Black Hull

by Joseph A. Turkot

  25

  Baroque chamber music filled a pillared hall of white. A woman clad in a waterfall of tight gold silk pushed her way toward a broad-shouldered man in black. Dark handsome eyes turned to receive the luminous form. Her lips curled with awkward excitement—sprightly eyes wove a net about the man’s future, and the woman who’d earlier that night dug into his side released her hold, slipped away into the warmth of the dinner party.

  “Dance?” she asked.

  “To this?” he replied.

  She held out her hand, he took it.

  Where have I seen her before? Somewhere, a long time ago. She’s not a student. Somewhere distant, close.

  Violins caressed his neck and arm. Foreign movement confounded them both, and the heat of the hall increased. Gentle gold upon a smooth black suit—her hair eased out, flew about, the cosmos intact therein. The wild scent of flowers twined with the musk of man. Mick sighed, believing his luck couldn’t get better: a F.R.I.N.G.E. interview the following Monday, and her tonight. His being engorged, flooded with optimism.

  “From what time and place do you come?” he asked, smiling.

  They twirled about in strange harmony, spirits destined to know one another and on the cusp of understanding that truth: his arm explored, his fingers vagabonds. She breathed a hot secret into his ear:

  “Here I am,” she said.

  She’d said that. And what had it meant?

  The night wore on between dance and wine and concertos. A separation began, spirits departing, leaving one another to rejoin their solitary dreams.

  “Where are you staying?” he asked.

  “Helen’s dorm.”

  Helen Reisman, a bright underclassmen.

  “Will I see you later?” he asked.

  “There is no later,” she smiled. “Just now.”

  I could never admire Helen. She’s not clever. But this girl? I’m enamored.

  Mick pulled her into his chest. Kissed her. Strange new flavor. The bravado of now, roused by her, swept over him and took control. Enough to show I understand?

  She departed into the alien night, her fingers the last to slip away. Blue eyes under dark brows went, with them the heat of unified desire.

  26

  “Are you sure you want to do this Mick?” Jason asked.

  They were already upon the platform, the question an obvious formality from an old friend.

  “It’s no gamble,” Mick said. He tried to smile.

  Another black hull mission. Who’d have thought I’d sink to this? Can it make sense somehow, later?

  “A Zubenalgubi run is no joke,” Jason said. “And that ship’s a piece of shit.” He laughed, looking at the black hull behind them.

  “Well, what can you do?” Mick said, feigning interest in his friend’s concern.

  He knows why. He’d do the same thing.

  “Alright, well,” he said. “I’ll be here, a little greyer I suppose, but I’ll keep a beer cold for you.”

  “Thanks,” Mick said.

  He walked into the ship, waved. His criminal crew was waiting for him.

  Karen, Christopher, little Mickey, Selby. Not one of them to see me off. Better that way.

  The image of a splintered skull rent the thought of family from Mick’s mind as he entered the ship. Red and black, rage, and a delicate arrangement of interaction had occurred, and so he had to leave his home world for ten years.

  Has it been a year since the funeral?

  “Ion propulsion engaged—ready to launch…” said the captain.

  Come to me Lethe of space, oh sweet Cryo.

  27

  “Do you know what I’m going to do to you if we survive this?” Mick said.

  Sera drilled into the floor of the cruiser, penetrated the hull of the Cozon, and dropped inside.

  “Keep your suit tight,” she said, then disappeared into the ship. The unknown light-class flew in close to the cruiser.

  “Mick, transmission coming in,” XJ said.

  Mick ran into the cockpit.

  “Put it through,” he replied.

  “This is light-class Fogstar—undock your vessel immediately,” commanded a woman’s voice.

  “Sorry—we have a bit of cargo we’ll be needing first.”

  Shots sounded from the Cozon below.

  Someone’s been shot. Sera?

  “You’ve got my husband aboard that ship,” crackled the com.

  “Sorry—he shouldn’t have stolen our ship.”

  “I’ll fire,” she threatened.

  “Kill us all?”

  Sera returned with a body on her shoulder and a bit of plastic in her hand.

  “Got Husson and our plastic,” she said. She started sealing the floor again.

  “Release him immediately,” called the woman again in a panic.

  Mick looked over to Sera. She shook her head; the man, her husband, was dead.

  “My husband is on that ship!” screamed the com.

  “Grab his body,” Mick whispered to Sera.

  “I’ve just sealed the hull,” she said.

  “I’ve got an idea.”

  She reopened the floor and dropped in again.

  “You’re going to have to board to get him back. He’s a hostage now. But we can trade. Your light-class for him and this cruiser,” Mick said.

  Sera returned, hauling the bandit’s body on her shoulder. She threw him to the floor beside Husson and resealed the floor.

  “Alright—permission to dock.”

  “He’s in our ship. Don’t try anything.”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Poor Cozon, she was a good ship,” XJ whined.

  “She was,” GR agreed.

  “Their light-class doesn’t appear in very good condition either,” Sera said.

  She brought the cruiser on top of the Fogstar, latched on, and opened the floor.

  28

  Mick beheld a goddess: clinging spacesuit wrapped her like candy, beauty apparent on each inch of her face and form, except for her expression, which hinted at weakness, sadness. Sera spoke to her:

  “Do you have any idea whose ship you’ve stolen?”

  No reply. XJ worked coordinates into the Fogstar’s nav. Destination: the green popsicle.

  “Go ahead. You’ll find your husband strapped to the bay door. And if you don’t want to get blasted out of the sky, don’t follow us back.”

  “There’s no other planet in cruiser ranger,” she said, her perfection warped by despair.

  “That’s a consequence. Nothing more,” Sera said, raising her pistol to the woman’s face. “Off.”

  She left through the ceiling hatch, back into the cruiser.

  “Release us XJ,” Sera said. She closed the hatch.

  A scream came through the com.

  She’s seen the body.

  Thumping sounds came from above, the rapping of fists upon plastisteel. The Fogstar detached and raced away from the refugee cruiser.

  She’s alone. Drifting in the void. Waiting for rescue. Who will come for her, to save her, a cosmic masterpiece of flesh? No one.

  “She’ll die out here,” Mick said.

  Sera glared at him.

  No words from her—cold hard Sera. These situations and cares—they won’t matter later. An old voice: There is no later. A strange impulse grew in Mick. He recalled Karen in gold, young and floating upon melody, brave enough to tempt love. A row of knuckles collided with Sera’s forehead. She writhed, struggled to fight back. Mick struck again, and her eyes rolled into her head.

  XJ and GR whirred, unsure how to react. Mick assured them she was fine, just unconscious. He turned the Fogstar around.

  29

  “What’s your name?” Mick asked.

  The widow’s delicate frame squirmed maniacally, the nylon straps binding her unyielding to her thrashing rage.

  “You killed him! You’re going to die for this,” she went on, the same as she’d done for fifteen minutes.

&nb
sp; “Mick, we should be back to Melbot’s in just under an hour,” XJ said, motoring into the Fogstar’s bay where Mick had strapped his captive to a hull beam.

  “Right, thanks,” he said, watching the young girl in front of him.

  “Mick, Sera is still unconscious. Are you certain she’s okay?” he asked.

  “She’s fine.”

  “Okay Mick. I’ll let you know when we’re entering atmosphere.”

  “Right.”

  XJ returned to GR in the cockpit.

  “Listen, he’s dead—I’m sorry about that. He robbed us, almost killed Sera. It was a risk he took. But the crew on this ship is heading to Utopia. Maybe you can go with them,” Mick said, trying to subdue her horrible sobbing.

  “You fucking idiot,” she wailed. He watched her, confounded by the symmetry of her features.

  “I’ll let you get over it then,” Mick said. “If Sera doesn’t kill me for saving your life, she’ll certainly kill you for crying like that.”

  Mick walked away, leaving her to her tears.

  “We just came from there,” she moaned. “They turned us away.”

  “What—why?” Mick stopped.

  “They’re almost at maximum capacity. They tripled the entrance fee. And in a month, no one will ever get in again—it’s closing.”

  Maybe I should kill her. If Sera finds out, why would she keep helping me? She won’t be able to get in, not if it’s going to cost 140,000 UCD.

  “Is that why you’re robbing way stations?” Mick asked.

  “You’ve ruined everything,” she whined, dropping to the floor by the beam.

  A flash of yellow and blue pierced Mick’s vision. A sharp pain ripped through his brain. He slumped to the ground, Sera’s boots stepping past him toward his hostage. His vision faded to black.

  30

  “Mick, please listen,” Karen said calmly.

  “No, I’m almost up for Director of Fleet. I can’t stay home. It’s not a discussion,” he coldly answered.

  A bottle of wine split their dinner table. A waiter interrupted their conversation, cutting through them with awkwardness.

  “Have you two decided yet, or do you need more time?”

  “Yea, we’re ready.”

  “I’ll have the chicken marsala entrée, thanks,” Karen said, staring at Mick.

  “Filet mignon, rare,” Mick grunted.

  The waiter penned their requests and left abruptly.

  “That was obnoxious,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Your tone. It was rude.”

  “You know what’s rude? Your incessant nagging. How is this paid for? All of this?” he started.

  “Oh my god, are you serious? You’re going to bring up money? This has nothing to do with money,” she said, her voice thin and tired.

  “You knew what it would mean to marry a FRINGE man, that I’d be away on missions,” he said. “You think I like floating in dead space for three years at a time? Dead weight for most of it, in cryo, losing time I could be spending with you, Christopher and Mickey?”

  “Then stop, work planetside—stop leaving us.”

  “I can’t Karen, you know this is my dream, it has been my whole life—to see space, to explore, to do big things.”

  “And you have, you’ve seen space. And you’ve done big things. You married me. Started a family with me. Things have changed. Your dream isn’t yours alone anymore.”

  “Nothing’s changed. My father was always in space. I turned out fine.”

  “You’re angry all the time. The precious moments we have with you, you’re always angry, wasting the time we should be cherishing.”

  “I supported you with your poetry, didn’t I? Gave you free license, let you follow your dream, even though I knew you’d never bring home a cent.”

  “I can’t believe you’re bringing that into this. I told you I’d get a job. You don’t listen to me. You never listen anymore.”

  Mick emptied his glass in one gulp, grabbed the bottle and refilled it.

  “And you’re drunk when you’re home. It’s like you don’t even enjoy being around us.”

  “You’re fucking right I’m drunk when I’m home, because this is what I have to hear!” he yelled, slamming his glass down. Glass shattered onto the table and floor. Wine spilled. Eyes turned to behold the spectacle and a waitress signaled for assistance.

  “Please calm down,” Karen said, her hand reaching across the table to grasp his.

  “Do you have any idea how stressful FRINGE detail is? I didn’t think so. You don’t think it eats at me that I’m missing my kids’ birthdays? You think I’m cold now, heartless? That I want to come home for a few months at a time and leave for years?”

  “Of course not. I don’t understand why you have to keep leaving us though. We have more than enough money to get by. You can find something—”

  “But I don’t listen you said, so why are you still talking? I just told you I’m on the verge of becoming a director, and all you have for me is this guilt shit, you selfish bitch.”

  A tuxedoed man strode quickly to their table.

  “Excuse me sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the manager said.

  “My wife and I haven’t eaten yet,” Mick said, grabbing Karen’s glass of wine and drinking.

  “Sir, you’re causing our guests to feel uncomfortable. Now if you won’t come, I’ll have to call the police,” he said.

  “The police? Do you have any idea who I am?” Mick said under his breath.

  “Mick, let’s go. C’mon,” she said, rising and taking his arm.

  “Get off me,” he said, shoving her back.

  “Hey, you better not try anything,” said a young, muscular onlooker who’d taken a keen interest in the drama. He arched his back and walked close to assist the manager.

  “Are you kidding me boy?” Mick rose from the table and threw his wine glass at the wall. Splinters of glass rained on the screaming patrons as they covered their heads.

  “Calm down,” the young man replied. Two other men rose and walked toward them.

  “My wife and I haven’t eaten yet. Is this a fucking restaurant? Where is our food? What kind of place is this for a guest?” Mick roared.

  The young man made the mistake of moving closer and placing his hand on Mick’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him.

  Mick snapped back in revulsion at the man’s touch, thrust his hips around and drew his powerful arm in a line, smashing through the man’s jaw. An audible crack caused the manager to shiver and back away. Someone in the back of the restaurant dialed for the police.

  “Let’s go Karen,” Mick said. She was sobbing uncontrollably, backed into a corner. “I said let’s go!” he screamed, lunging toward her. He grabbed her wrist roughly and tugged her up. The growing crowd backed away as they zipped out of the restaurant, no one daring to follow them.

  Mick’s Cobra pulled out of the parking lot, turned onto Interstate 495 and accelerated to 80 miles per hour.

  “Please slow down Mick,” Karen said.

  “You know what, you wanted things to change. Good, they will. I’m going into space. For three years. Maybe in that time you can start to appreciate what the hell I do for you and the kids.”

  She vomited coughs, crying hysterically.

  “Hey, shut up, you hear me?” he said. He pressed hard with his left foot and shifted into sixth gear.

  “Slow down Mick! Mick! Slow down!” she screamed, her confusion clearing, transforming into a singular emotion, that of fear for her life.

  The blue Cobra sped down I-495, weaving in and out of traffic.

  “I’m a fucking pilot. This is what I do. Do you want to know why I make what I make? Why I go for three years at a time? Do you want to understand?”

  The speedometer of the Cobra inched toward 100 and Karen’s screams subverted from words into high-pitched squeals of fright, as she manically beat upon his shoulders.

  “Stop it bitch, do yo
u want to kill us?” he said, stitching a fine thread on the highway, narrowly escaping cars travelling half their speed. “You see this? I’m a FRINGE pilot. I’m the best there is. No one gives a damn though. No one cares what Mick does for three years in space. Well I do this. You see Karen?” The Cobra’s needle ticked past 120 miles per hour.

  Red and blue lights flashed in the rear window. Mick slowed the car down and pulled over. A cop walked briskly to his window.

  “Sir, are you deliberately trying to kill someone tonight?” the cop said.

  “I’ve got a flight. I’ve got to practice.”

  “Jesus Christ, you’re Micky Compton,” replied the cop.

  “Well?”

  The cop peered in at the passenger seat, seeing his softly sobbing wife.

  “Ma’am, are you okay?” he asked.