can change a planet's mass. Even then I didn't notice. I mean, if I hadn't watched that drama with you and noticed how short everyone was—"

  "Collin, what's your last name?” Victela asked, her eyes narrow.

  "Halett. Of course nobody on board uses last names but—What's wrong?"

  Victela covered her mouth with her hands, her wide eyes stared at Collin as if seeing him for the first time. “Collin Halett? That's impossible, you'd have to be a thousand years old!"

  "About eight, no, make that nine years for me now. I know what it's like to leave a world behind, Victela, to be the last of your generation. I remember their faces, what made us all laugh, what we were passionate about. Sometimes I feel like an old flag, hanging in a dusty museum, covered in symbols no one can understand any more. There was a time when I wanted to rejoin my generation the only way I could. I'd have done it too except, well, someone explained to me we were all the same out here. We're all haunted by the people and places we left behind. Some of us find a way to carry on. Some don't."

  Her eyes twitched, looking at something to Collin's right. Following her gaze Collin at last saw something that didn't belong. A metal pole, sharpened at one end, not something you could hurt yourself with—unless you jabbed it into a high voltage cable. Collin looked to the senor array gantry. When retracted the cables were hidden behind the metal supports but, as the array was extended and the metal beams scissored out, the pole would be the perfect length. Collin wanted to reach out and take it, bundle Victela up and carry her back to her cabin, but he resisted. He couldn't save her; his own experience had taught him that. Only Victela could save herself. Letting the silence grow, Collin waited to hear what Victela would say to end the quiet.

  "Um, Collin, maybe we could catch something tonight. I know a drama you might like—"

  "Sounds great.” Collin smiled.

  "You know...” A ghost of her former smile brightened Victela's face and her dark eyes shone mischievously. “I tried to get into the university they named after you but my marks weren't good enough."

  "What?” It was Collin's turn to gape. Victela's smile broadened.

  A buzzer sounded, and Lynette's voice came over the intercom. “Is there a problem down there? Why hasn't the sensor array been extended?"

  "My fault,” Collin answered. “Sorry. Duty cycle mix-up.” To Victela, he asked, “Want some help?"

  "I've got it, I'll see you tonight down in the spin."

  Collin nodded and left, returning to his cabin to clean up and rest. A red icon blinked on the monitor there, a waiting text message. He opened it, seeing without surprise it was from Lynette and co-signed by the Captain. Reading it, Collin smiled.

  WELL DONE—YOUR WATCH IS OVER.

  * * * *

  JR Campbell's fiction has appeared in a wide variety of publications including Fantasy, Folklore & Fairytales, Wax Romantic and Spinetingler Magazine and the anthologies Fantastic Visions IV, Bone Ballet and Curious Incidents. From time to time his work can also be heard on radio's Imagination Theater and The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

  * * * *

  There are books you admire and books you love. Ulysses is easy to admire; Pride and Prejudice is easy to love. I think that when you love a book, it's almost always because of voice, because you want to know the person telling you the story.

  —Graham Sleight, “Yesterday's Tomorrows” in Locus (June 2006, Vol 56 No 6)

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  The Vampire Who Doted on His Chicken by Ken Rand

  A feller parted the batwing doors of the Lucky Nickel Saloon, letting in a bucketful of snow and a cold gust off Second Ave, Laramie, Wyoming Territory, U S of A, holding a chicken in his hand, and he looked bewildered. The feller, I mean, looked bewildered. The chicken looked dead.

  The feller looked preacher-like, clean-shaven, and gussied up in a black frock coat, boiled shirt and string tie. Hatless. He wasn't a preacher, though. He held a chicken in hand instead of the Good Book.

  The chicken, your regular white bantam, hung upside down, feet grasped in the feller's bony fist. A white feather drifted floorward.

  The feller, tall and rail-fence skinny, all knees and elbows, blinked somber-faced in the dim light—the saloon was bereft of windows—as if he wasn't sure where he was at.

  'Twas a tranquil though cold winter day. Me and Banky and Casper sat at table playing poker, matchstick stakes as we were broke as usual. We sat close to the potbellied stove so we could shove sticks in as needed because ‘twas colder than a banker's smile. Blizzard been going on three, four days. We'd caulked the wall gaps as best we could with gum and chaw and spit. Helped keep the heat in, but it kept the smell in too. You don't want to know.

  Still, ‘twas tranquil enough.

  The guy wasn't armed, so Banky made no move for his Colt. Casper didn't bother to look up out of his good eye, so I figured he was trying to fill him an inside straight. I held me two aces so I didn't look much neither.

  Mick, our taciturn and Irish barkeep, stood behind the bar buffing shotglass with snotrag. Charlie lay asleep under the piano and Jack Thatcher hadn't arrived yet. I expected he might not arrive atall, as the storm was hefty.

  Nobody else present as ‘twas a Tuesday noon, a week and a half till payday, and this blizzard afield, as told.

  Mick upped “Help you?” just as Sam Something pushed through the doors, puffing like a locomotive making a seven-degree grade. Sam was a back-east dude reporter who stopped by from time to time to wet his whistle between trains and whose family name I never cottoned proper. He wasn't a pest, much, nor a damnfool. He played lousy but enthusiastic poker and paid in cash, so we let him be a semi-regular.

  "There you are,” Sam declared. He patted the feller on his bony shoulder and snowflakes fluttered to the sawdust floor. “See you found it.” He waved a hand at us as if we was medicine show displays. “Yessir, these here are the regulars of the Lucky Nickel—"

  "Is that a cooking bantam?” Casper took out his glass eye, puffed a garlicky breath on it and buffed it on his sleeve.

  "Well, sir,” Sam responded, wiping snow off his white mustache, “you see—"

  "We-all ain't had dinner in a day or so,” Banky informed. “On accou
nt of the storm and all. Supplies are scarce."

  "Well, sir—"

  "We'd be pleased to help you cook up your hen,” I offered.

  "Well, sir.” Sam looked at the guy. “Ain't for me to say."

  "How's about it, partner?” I quizzed.

  The guy looked puzzled, and Sam spoke in Persian or Polish or Pakistany, dunno which, but it wasn't American nor even Mexican. The guy responded likewise and Sam reported: “He says, sure, you can eat the chicken, but he gets to guzzle down his share first."

  "Huh?” we all inquired.

  "Just fetch up a skillet,” Sam retorted. “This won't take but a second."

  Sam and the feller and the chicken sat at a table, also close by the potbellied stove, and the guy wrung the chicken's neck. We all stood around watching. Sam and his friend both smelled pepperminty, freshly shaved, I reckoned. The chicken smelled like a chicken.

  Then the feller did something I never seen in all my days, and I've had me a few days, and seen me a few things, sober and not. He cut the chicken's neck with his jackknife and held the cut to his lips and sucked the blood outten the chicken. Slurp, slurp, slurp. Eyes closed, he looked as content as a newborn calf at titty. Sucked on that bantam, slurpslurpslurp.

  Casper's eyeball popped out and he caught it afore it went clattery across the sawdust floor, Banky drew reflexively, Mick grunted in bewonderment, and I was impressed too. Charlie slept and Jack Thatcher hadn't arrived yet, so I don't know how they took it.

  At last, “Ah!” the fellow sighed, and set the bloodless chicken down. He muffled a satisfied burp with a pale fist, set back and smiled like he'd just et a home-cooked Thanksgiving dinner and got the wishbone. Real tranquil.

  You can disbelieve this next part if you want, since Sam was as apt to make stuff up for entertainment purposes as the next feller, but we listened to his story, as ‘twas polite to do so, and we didn't guffaw a bit.

  Here's what Sam told: the feller, whose name we finally took to be “Count Wreckala,” was a foreign royal feller, and what Sam called a “vampire.” Thought he's said “umpire” at first and that got us off on a tangent, but we got back in the saddle pronto. Seems as the Count dotes on blood, his favorite food, and he can't stomach meat nor potatoes, poor guy.