by Dave Barsby
The group begin discussing exactly how to circumnavigate these problems. Rogdo’s opinion is of leaving it to the scientifically-minded to sort it out, Drift’s is one of complete surrender, Bolland seems intent on using the phrase “That’s just stupid, because…” in every sentence, Tima tries to combat this with “But we’ve got to do something,” Hiaelia and Dirk just seem content to silently watch the proceedings, while Larisa, I think, has actually fallen asleep after refusing to move from where she fell. As I have already weighed the pros and cons of this plan and decided it is a complete con, I elect to ignore the debate and give myself a good wash. This is, of course, a rather silly idea, for three reasons. Firstly, Larisa’s successful bathe may have been a freak accident, so I may still be risking possible death by ravenous salmon. Secondly, the poor light from the camp fire doesn’t quite extend to the water’s edge, so I will have to rely on the weak wash of starlight to warn me of impending attack. And thirdly, it is the middle of the night, so the water isn’t exactly going to be comfortably warm. Despite these immediate and possibly deadly concerns, I have made up my mind and, happy that at least there is no chance of getting sand in parts of my body it shouldn’t technically go, I head for the water, completely unaware of the shock I am about to receive.
Everything is normal at first. The water isn’t as cold as I’m expecting, and feels pleasant against my skin as dark masses of grubby liquid flow from me. Having dabbed at the exposed flesh, I move into a more generic clean by wading in deeper and immersing myself completely in the saline ocean in the hope of reducing the amount of soot infused into my clothing. It is at that point I feel something rub against my shin.
Panic is not really the word I would use to describe my reaction to that event. Blind terror is getting closer to the truth, but still doesn’t really seem to do it justice. Screaming, I jump so high most of my body leaves the water, then returns with a frenzied splash as my limbs windmill in sheer desperation. Neither I nor my memory implant can actually recall my heart beating during those moments, so I conclude it either stopped or panicked so much it was just a fuzzy blur of frenzied beats.
As I scream, flail and stumble out of the water, much to the bemusement of everyone calmly seated around the campfire, I clearly hear a voice say “Sorry!”
“There’s something in there,” I gasp, stumbling up to the campfire. “I tell you, something is alive in there!”
“As it is an ocean,” Tima begins, “I suspect there will be several billion things alive in there.”
“Probably more,” Bolland adds.
“I don’t care how many things are alive in there!” I hiss. “All I care about is that one of them just grabbed my ankle!” I take a few deep breaths to calm myself down as the gathered crowd look on with feigned interest. I feel my cheeks redden and my face involuntarily takes on a sheepish look. “And it said ‘sorry’.”
Any tension I had cajoled into being evaporates at that point. I don’t even receive a sarcastic comment or look of disdain. The night’s entertainment over, everyone turns their undivided attention back to the campfire.
“It’s getting low,” Rogdo mutters.
“Yeah,” Hiaelia agrees.
“It bit me!” I complain uselessly (and deceitfully).
“Where?” Larisa asks, the only member of the group to at least even fake a sincere intonation in her words.
“Okay, it didn’t bite me,” I admit. “But it could have taken my whole leg off! It was massive!” I am trying my hardest to evoke some sympathy, but lying has never been my strongest field of expertise. Even the campfire can tell I’m massaging the truth because it spits an ember at me.
“What did it look like?” Tima asks, humouring me.
“Fish,” I conclude after a moment’s thought.
“What kind of fish?”
“Fish.”
Rogdo snorts with laughter. “Sit down, will you?” he tells me.
“It was a giant piscine lifeform with razor-sharp teeth and…!” Still convincing no one. “Okay,” I mutter and sit, defeated.
“We’ve finally decided what to do,” Rogdo tells me once my grumpy demeanour has alleviated slightly.
“Oh yeah?” I say without enthusiasm.
“We will remove the roof of the Diablo IV and use it as a boat. We will locate the whales, kill them, drag them back here, eat them, clean the bones, repair the drive and whoosh…gone.”
“Where are the whales?” I ask.
“We don’t know yet.”
“Are there any whales?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Are you going to just weld the ship’s roof back on?”
“Yes.”
“And will a simple weld be strong enough to keep it intact through atmospheric and orbital manoeuvres?”
I have successfully paused the conversation.
“That fish should have eaten you,” Rogdo answers grumpily.
“Is there perchance a Plan B?” I ask warily.
“Well, the only other option as I see it is for all of you to be slaughtered, then Dirk and I can use your bones.”
“Why not just kill Dirk? He’s bigger than the rest of us together.”
“I’m an invertebrate,” Dirk answers, smirking. At this point, with all that has happened, I am not entirely sure if Rogdo’s Plan B is a joke or not.
“You know,” Drift suddenly blurts, without forethought or any concept of the recent conversation, “Sanshar could have sniffed out the whales easy enough.”
As a conversation stopper, this is one of the most sublime sentences I have happened across. As though a cosmic deity is blowing bubbles through a straw, we each enter our own little world at this point, encased perfectly in our own thoughts. Naturally I cannot relay what the others are thinking, but my mind is cast back to the moment in the elevator on Pilatara when Sanshar kindly offered to be stroked before nearly ripping my hand off. While her joke wasn’t delivered out of pure malice, it is not the happiest of memories. It sets my train of thought onto another track without even checking what the signal box said. I feel quite comfortable with these people surrounding me, yet I fail to recall a single truly enjoyable memory about my time with them. The thought of Sanshar is a case in point. That thought was dragged up from the depths because there isn’t another which actually invokes some sense of camaraderie, and even then it was only after we venomously insulted each other. Then it strikes me, the thought of the day – everyone here, everyone I am with on this long, arduous journey…they are all gits. Not one of them is pleasant, easy-going or likeable. I have come to see them as friends not because they are genuinely friendly people, but because I quite simply have no option. They say familiarity breeds contempt, but in my case it has bred a set of acquaintances I don’t really like. I know that, when it comes to writing this book, I need to scribe a fitting epitaph for Sanshar. But what can I say other than “expert navigator, good pilot, soft fur, liked jellied rabbit and trying to bite strangers”? She sacrificed her life for us, such a noble deed. But, it has to be said, uncharacteristic as far as I am aware. In fact, the idea of mercenaries ever thinking of someone other than themselves seems to be in the realms of fiction.
“All bastards,” I accidentally mutter, my train of thought derailing and careening into the lake of oral intonation.
“What are?” Rogdo asks me.
I can’t let them know how I really feel. I have to think quickly and respond with a witty and salient answer. “Children born out of wedlock,” I blurt. Technically, it is an impressive answer, because it covers the statement on an undeniable factual basis. On an artistic level, it leaves a little to be desired.
Rogdo stares blankly at me. Either he wasn’t paying attention to my response or he simply doesn’t care. Everyone else it seems is still trapped inside their own bubble-worlds of thought. I decide against popping them and throw another dishcloth on the fire.
It is a further thirty minutes before the silence is broken, and remarkabl
y it is not a member of the Diablo IV.
“Excuse me,” says a clear-cut voice from behind me. The hairs on my neck turn to needles and my back stiffens harder than iron. No one else has reacted yet, so I refrain from panicking until I know it isn’t just my subconscious talking to me.
“I say, excuse me,” the voice comes again. This time Rogdo looks up in surprise. That is all the evidence I need to confirm I am not going insane, and all the impetus I need to leap up, scream like a little girl and dive for cover behind Rogdo’s torso. I peer over his shoulder.
Something is moving in the darkness near the water’s edge, but as yet its form is unclear. The rest of the crew seem more intrigued than panicked, and shift into a more comfortable sitting position while awaiting the next surprise. Larisa, half asleep and lying some distance from us, mutters a brief “Wha…?”
“I say!” the voice comes again, this time a little surprised. “We are jumpy, aren’t we. I just wanted to apologise for scaring you earlier, as it had been weighing on my mind, but I am starting to think you might have a medical condition. Are you naturally scared?”
“Yes,” I answer, then change my mind. “No. Who…what?”
“Oh, I am sorry, allow me to introduce myself.” The owner of the voice slowly comes into the light of the campfire, revealing itself to be… It is too much for me and I squeeze my eyes shut in terror. When I open them again, the dreaded beast I imagined has gone and been replaced by an unassuming turtle.
16. BOB I
Highlighted by the flickering light of the campfire, the turtle scratches its chin and does its best impression of looking puzzled. I do my best impression of looking petrified.
“Oh dear,” it says, its small beak-like mouth opening and closing like a hole puncher. It is evidently talking to itself. “That is tricky. Introduce myself. What name was it? Let me see. Ah, yes.” It turns its attention to me. I am naturally still cowering behind Rogdo. “I am Bob,” it tells me.
Tima seems to have finally caught on to the idea that this turtle is talking and starts edging away from it. “Like the planet?” she asks nervously.
“Ah, yes, like the planet. That is why I have chosen such a moniker.”
“It’s an evil, talking turtle,” I point out just in case someone hasn’t yet grasped the concept.
“Well, I know I frightened you, but I believe the term ‘evil’ is rather excessive at the present time.”
“It’s a very well-spoken evil, talking turtle,” I say.
“Called Bob,” Rogdo points out. “Hello Bob.”
“Good day to you, Sir.” Bob starts edging closer to the camp fire. The rest of the crew decide to follow my lead and hide behind Rogdo. Due to his size, Dirk’s attempt is abysmal.
“This thing you call fire is wonderful, is it not?” Bob says. “The colours, the heat!”
“Erm, Bob?” Rogdo asks.
“Yes?”
“Can I ask you a personal question or two?”
“Certainly.”
“Why are you here? Where are you from? How can you speak our language? What are you? What do you want? Please don’t eat me!”
“I…” Bob begins, confused. If you haven’t seen a flummoxed turtle before, you haven’t lived. [Kids: for legal reasons, I must ask you not to attempt to confuse your turtle at home.] “Could you break that down one question at a time, please?”
Rogdo does just that, starting with the most pertinent. “Please don’t eat me,” he says.
The turtle laughs. “Eat you?!? Oh my, I wouldn’t dream of such a thing! I am here merely in a friendly capacity to welcome you to our planet.”
“What do you mean ‘our planet’?” Tima asks.
Rogdo glances at her, annoyed. “I’m asking the questions.” He returns his attention to the green, metre-long reptile. “Where are you from? No, scratch that. What do you mean ‘our planet’?”
“Why, myself and those like me, of course.”
“You live here?”
“Where else would I live?”
“A terrarium?”
“I’m sorry,” Bob answers politely. “I don’t understand that word.”
“How do you understand anything?” I ask.
“We have been listening to you since you landed here,” Bob explains. “It doesn’t take too long to pick up the basics of your language, and from there we can analyse phrase, meaning, phonetics, syntax and intonation to give us a good idea of other words. Really, your language is not that complex.”
“So you learned our language in just a few hours?!?”
“As I said, it is not that complex.”
“Yes it is!” Drift shouts, standing defiantly. When he realises that trying to defend the complexity of speech is a bit pathetic, he quietly apologises and sits back down. The poor turtle is a little startled by this outburst.
Bolland decides it is his turn to interrogate this freak of nature. “But how can you speak? You have no lips, no teeth, yet your speech is perfectly free from impediment.”
“Let’s leave the scientific stuff for now,” Rogdo says, waving Bolland down. “Listen, turtle…”
“Bob,” it answers.
“Listen, Bob. What other life forms are on this planet?”
“Of a sentient nature? Just my species.”
“And how many of you are there?”
“Nine.”
“Is that it? On the whole planet?”
“Yes.”
“And,” Bolland interjects, “what is your species called?”
“Umm…Bob?” the turtle offers.
“No, no, no,” I say, “the planet is called Bob. You are called Bob. Your species can’t be called Bob as well.”
“I apologise. We do not use names. We heard you naming the planet Bob and decided that was a nice name.”
“For you or your species?”
“Yes.”
“Right,” I answer, a little uncertain as to my sanity.
There is a brief, silent pause. It does little to help clarify events in my mind. In fact it makes them worse. Analysing such an occurrence does little to reassure your brain it is not making all this up.
“Ahem,” Bob utters, uneasy with the silence. “Are we correct in assuming you are diurnal creatures?”
Amid the answers of “Eh?”, “What?” and “How dare you!” (from Drift, naturally), Bolland manages to make himself heard with a clear “Yes.”
“In that case,” Bob says, “I will bid you all good night and let you get your rest. I have introduced myself and that was my intent for this first meeting. I or another of my kind will answer any more queries you may have tomorrow morning. Good bye.”
“But…” Bolland begins, a little exasperated. I softly rest one hand on his arm.
“Let the evil turtle go,” I tell him.
Bob chooses the scenic route, lumbering past us towards the water’s edge further down the beach. We all watch his progress with great interest.
“I beg your pardon,” Bob says as his stroll takes him close to the prone Larisa’s head. She opens her eyes, confused, and glances in the direction of the voice. Her girlish scream puts mine to shame, but her frenzied scramble to the sanctity of the Diablo IV’s ramp falls one step short as her boots finally give way on the pebbles again. The noise of her body walloping into the steel ramp and resulting sobs drown out the sound of Bob’s progress. He finally reaches the water and gently slides under it. It is a further minute before we feel we have a comment to make.
“Well,” Rogdo begins. “That was-”
“Evil,” I finish.
“Will you stop it with the ‘evil’?”
“It’s a talking turtle,” I say to justify my remark.
Rogdo sighs. He stands and heads for the ship.
“I think it’s cute,” Tima says.
“You would,” Rogdo points out grumpily.
“I think it is a phenomenon,” Bolland says.
“You would too,” Rogdo points out even more grumpily
. He reaches the ship’s ramp and gently picks up the quietly wailing Princess. She shrugs him off and lazily pushes him away, still sobbing with pity for herself.
“I hate this place,” she moans. “I hate this planet, I hate this galaxy, and I hate all of you! And I hate these clothes,” she finishes in a high-pitched wail, before stomping up the ramp.
“At least she’s back to normal,” Tima says.
“Never mind her,” Rogdo puffs, sitting back down at the camp fire. “We’ve more important things to consider than a stroppy Princess.”
“I heard that!” we hear Larisa scream from within the Diablo IV.
“Right, that’s it!” Rogdo steams, his tether finally broken. “I’m going to sort her out once and for all!” He strides back to the ship with all the anger and authority of a pissed off captain…which is what he is…oh, never mind.
“Captain?” Hiaelia enquires.
“If I’m not back within half an hour, assume I’m busy bagging up her remains.”
He disappears up the ramp. I stand.