by Dave Barsby
“I should go too,” I say. Tima grabs my arm and pulls me back down to the hard, bum-bruising pebbles. “As a peacekeeper,” I point out.
Tima shakes her head. “You won’t be needed,” she tells me. It is a further two months before I realise what she means.
“Are you sure?” I ask. Tima nods again. True, I can’t hear any shouting, and Rogdo must surely have caught up with Larisa by now. Maybe he has finally learned the virtue of tact, I think with unnerving inaccuracy.
“Okay,” I continue. “So what about this evil turtle situation?”
“I think the Captain has a plan,” Drift answers.
“How do you know?”
“Because I have a plan and when I tell it to the Captain he will claim it as his own idea. Therefore, the Captain has, or will have, a plan.”
“So what is it?”
“I can’t tell you. If I do, you’ll know it is my plan. If the Captain tells you first, you won’t know if it is the plan I told him or one he thought up himself.”
“What? What’s wrong with it being your plan?”
“He can sack me. No redundancy in mercenary business. No pension plan. Best to let him have it.”
“For God’s sake!” I cry. “I’m surrounded by idiots!”
“I prefer to think of us as people who kill for a living,” Hiaelia says coolly.
“Okay,” I reluctantly say, the thinly-veiled threat having caught my attention. “You’re not idiots.”
“As far as the turtles go,” Tima says, “it is best to leave any plans to one side until we know more about them. As we can’t do that until tomorrow morning, I suggest we all get some sleep. How about that for a plan?”
“It sucks,” Drift answers. “Do you?”
“Nice try, chubby.”
When I wake, it is evident I have missed a great deal. Having managed to quietly slip into a deckchair while Tima and Drift were arguing why he wasn’t worthy enough to sleep with her, I have had a comfortable, uninterrupted sleep through to mid-morning. Everyone else has already been up for hours. Tima and Hiaelia are attempting to catch fish with an empty tin can attached to a piece of string. Being buoyant and bone-free, Dirk has volunteered himself as a raft and is currently bobbing in the waves forty yards out to sea with the two women perched atop his back. Rogdo and Larisa are seated on the edge of the Diablo’s ramp, having a quiet chat. Their conversation the previous night must have gone well, because it seems as though they are actually being civil to each other. Most interesting of all, however, is the antics of Drift and Bolland. Drift is completing the finishing touches to painting a simple pattern on the hull of the ship – a grid of nine squares outlined in white. Bolland, meanwhile, is engaged in a spot of painting himself, but his artistic talents are focused on the daubing of numerals and his canvases are the shells of nine happily chatting and, at this point I still believe, thoroughly evil turtles.
Bob III crawls past my feet, glances up and nods. “Morning,” it says.
“What’s going on?” I ask, a reasonable question in my opinion.
“We’re being numbered,” Bob II tells me from the water’s edge. “It is easier for you to distinguish between us this way, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Umm, I guess so,” I respond, still a little wary of the creatures.
“Hello,” Drift says happily as he walks past, a used peach tin of make-shift white paint in his hand.
“What? Why?” I ask, slowly standing and stretching the stiffness from my bones. I do not elaborate on my questions, I know through practice that those two words will be enough for Drift to understand.
“Rogdo unveiled his plan this morning,” he tells me.
“You mean your plan?”
Drift thinks for a moment. He shrugs. “His plan.”
“Well? What is it?”
“Ah, afraid I can’t reveal the details just yet. Crew members only at this stage. What I can tell you is that the motion was carried. Four voted to go with the plan, two abstained.”
“It’s an evil plan, isn’t it,” I say.
“What makes you say that?”
“Because you evidently don’t want to tell either myself or the Princess, which means we’d complain about it.”
“Well-”
“And it was Tima and Bolland who abstained.”
“You think so?”
“Well, they’re the only two with anything even remotely resembling a conscience.”
“Heh,” Drift responds. “I guess you know the crew pretty well, eh? Should make a good book when you’ve written it.”
“I’ll leave that for the public to decide.”
“What do they know? Literary genius is never appreciated by the masses.”
“Wow! I never expected to hear something like that from you!” I say with surprise.
“Yeah, well, it’s true though, isn’t it. What would you prefer? Two stuffy scholars giving your book the thumbs up, or a million copies sold within the first week?”
“I believe it is possible to achieve both. What’s with the painting?”
Drift’s grin doesn’t actually alter in shape or form, but I can tell it turns from genuine to false. “Just something to do,” he shrugs. He sheepishly looks down at his paint pot, then nods at me and hurries toward Bolland.
At this point I would like to tell you I discover the meaning of the painting on the ship’s hull, or I chat endlessly to a witty and informative turtle, or I join in the fishing expedition with wondrous results, but I can’t. Well, I can, but I would be lying. I do not discover Rogdo’s plan that day, I do not fish, I do not overcome my fear of the ‘evil’ turtles, and I do not even bother to check on how the uneasy peace between Rogdo and the Princess is progressing. At this particular point I feel left out, confused and bored – a tragic combination that leaves one quite aimless. So I create an aim for myself and set off to explore the island in the hope of locating more than just pebbles.
The sun has already set before I give up that hope.
I arrive back at the ship just in time for supper. Another fire is roaring heartily, the fresh catch of the day slowly roasting. Drift has uncovered another small seat for himself and seems quite jolly. All is calm, all is friendly. Larisa, I note, is absent, but this only makes the scene more tranquil.
“Hey!” Drift calls to me. He rips a small piece off the spit-roasted fishy lump over the fire and throws it to me. It is warm and slippery. I take a bite. Tough, chewy and quite salty, but it makes a welcome change from Dirk’s cooking. I am invited to sit near the fire.
It is as though a great change has come over the entire crew. Spirits have lifted, the harsh exteriors have slipped away in the night. There is no longer a sense of doom pervading the crew. It feels like a camping trip.
I don’t know if the crew really have changed their outlook or not. While walking, searching the island, I felt a tranquillity soak through my pores, a calmness that tingles through my body still. Have they changed, or have I? Maybe I have become more tolerant of their ways. Maybe I had an epiphany, a spiritual enlightenment that put me at one with the universe and made me realise that nature is as chaotic, unpredictable and, occasionally, unsympathetically violent as the creatures who roam the stars. These mercenaries aren’t evil, I think, they are just nature’s darker side.
“Are you all in better spirits than before?” I ask.
“Yes,” is the overwhelming response. There goes my ‘at one with the universe’ theory. I haven’t changed at all. I just needed a day alone to dust some cobwebs from my mind and realise that, like it or lump it, this is the situation I am in.
Drift stands to carve another piece from the roast. At first I believe my eyes are deceiving me, but as I stare I realise that Drift’s seat is partly spherical, around one metre in diameter and has the numeral VII painted in white on its top.
My brain works slowly to slot together the pieces of this immensely easy puzzle (I’m betting you’ve figured it out by now). I look across at th
e Diablo IV. The bottom left box of the nine-box square painted on its side has a slash through it. I look back at the fire and the distinctly non-fish shaped slab of meat slowly crackling over it. My brain finally catches up to the obvious.
“Oh, shit!” I hoarsely whisper in horror. While my brain has come to the correct conclusion, my mouth has suddenly decided to dry up, making speech virtually impossible. This is fortunate, because my sandpaper mouth prevents me from blurting the truth moments before Bob I crawls into view.
“Good evening,” Bob I says happily.
“Hi, Bob I,” Rogdo answers.
Bob I sniffs the night air. “Mmmm, that smells good.”
“Would you like some?” Drift offers.
“No!” I shout. There is an uneasy silence. “No…more for me,” I continue. Let the cat out of the bag, I think, and I will be next on the menu. “Thank you, I’m stuffed.”
“It is a kind offer,” Bob I retorts, “but I am afraid I do not have time to dine with you.”
“Oh,” Rogdo says. “Well, what can we do for you, Bob I?”
“I am sorry to disturb you during your meal, but we were wondering if maybe you had seen one of our number? I am afraid we have been unable to locate the one you know as Bob VII.”
There is such a thing as an uneasy silence. There is such a thing as an atmosphere thick enough to cut with a knife. Then there is such a thing as an atmosphere so thick it feels like it is physically choking you.
“Umm…” Rogdo begins in a high pitch. He clears his throat. “Bob VII, you say? Bob VII. Hmmm. Anyone?”
“We’ve eaten him,” I say, hoping that the truth will be taken as a joke. It works, and Bob I laughs.
“Very good,” Bob I says. “Well, if you do see him, tell him we’re looking for him.”
“Will do,” Drift answers, all smiles. He pops a sliver of poor Bob VII into his mouth and chews quietly.
Oblivious to the fate of his friend, Bob I slips back into the ocean and is gone.
“What the f-?” I begin but Hiaelia clamps a hand over my mouth. The rest of my obscenity-strewn question is muffled beyond recognition.
“If you wanna discuss this,” Rogdo hisses, “then do it in there where they can’t hear us.” He points to the Diablo IV.
“Damn right I want to discuss it,” I hiss back and stand, furious not just that they have slaughtered an intelligent creature, but they didn’t even tell me when I was eating it.
“Canteen, now!” Rogdo orders. I storm into the ship and head for the canteen.
The Princess is sitting in the canteen, looking immensely bored. Her head is resting on the table, her gaze away from me. She starts when she hears me approaching.
“What is the idea, keeping me wait-?” she begins. Her angry expression falters when she spies me. “Oh, it’s you.”
She stands and starts to pace. I do the opposite and take her seat at the table.
“Do you know what they are doing out there?” she asks, more a demand than a question.
“Yes,” I tell her.
“They are eating one of those turtles! What do you mean ‘yes’?”
“I know they are eating Bob VII,” I expand.
“Did you eat some?!?”
“Accidentally.”
“Oh, God! I thought you of all people would-”
I stand then and decide to shout back for once. “I didn’t know what they were doing! If I did, I’d have…”
“Have what?”
“I don’t know,” I offer quietly. “It’s tasty,” I add as compensation.
“Where is Rogdo?” she demands.
“Outside. But he’s coming in here so he and I can discuss this.”
“Hah! That is what he told me two hours ago!”
“Two hours? Why didn’t you go out there and confront him?”
“I do not want to go out there again! It is disgusting, what they are doing.”
“Well, I’m not going out there tonight either,” I mention, sitting back down and laying my head on my arms.
“He is so infuriating!” Larisa says. She sits opposite me, also laying her chin on her arms and staring into my eyes. “To think he and I…” She pauses, unsure what to say next.
“Had started to get on,” I finish for her. “Started talking.”
“Talking. Yes,” she says, unsure. “We had started talking.”
“And then he does this.”
“Indeed. And then he does this. Well, I am not going to let him…talk to me again.”
I stretch myself up into a proper seating position. “Why did they do it?” I say. “We’ve got plenty in the stores.”
“Oh!” Larisa answers, surprised. “You don’t know?”
Numbly, I shake my head. “What?” I ask breathlessly.
Larisa takes my hands in hers, squeezes and stares deep into my eyes. “Nine turtle shells provide just enough material to repair the wormhole drive.”
The final piece of Bob IV is a little gristly, but I contentedly gnaw away at it all the same. It has been six days since we landed on this unfortunately barren planet. I still feel uneasy about the plan, especially now I have convinced myself the turtles aren’t evil. But I have weighed up the pros and cons of such an idea and realised it is either them or us. We must get off this planet, not just to pursue Vitari, but to survive beyond another week. Hiaelia and Tima’s fishing skills leave a lot to be desired, and an itinerary of the food stores has confirmed we only have enough to last us to the nearest outpost in space. Quite simply, even if we didn’t need their shells, the turtles must be eaten.
I believe Larisa is also still wary of the plan, refusing to eat any of the meat, but it seems she has forgiven Rogdo because they are spending quite a bit of time with each other. I am glad to see they are getting on – it has taken the pressure off me as mediator.
Six of the squares on the ship’s hull have been painted through. Bob I, Bob III and Bob VIII have so far survived the chop. I am glad Bob I has not yet fallen foul of Drift’s evil plan – he is by far the chattiest. He is currently perched on the pebbles next to my deckchair.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it,” he informs me, sleepily happy.
“Not bad,” I answer, finally defeating the gristle of Bob IV. A brief yelp emanates from the other side of the Diablo IV. Bob I has failed to hear it.
“What is it like?” Bob I asks me. “Up there?”
“Space?” I answer. “Well, it’s big, empty-”
“No, the planets. What are other planets like?”
“Whatever you can imagine I would think. I’ve only seen a few myself, but I’ve heard of planets that defy belief.”
“Mmmm, sounds wonderful,” Bob I answers, lazily watching Drift paint a slash through the top right box on the hull.
“Nearly done,” Drift calls. “Final push, then we can leave.”
“It would be exquisite, would it not?” Bob I says. “To travel through space.” He looks up at me. “I wish I could come with you when you leave. But how can I, when so many of my friends are disappearing?”
“How come your kind has never travelled into space?” I ask. “You all seem intelligent enough.”
“Intelligent?” Bob I exclaims. “I do not wish to seem big-headed, but ‘intelligent’ doesn’t really do us justice.”
“How do you mean?” I ask, wondering how intelligent you have to be to figure out your kinfolk are being eaten by the newcomers.
“Your species developed differently from mine. I can see by your physical attributes, this spaceship of yours, everything you do – you are builders.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, quickly checking to make sure my (still rather uncomfortable) leather trousers are pulled up over my bum crack.
“Your kind…and I suspect most of the species of this galaxy…you build. From early times, you fashioned tools, developed opposable thumbs…am I correct?”
“Well…yes.”
“You developed your creative minds, and you used them t
o overcome the obstacles of your environment, yes? Building, always creating and building.”
“Okay, so we made stuff. Bread, hammers, electricity pylons, nuclear mass drivers, orbital rings. What does that mean?”
“It means you concentrated solely on the physical, and by doing so spent a lot of valuable thinking time working on physical objects. We did not. We are happy with our environment, we have no obstacles to overcome…”
As Bob I happily explains the history of his species in bitesize form I hear another brief, tortured wail and spy Drift chasing a desperate turtle across the pebbled beach. The human catches up to the reptile and hoists him in the air by his shell. I glance down at Bob I, but he is oblivious to his surroundings, so let’s pick up where we left off:
“…therefore we had absolutely no need to invent. Anything. Do you see?”
“No,” I helpfully contribute.
Bob I sighs. “Making things is more taxing and time consuming than inventing them in the mind.”
“Ah!” I respond, starting to understand. “We have a saying from Earth. Invention is 10% inspiration, 90% perspiration. Or something like that.”
“Exactly,” Bob I tells me. “Your species has spent 90% of its time on physical labour, and only 10% on mental prowess. My species, on the other hand, have spent 100% of our time honing our minds.”
“So you know a lot, then.”
“We know everything,” Bob I answers proudly. “You do not need to actually split an atom to understand the consequences. Several thousand years of thought, pure uninterrupted thought, can unravel the secrets of the whole universe.”
“Such as?” I ask, genuinely intrigued by this point. Could I gain a scientific scoop thanks to a metre-long talking turtle?
“Well, I see by your spaceship that you have not yet mastered negative gravity, for example.”
“Ah, we have actually. But it’s fairly new.”
“Hmmm, how about folding dimensional parameters? Have you travelled to another galaxy yet?”
“Umm…” is all I can offer.
“Do you know what the universe is expanding into? What was here before the Big Bang?”
“No.”
Bob I merely grins.