The Golden Circuit (The Smith Chronicles)

by John K. Irvine

  THE GOLDEN CIRCUIT

  BOOK ONE OF ‘THE SMITH CHRONICLES’

  JOHN K. IRVINE

  Copyright © 2013 John K. Irvine

  All rights reserved

  Published by John Irvine

  ISBN: 978-0-9926782-0-3

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Part One

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Part Two

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  About The Author

  Acknowledgements

  There is no such thing as a finished book. There is always something that you could change, if you wanted to. Or something, somewhere that’s been overlooked - a ‘t’ not crossed, an ‘i’ not dotted (though that is tricky on a QWERTY). But, at some point, you have to draw the double bars. As Miles Davis once said to John Coltrane, when the mighty Trane expressed his lack of ability to stop soloing: ‘Take the horn out of your mouth’. And, indeed, I’ll do that… in a second.

  But first, I’d like to give a special thanks to the three people who have assisted me in the creation of ‘The Golden Circuit’:

  To Jonn Serrie: whose inspirational, and beautiful, space music has accompanied the writing of this book. Thank you, Jonn.

  To Sam Hayles: for the magical book cover. A truly wonderful piece of art that I still can’t stop looking at, and looking at. Thank you, Sam.

  To Louise Ironside: who took out her steely blade and cut my entire first chapter, then proceeded to suggest a myriad of things that I would never have thought of on my own. Thank you, Louise.

  For Daniel & Emer

  *

  Truth (satya) implies love, and firmness (agraha) engenders and, therefore, serves as a synonym for force. I thus began to call the Indian movement ‘Satyagraha’, that is to say, the Force which is born of Truth and Love.

  Mohandas Gandhi - ‘Satyagraha in South Africa’ 1926

  PART ONE

  ‘On The Run’

  Prologue

  16:25 – Wednesday, May 18, 2174 (Muhaze, Tapi-36)

  The qi-bird wasn’t moving. It looked dead. Not a single one of its brightly coloured feathers stirred - there were no signs of life.

  Without thinking, the little girl knelt down and picked up the lifeless creature in the palm of her hand. She held it close to her chest, under her chin. The poor thing, she thought, then felt a reassuring hand on her shoulder as her mother knelt down beside her, and smiled. The woman gathered her daughter into her arms and said something, softly, in her ear.

  Then, together, they closed their eyes.

  The young girl began to feel the tingling of an almost electric energy from somewhere deep within her, near the solar plexus area beneath her stomach. It was oddly painful and she wished it would stop - so intense was the feeling. She stole a look at her mother and saw that she was still smiling, so she, too, held on.

  Her whole body began to tremor like there was a Tapi-quake occurring right underneath her feet, and tears began to form in the corners of her eyes. The pain inside grew and grew, as a warm glow materialised around her lower arms and hands, producing a radiant, ochre light that moved steadily to surround the bird. Then, just when she thought she could stand the pain no longer, the energy and the golden light disappeared.

  The girl was left breathing heavily as she carefully put the qi-bird back on the ground. She stood back and watched in amazement as it began to flutter its wings, then flittered over, getting itself onto its feet. A few more ruffles of its feathers and it took off.

  It was alive!

  Chapter 1

  09:25 - Friday, July 27, 2187 (Muhaze, Tapi-36)

  Mikita Smith had a heart, she just didn’t want anyone looking into it without her permission. She simply needed to find her own space where no one could hurt her; somewhere she didn’t have to hide away all that sucky angst; where she could lay out all her things, look up to the horizon, and say: ‘Here is another day. I am ready.’

  And just where the fire is that? Mikita wondered, as she stared out across the city from the window of Hanoi’s apartment.

  It was midsummer in Muhaze. The skies were usually clear as glass and the mercury high, but, today, Mikita saw dark clouds moving in to block out the sun and felt a brittle chill on the back of her neck. Perhaps it was the sudden change in temperature that had made her shiver, but it was more likely the memory of last night’s argument with Hanoi that had brought the shudder to her spine.

  He’d tried to give her his key.

  His draining key!

  They’d only known each other two minutes and he was already inviting her to move in. She’d refused to take it - then he’d called her a commitment-phobe. Well, maybe she was. So what? Did that make her a bad person?

  Hanoi had left for his night shift, leaving her alone in his flat to ‘think things through’, but Mikita didn’t need to do that. She already knew that it wasn’t going to work out between the two of them. And the cold light of day had only served to reaffirm that it was for the best - to get out, before things got more complicated.

  That said, Hanoi’s flat was very nice. Way nicer than her student rental, so it hadn’t bothered her to stay in it while he was at work. But, now, she just wanted to leave, before he returned and wanted to ‘talk’ again.

  Mikita fixed up the sofa she’d slept on and put her belongings into her bag, then went into the kitchen and found an envelope. On the front, she wrote: ‘Sorry, I can’t do this, M’, then put Hanoi’s key inside and sealed it. She placed it on the living room table, so he would see it when he came in, then left the flat, closing the door firmly behind her.

  You need to be more careful who you get involved with, Mikita, she thought. Don’t you think it would be better to avoid this kind of situation, in future?

  She breathed a sigh and headed down the hall for the Weah Mansions lift.

  Further down the corridor, she saw Gompi, the caretaker-mutant, busy doing his morning rounds. Mikita had spoken to him a few times before, when she’d been at Hanoi’s working on her Mu-U essays. Gompi wasn’t like the regular mutants, he was an anomaly. Mikita thought that it was the way he took things to heart (even if it was a battery powered Cardio-Pump, Model No. SN14).

  The TAPCON Specialists had done a good job with Gompi. He had an official, formal look to him, and the standard silvery-blonde hair (that all mutants were given) only added to this efficient, custodial demeanour. He was dressed in a stiffly-ironed white shirt, a black waistcoat and a purple cravat. And his shoes were sparkling, having had a fresh polish during his Mu-tea break earlier
that morning.

  Gompi always had a smile on his face and did his best to keep some sense of order and decorum at Weah Mansions. Unfortunately, Mr. Dontai, the factor, wasn’t interested in spending money on the maintenance of his property. He was only concerned with making as many Muhazian dollars as quickly as he could. As a result, the paint was peeling off the walls, windows were smashed (with the shards put back and held together with duct tape), broken banisters and railings were mended with bits of wire and old string, and never mind the elevator that was fast becoming a bucket of junk on a rope.

  “Good morning, Mikita Smith,” said Gompi, giving her a little bow. His voice had that robotic monotone that all mutants possessed. Which made sense really, considering he was half robot and half - well, whatever the Specialists could get their hands on at the time.

  “Good morning, Gompi,” replied Mikita.

  “Mikita Smith have green eyes,” said the mutant, looking pleased with himself.

  “Yes, I do, Gompi,” she said, slightly taken aback. “Thank you for noticing… I guess.”

  “It is job, Mikita Smith. Gompi notice who come and who go, what look like. Mr. Dontai want to know.”

  “Ah, yes, I’m sure he does,” said Mikita, wryly.

  “He say, ‘Gompi, you tell me names, give description what look like, you ask questions.’ I tell him, ‘It a pleasure, sir.’”

  “Well, it seems like you’re doing your job perfectly, Gompi,” said Mikita. “It’s a very old building and needs someone like you to take care of it.”

  “Oh, it old, all right. I hear Mr. Dontai say top floor sway about in wind. Up to one metre side to side! But I never feel that happen. You not worry, Mikita Smith.”

  “I won’t, Gompi. And you keep up the good work.”

  “Thank you, Mikita Smith. I try do my best,” he said, with mutanty pride. “OK. I go. You have your nice day.”

  “Thanks, Gompi. You, too.”

  Mikita walked over to the lift and pressed the recall button. After a short pause, she heard the elevator clanking its way up the hoist towards the 12th floor. It was wheezing and spluttering like a fat man contemplating exercise.

  One of these days, thought Mikita, some sad sap is going to get mashed in that contraption.

  It stopped with a heavy clunk and the doors opened with all the effort of said fat man attempting to get up off the sofa. Taking her life in her hands, she got in and pressed the button for the ground floor. She hoped that Hanoi hadn’t come home early and was waiting for the lift down in the lobby.

  That would be just my draining luck.

  It took a few seconds, but eventually the lift managed to jerk itself into motion. To Mikita’s annoyance, it began to clatter its way up, instead of down.

  Oh, come on, you shizzing death box! she cursed, as it went right to the top floor - the 15th - and stopped.

  The doors futzed themselves open.

  Standing there, much to Mikita’s dismay, were two of the block’s more infamous derelicts: Vannerman - a black-market racketeer and drug dealer (clutching his obligatory bottle of Muhazian beer) and his girlfriend, Taarja - a complete flake and energy vampire. And on a leash, with Vannerman, was something else.

  Mikita stepped aside in revulsion as the three beings burst into the elevator.

  “Oh! Hi, Mikita!” frothed Vannerman, haphazardly pressing floor recall buttons. “Woooooah, looking fine today, lady. You know, you need to come round to our place sometime for some beverages - and other things!” he babbled, doing a mime of smoking some kind of illegal, Earth-based herb.

  The lift doors closed as Taarja slapped him on the arm in semi-mock-jealousy. “Vannerman! You dirty draining rotter!” she squawked, then changed her tiny mind. “Well, actually, that’s not a bad idea,” she said, mooning her black eyes at Mikita and starting to giggle like a demented child. “She is my type, after all! Sulky and moody! Oh, hurt me, Mikita, hurt me with that sultry stare of yours!”

  Mikita said nothing. She was too busy looking at their companion stuttering about the lift on its six, short, sucker-strewn legs producing a squelching sound. It was quite common for Tapians to have pets, and alien ones at that, but this gargoyle was like nothing she'd ever seen before. And, now, it was making a rasping, sucking noise that made her feel ill; like she’d been gagged and bound, and thrown into a pool of sick.

  “Drain me, what the fire is that!” she thought.

  At about three feet tall, its head was small and rectangular with no obvious nose, and it had a hole for a mouth that looked like a crushed peach. The number ‘317’ was tattooed into its closely shaven head and a small tuft of black hair stuck up at the front like some ageing, Earth-based Goth. A clear plastic tube ran down from the centre of its forehead, past three adjoining, frog-like eyes and into the side of its neck. Lime-coloured liquid was pushing through the tube in spasmodic bursts. It had arms, though far too many for Mikita to count, while its entire body was covered in hideous, wart-like cysts that seemed to be opening and closing, giving off a rank stench that filled the lift with noxious fumes. The elevator was reeking of the thing! Mikita tried not to breathe - if she did, she was sure she would retch.

  “You’re quiet today, Miki-Chick,” said Vannerman, “What’s the matter? Hanoi dump you, or something? Ha, ha!”

  The alien pet was now staring at Mikita and jigging up and down.

  “Ha, ha,” cackled Taarja. “Look at him! He likes you, Mikita. Don’t you, Leo? You like her, don’t you?”

  “Tsssturck-tsssturck! Hurg-hurg!” said the alien, as a long, red thing, that was probably its tongue, poked out of his mouth and a bit of yellow drool dripped off the end of it.

  Oh, my shizzing Herra! thought Mikita, as she closed her eyes in disgust, and her stomach churned.

  Vannerman pounced. “Well, if you’re a singleton now, why don’t you come over tonight and watch the Argon lift-off with us?” he slimed. “We can have a bit of a par-tay? Just us four.”

  Mikita shot Vannerman a look as the crippled lift jolted to a stop at the ground floor.

  The gruesome threesome spilled out into the lobby.

  “OK! See ya, Mikita! Message me!” Vannerman said, pinching Taarja’s behind, and getting a further clout from her in retaliation. He grinned, blearily, and took a hefty swig from his bottle, then whooped - “Come on, guys, let’s all go shopping!” - and the three of them went off, laughing and squelching, through the front door of the building, out into Weah Stratis.

  By this time, Mikita had almost turned blue.

  She got out of the lift… and exhaled.

  Chapter 2

  16:47 - Friday, July 27, 2187 (Muhaze, Tapi-36)

  About 95% of the population on Tapi-36 was made up of humans - Earth-descended humans, to be exact - while the remaining 5% of its inhabitants were mutants, like Gompi, engineered by the Specialists and their assisting scientists.

  The mutants were created solely to perform any task that was deemed unnecessary for a human to undertake. This initially had caused some ructions amongst the general public as a great many of them had to be retrained for new jobs. But as these jobs turned out to have: 1. Better pay and 2. Better working conditions, they were pleased with the new system. The mutants did the grunt work, the Tapians controlled the mutants, and TAPCON controlled the Tapians.

  Perfect.

  The planet ran like a well-oiled machine. Everyone knew their place. Each cog linked securely to the next, and nobody asked any questions. And if they did decide to raise a voice in protest, they would have to answer to TAPCON for the privilege.

  The Tapian Planetary Conglomerate was the planet’s controlling body, put in place by the Interplanetary Federation of Systems - itself an ‘all-in-one’ think-tank and supreme court set up in order to provide extraterrestrial jurisdiction for all solar systems included in the Earth’s New Frontiers programme. Tapi-36 was located at the perimeter, at the very edge of this fantastical blueprint and TAPCON had been in charge ever since the d
iaspora from Earth, 82 years ago, in 2105.

  Given the all clear from the IFS, the first starships travelled from Earth to the Michael 6 Quadrant: a planetary grouping within the Milky Way, but still a long, long way from Earth.

  There had been ten spacecraft in all, carrying settlers from the main nation powers on Earth at that time: Scotland, Canada, Japan and Belgium. Basecamps were deposited onto selected planets and moons along the way, serving as safety nets should anything go wrong with the mission as it progressed. This turned out to be a wise decision, as the Starship Pan had to turn back to the Eris base at 96AU when it developed trouble with its reactor engines. It eventually followed on much later, arriving six months after the other starships and was currently mothballed on Reis-91, the smallest, and closest, moon to Tapi-36.

  It had taken over three years for those first craft to complete the journey to Michael 6 - travelling out past the seven planets, the Kuiper belt, the scattered disc, past the Termination Shock and on through the Heliopause into interstellar space - and out of all the old spacecraft, only the Argon remained in commission.

  Its current function was as a stationary training vessel for TAPCON’s space programme. However, TAPCON would still wheel it out, every now again, for short, non-combative sorties. David Sempre, the Chief Executive Officer of TAPCON, thought that it filled the Tapian people with a certain nostalgia for their ancestral home; that it was good for public morale. And he was right. Tapians loved the Argon. They loved all that ‘glorious heritage of their Earth-based forefathers’ stuff. It also saved Sempre a fortune, as these older, smaller, craft were cheaper to run - and money was in short supply on Tapi-36.

  On this particular afternoon, David Sempre was sitting behind his long, glass desk in his office at the top of TAPCON Towers. The sun was streaming through an enormous panoramic window creating a prismatic reflection on the large, white rug covering his mirror-buffed floor. But Sempre didn't see the little rainbow - he was too busy thinking his dark thoughts.