The Golden Circuit (The Smith Chronicles)

by John K. Irvine

  He pressed a red button on his built-in armchair remote and watched as two metallic doors slid open across the white wall in front of him. From behind the doors a large flatscreen appeared, moving out on an electronic arm into the office space. It was already broadcasting the coverage of the approaching Argon lift-off. Sempre turned up the volume:

  “Hello, Tapi-36! This is Kendall Crisp reporting for The Zip from the TAPCON Airbase in beautiful Muhaze, Arrondissement 8! Tonight we will witness the momentous departure of the Starship Argon to Baal-500, our wonderful third moon, where, as you know, the Codes are willfully abandoning their animals, leaving them to die horrific deaths all alone on the planet. The ship leaves in just over 2hrs time and, in a moment, we’ll have exclusive interviews with Captain Jameson and the crew - our heroes – who are about to board this glorious starship.”

  Kendall Crisp had wavy, yellow hair that was combed up into a wispy, powdery quiff on top of his head. He wore orange, heavy-rimmed spectacles and a dark, maroon-coloured jacket with an annoying, multi-coloured bow-tie that twirled around every so often, giving off a silly noise that sounded like: ‘sssshhhziiiiiipppp-p-p-p-p--p---p----p’. He was a true media floozy. He loved and craved the attention that his job gave him.

  Crisp was standing outside the airbase headquarters near the Argon’s dome-shaped hangar. Behind him, on specially erected bleachers, were over a thousand Muhazians who had come out specially to watch the Argon begin its mission. They were thronging around the reporter, waving at the camera, shouting for the Argon and the crew. They were so vociferous Crisp was having a hard time getting through his pieces to camera.

  In front of the crowd was a Megatron screen showing a split image of the Argon on one side (inside its hangar) and Crisp on the other (talking live). The crowd cheered whenever the cameras turned on them. They loved to see themselves up there on the big screen. Muhazians were like that.

  “Let’s go meet Captain Jameson and the crew of the Argon!” whooped Crisp, his high, tenor voice shrilling out from the PA system.

  The crowd exploded with cheers!

  The cameras panned round and focused on a group of eleven individuals assembled inside the operations building entrance.

  This was the crew of the Starship Argon.

  About half of them were dressed in the standard dark-blue TAPCON airforce uniforms (the higher officers of rank) while the others wore baggy, blue camouflage trousers and dark-grey tank tops (the lower ranking officers and technicians). Various airbase staff were checking the crew’s radios and communications equipment, making last minute checks, getting them ready for embarkation.

  Crisp, smiling and confident, in full ‘show-biz-journo’ mode, made his way over to the entrance. “Look!” he began, enthusiastically, “There’s Captain Jameson!”

  A huge roar from the crowd!

  Captain Philip Jameson was in his late 40s. 6’2”, ruggedly handsome, with short peppery hair and a steely gaze. He’d seen a lot of things in his time and took no nonsense. He watched Crisp coming towards him and shut his eyes briefly in resignation, before trying his best to smile at the reporter - it came out more like a grimace.

  “Captain Jameson, good evening, sir. How are you feeling tonight?” asked Crisp, his bow-tie whizzing round.

  “Good evening, Kendall,” he began, reluctantly. “How am I feeling? Well, I’m feeling good, we’re all feeling good.”

  “And are you excited to be getting back onboard the Starship Argon, sir?” probed Crisp. “Special memories for you, I would imagine?”

  “Yes. Certainly. Very special - I’m very excited,” replied Jameson, coolly.

  “And your feelings about the Codes, if I may, Captain. Are we going to blast them into interstellar space this time, sir?” Crisp was grinning at this and winking to the camera.

  “Blast the Codes?” said Jameson, surprised. “Well, no, Kendall. This mission is purely neutral. We’ll just see what we can do to help, there will be no blasting. At least, not from us, that’s for sure.”

  The crowd sighed.

  “But the Codes, Captain Jameson, they need to be shown a lesson, surely? Look what they’re doing to those poor creatures on Baal-500,” protested Crisp.

  “No, Kendall, that’s not in our orders. We’ve been told to treat this as a mission of non-aggression.”

  “But, sir, even as we speak, they’re committing heinous crimes of negligence on our moon - on our own doorstep - right in front of our very eyes!” exclaimed Crisp, shaking his head.

  The crowd murmured in agreement.

  Jameson was beginning to get warm under the collar. “Look. I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Crisp, and, so it seems, everybody here who has turned out to support us. But, I must point out, that the Interplanetary Federation of Systems has always stated that the Codes have never done anything that could, even remotely, be construed as inappropriate. Their species-linking methods have always been deemed legal. I’m sure there is a good reason for the situation on Baal-500 and it will be our job to see how we can assist.”

  Crisp looked downcast. This wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear. He turned to the crowd. “What do you say, everybody? Shall we blast the Codes?”

  The crowd exploded! “BLAST THE CODES! BLAST THE CODES!” they bayed.

  Jameson was now visibly annoyed, his face reddened. “Now, you listen to me, Crisp! You’ve got no right to -”

  “OK. OK. Thank you, Captain Jameson,” interrupted the reporter. Then he turned to the audience. “Always by the book, isn’t he, folks?”

  The crowd jeered at Jameson. “BOOOOOOO! BOOOOOOO!”

  “Right. Let’s go talk to the rest of the crew!” shouted the petulant hack.

  Leaving Jameson to stew, Crisp huffed his way through the melee of TAPCON assistants, the roving cameraman following closely behind.

  Jameson was relieved to see him go. Although, what had Crisp said at the end of the interview? ‘Always by the book’. It was already rankling with him, niggling away at his pride: Am I? Do I? he pondered.

  “Let’s see now, who do we have here?” said Crisp, his cynical eye scanning the line of crew members for potential loose tongues. “Ah, yes. Corporal Lead-Out. Isn’t she gorgeous, viewers?” (Wolf-whistles from the men in the crowd) “And Flying Officer Cox, dishy, no?” (‘Wooooooooooooooo!’ the ladies cougared) “Ah-ha! Lieutenant Susan McGilvary, second in command. Let’s get a word from her, shall we?”

  A muted cheer from the audience.

  McGilvary was dark-haired, medium build and strong jawed. Plain in looks, but confident in her abilities. She’d been serving under Jameson for a few years now, learning the trade from the ‘old dog’ as she called him (in private).

  To get to her, Crisp had to push his way past Crim and Hellius - two tall Sergeants built like Earth-based tanks, the brawn of the mission. They sneered at him as he self-importantly barged his way between the two of them.

  “Excuse me, please. The Zip is coming through,” he said, curtly, as he thrust the microphone up into McGilvary’s face. “So, Lieutenant McGilvary, how are you this evening, ma’am?”

  “I’m well, Kendall. Very well, indeed. And yourself?”

  “Yeah, yeah, great,” he replied, dismissively. “So, Lieutenant, you’ll be missing your boyfriend while you’re away on the mission?”

  “Yes. I certainly will. Though we’re not gone for long,” said McGilvary, giving nothing away.

  Crisp was disappointed. He wanted something vaguely resembling gossip. “Well, do you at least have a message for the good citizens of Tapi-36, Lieutenant? Perhaps some words of encouragement for the nice people here at the airbase, and out there in Zipland?”

  “Of course, Kendall,” began McGilvary. “I can promise everyone that we will have their best interests at heart, and that we’ll be doing our utmost to assist the remarkable animals of Baal-500. Rest assured.”

  “Wow, great news, ‘doing your utmost’ you said. That would mean you’re looking forward to blasti
ng a few Codes, eh?” encouraged Crisp.

  The crowd cheered, though only half-heartedly this time - they weren’t getting their hopes up.

  “No, no, Kendall, that isn’t the aim of this mission. As Captain Jameson has already stated, this is purely a neutral exercise -”

  “Right, let’s move on here, thank you, Lieutenant.” Crisp was looking for some intrigue, not perfunctory information.

  He sized up the remaining crew members: Dr. Gössner? Beautiful, yes, but too sardonic. Ng, the male nurse? Please, no!

  Then he saw Gadget and Ω, further down the line.

  “Ah, Corporal Gadget, technical wizard, the brains behind the mission - just the man! And next to him, 2nd Lieutenant Ω, the pilot, with a symbol for a name! Fantastic to see you both, gentlemen!”

  Gadget (Corporal Gary Hatchett) was a tall and slender man with circular silver-rimmed glasses and had a mocking, studious expression, while Ω (Ohms) sported a pair of dark aviators and maintained a short-cropped, millimeter perfect hairstyle, that had a sharp, single parting razored into it. He was of medium height, slightly overweight, with a look of mischief in his eyes.

  Slightly thrown by their collective demeanour, The Zip reporter began hesitantly. “So, um, Corporal Gadget, you’ll have all the latest TAPCON tech onboard the Argon, yes?”

  “Yep, Kendall. We sure do - all the new appliances of the sciences - we just need to plug ‘em all in first,” said Gadget, with a twinkle.

  “Ha, ha, very good, very good,” offered Crisp, not sure whether Gadget was being serious or not. He turned to Ω. “And 2nd Lieutenant Ω, the Argon is an old craft, we know that, but is she easy to handle?”

  “Oh yeah, man, just like your mama, Kendall,” said Ω, moving his eyebrows up and down suggestively.

  “Um, yes, quite,” These people are hopeless, Crisp thought, almost ready to give up and hand back to the studio.

  The only member of the crew left was Private Sawchuck - or ‘New-Boy’, as his crewmates called him. “I may as well,” sighed Crisp to himself as he made his way over to the recruit. “Good evening, Private Sawchuck. You’re the ‘new-boy’ on the Argon, is that correct?”

  “That’s my name, dude, don’t wear it out,” replied Sawchuck, reaching up with his index finger and flicking Crisp’s rotating bow-tie. It made its stupid, little sound - ‘sssshhhziiiiiipppp-p-p-p-p--p---p----p’ for the hundredth time that night. “Hey, coooooool,” he added, nodding his head in appreciation.

  Oh, no, not another one, lamented Crisp. He turned to the camera, flummoxed. His face a perfect picture of resignation. “Well viewers, there you have it. This is Kendall Crisp, live at the TAPCON airbase, with the crew of the Starship Argon. Herra protect them all… and us. Now, back to the studio, Ignacio?”

  “What the -? Yes, uh, thank you, Kendall,” said Ignacio Phinn, suppressing an embarrassed cough. Crisp had handed back to him far too early, and he was looking through his notes to see what was coming up next. Phinn hated when this happened, live, in front of the nation. He was The Zip’s leading anchorman - beige suit, dyed black hair (to hide the grey) and a self-satisfied air – but without a script he was useless.

  “That was, um, Kendall Crisp, there, folks, at the TAPCON airbase, with some great, uh… stories and, um… great words of wisdom from the, um… the gallant airmen, and airwomen, of the Starship Argon. Yes, and now it’s over to Harriet Honeste for, um… Celebrity Celebration. The new show, with all the, erm… lowdown… on your favourite -”

  Back in his office, David Sempre switched off his screen and pressed the red button. Where do they get these idiots from? he wondered, as the screen moved back, silently, into the wall.

  He got up from his desk, smoothed over his suit and looked out through his ceiling-to-floor window. Then he said, to himself, in a cold, hideous sotto voce: “I’m watching you, Jameson. Watching your every move.”

  Then he began to laugh.

  It was the laugh of a certified lunatic.

  The laugh of a certified lunatic escaping the asylum.

  The laugh of a certified lunatic escaping the asylum, and running amok.

  Chapter 3

  10:26 - Saturday, July 28, 2187 (Muhaze, Tapi-36)

  Mikita went into her kitchen to brew herself some Mu-tea. There were dirty plates piled high in the sink, and unwashed pots and pans stacked up on her cooker.

  Oh fire, she said to herself, drowsily. When will you get your act together, Mikita?

  Her domestic duties had taken a back seat recently, as any spare time she’d had was devoted to research into the Codes and their animals. Just like everyone else, Mikita had become obsessed with the recent events on Baal-500 and the horrific stories that were being broadcast on The Zip. She switched on her Serene - the dishes could wait.

  “Welcome to Yu-Web, a TAPCON company. At TAPCON, we’re here to help you help yourself. Be happy in your search - with Yu-Web, from TAPCON.”

  “Oh, drain you, TAPCON!” shouted Mikita, at the screen. That annoying message played every time you turned on your Serene and it made her want to throw the whole thing out of the window. Instead, she wisely chose to enter her password and sign in. She typed ‘Baal-500 animal deaths’ into the search box and pressed the return key.

  There wasn’t a lot of new information on the Yu-Web, and just how much of this had been sifted through and edited (censored) by TAPCON was debatable. But what she had already managed to uncover said that the Codes were a secretive, private race, nomadic in nature, with no one really knowing where they’d originally come from.

  It was generally accepted that they’d arrived on Baal-500 around 200 years before the first Earth starships came to the Michael-6 Quadrant, and that the animals had been there long before them. The theory went that this was the primary reason they’d chosen the moon as a settlement in the first place: the Baal-500 animals were perfect for their new inter-species concept.

  They’d developed their ‘Linking’ method over several years, eventually achieving great success in uniting the minds of Code and beast. It was a process that gave every species the ability to communicate with each other. Whatever the genus. Be it muidogs, slipper-eels, furkaats, turenoids, fujiwugs or spratuus, they could all understand what the other was thinking, feeling or saying. It was a remarkable accomplishment. Now, however, something was wrong out there.

  PING! PING! PING!

  Mikita’s Mu-tea was ready.

  As she began to pour the light-green liquid into a tea-vessel, her meta-file vibrated on the counter-top.

  She picked it up.

  It was a message from her cousin, Polo:

  [Hi, Miki! Meet me for a Contral at Gretchi’s? Px]

  Mikita messaged her back:

  [11? M] She was always brief with her meta-file texts and information exchanges. ‘You never know who’s reading this stuff’, she’d say.

  Polo replied, quickly:

  [Affirmative, Captain! Px]

  Too much draining Star Trek, thought Mikita.

  Mikita packed up her things to go out. Her Serene was still on the kitchen counter but she couldn’t be bothered to put it away. She wanted to get outside and breathe some fresh air. It was Saturday and she had no classes. Her essay for Dr. Tamashito needed to be in on the 1st, right enough, and she needed to do well on it, but she had plenty of time to complete that.

  Mikita locked her front door and went off into the Muhaze morning.

  Heading into the city, Mikita’s street-tram passed through a Red-Zone. The TAPCON Task Force was breaking up a group of protesters deemed to be ‘causing a disturbance to the populace’. It was not unusual to find these demos going on in the city and, in reality, they were mainly peaceful affairs quietly opposing TAPCON and its alleged high-handed methods of government. There was never much trouble from these groups, small as they were, yet the TTF agents were always on hand, letting the good citizens of Muhaze know that no harm would come to them - Oh, no! Not with the blaster-gun toting, itchy trigger-finger
ed TTF there to protect them!

  Mikita was involved with one such protest group: ‘The People Against Sempre’s Immoral Violence’, or PASIV, as they were known. They gave talks on anti-establishment tactics and critical theory that Mikita had often attended, and it was because of PASIV’s leader, Janeee Swish, that she'd applied for entry to Mu-U in the first place. Janeee was a born motivator. If there was one person able to leap up onto the front of a vehicle with her meta-phone, and galvanize a bunch of strangers into social unrest, it was Janeee Swish.

  The street-tram arrived at Unita Stratis, right outside Gretchi’s.

  Mikita got off and immediately saw Polo waving at her from the front window of the cafe. She could hardly miss her, what with the blue hair and that red, all-in-one jump suit. Mikita hadn’t seen Polo for over a week and she'd lots to tell her. She waved back and went inside.

  “You’re late,” accused Polo, as Mikita approached the table.

  “It’s only 11:03!”

  “That’s still late. And your Contral is melting.”

  “And it’s good to see you, too!” replied Mikita. Her cousin could be obnoxious and annoying, but Mikita could put up with it. Most of the time. She sat down. “Thanks for the Contral, though. Mmmm.”

  “So, how’s your boyfriend?” snarked Polo, taking a sip of the icy drink through her straw.

  “Oh, I finished it. He tried to give me a key to his flat and, well...”

  “Eeew, that’s weird. I mean, I know he’s a total aurora with a perfect body and everything, but giving you his key? Ugh. I’m not surprised, though, to tell you the truth. I always knew he was a bit of a dark horse, that one. The way he came over to our table, sat right down, chatted like he already knew you. Completely ignored Candee and me. It was almost like he was after something.” Polo’s eyes narrowed. “Hey! Have you got some hidden Muhazian millions stashed away somewhere that you’re not telling me about?”