by Chris Devine
“Without hesitation.” The reply was instant and without inflection or emotion.
“Would it be quick?” The Journalist trembled, wrong decision but too late to back down.
“I must formally challenge you to withdraw the accusation, prove it or defend it. If you withdrew it you would lose all honour in the eyes of the crew and you would become invisible to them, the rest would be up to you.”
“Suicide?” she gulped.
“That would be a course of action, yes. I would suggest putting on a weapon, removing the locator badge you were given and taking a walk. The sentinels would fry you within fifty paces. You can borrow mine.” she added helpfully, holding out her hand which contained a small device. It was jet black, not much bigger than her hand, delicately shaped with a short stubby barrel. It had no apparent moving parts but its deadly purpose was obvious.
“You are enjoying this, aren’t you?” The Journalist challenged, her voice trembling and belying her uncharacteristic bravado.
“Yes.” Cat admitted candidly. “If you could prove it then my life would be forfeit to you. If you cannot prove it but still stand by the accusation, then you must choose to defend it. You would be dead before you saw me move.” she raised her right hand and, to emphasise the point, razor sharp claws extended about three centimetres from the end of her slender fingers.
All colour drained from The Journalist’s face; fear gripped her insides and twisted them in knots and she felt as if her knees were about to give way. She was on the edge now and it was too late to turn back. “Would that satisfy your grief at the loss of your friend?” she asked, desperately holding back the tears which made her voice quaver.
“No, that will always remain, but her honour would be satisfied.”
Tears rolled down The Journalist’s cheeks as she looked straight into Cat’s featureless visor. She was near to hysteria with fear. “Then do it,” she sobbed, “but please believe me when I say that I had no intention of putting any of you in that situation. I had no idea what was being planned. Star was the most beautiful and loyal person I have ever met but I had no idea she would sacrifice herself in such a way. I am so sorry.” she paused and drew in a very deep breath, possibly her last. “Cat, I am not responsible for Star’s death which makes you mmmmmph!” In a move faster than lightning Cat had placed a small, delicate hand firmly over The Journalist’s mouth and pushed her roughly against a wall. They stood for a long moment, their faces millimetres apart, The Journalist’s eyes, wide with fear, reflected back at her in a distorted image.
“Never,” Cat hissed, “speak of this again.” and kissed her on the cheek. She removed her hand and sat down in a relaxed posture on the sofa. “I suggest you get ready. Would you like some breakfast? I believe that is the customary first meal of the day in your culture.” she finished lightly. The Journalist’s mind reeled and ricocheted around her head. She staggered into the shower cubicle, vomited heavily into what she assumed to be a toilet bowl, and collapsed on the floor sobbing.
This is getting you nowhere. The thought pricked the back of The Journalist’s mind some minutes later through the emotional chaos. You have just faced down the single most dangerous person you have ever met in your miserable life, and won. Did you win, or did you just survive? If you won, what was the prize? She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. Her mind played back the scene again and again, trying to piece together what had happened. An image of herself lying on the floor with Cat standing over her body with those claws dripping red blood came unbidden to her mind. She managed to reach the toilet bowl just in time and retched heavily again. Yes, she had won, and the prize, it seemed, was to have gained the trust of a potentially dangerous enemy. The crisis was over, now what? A shower, yes, a shower would be good. At least she would have a few minutes to think. Once again she had proved herself ill equipped for this life, but she had survived one major crisis, a number of small crises and her first shipboard party. She had survived each situation and learned valuable lessons, but if this much can happen in the short time she had been aboard, what lay ahead for her?
She rose to her feet and investigated the bathroom, the mental turmoil had abated somewhat but recent events still troubled her. It was a simple cubicle with no plumbing or furniture. The facilities, as with all other furniture, moulded from the same material as the floor. The toilet bowl still bore witness to her recent distress, but there was no apparent means of erasing the evidence. As she contemplated this simple problem, the bowl melted into the floor. There was a pause of a few seconds and it oozed out again, completely clean and ready for use.
She disrobed. Having nowhere to hang her clothes, she dumped them unceremoniously on the bathroom floor. There were no controls in the shower cubicle but she had noticed that the ship seemed to anticipate her needs, so she stood expectantly. There was no water but she felt an agreeable tingle all over her body, light danced around her and she felt herself suspended by an unseen force. After no more than thirty seconds the feeling subsided and she felt totally refreshed - and even a little aroused - her hair felt perfectly conditioned and there was not a hint of odour.
She left the shower cubicle and noticed that her clothes had disappeared, but hanging from the wall was a yellow jumpsuit with matching shin length boots. The jumpsuit had a diagonal opening from the neck at the right shoulder to the left waist and was at least three sizes too big and over a metre too long, the boots were similarly oversized. This was obviously some sort of practical joke or initiation ceremony, she thought to herself. Ok, I’ll play along. She climbed in. At the bottom of the opening she found a small hard bubble in the material. Pulling this bubble up closed the opening until it reached the shoulder, then across the shoulder where it matched exactly with the beading around the neck. The suit suddenly shrank, not skin tight but enough to hold her body shape. The boots reacted in a similar fashion. She admired herself in the mirror. Ok, so yellow was not her colour, but not so bad all the same.
Just then a smell caught her nostrils, familiar, tantalising, no she must be dreaming! Eggs and bacon? She ran to the living area where Cat was sitting nonchalantly at a table which had since appeared, replacing the sofa and chairs. On the table sat a full breakfast spread of eggs, bacon, tomato and fried bread. A steaming pot of tea sat in the middle, the unmistakable aroma of Earl Grey, toast, jam and a jug of fresh orange juice. The smell was divine.
“Please sit,” Cat indicated a spare chair, “I hope this is correct as I did not have much time to research the ritual.” Cat was grinning broadly in palpable pleasure at The Journalist’s reaction.
“It’s perfect. Thank you.” Suddenly realising that she had not eaten anything for over two days, she tucked in with abandon. Cat watched. “Please eat with me.”
“No thank you. My dietary requirements are different to yours.” The Journalist nodded, remembering the first time she had met the odd trio in her apartment. Tea and biscuits. Her attention came back to the present. This was not the same person who only a few minutes ago had offered to shred her body with just as much pleasure.
Pushing the empty plate away, she nursed a cup of tea. She needed some answers, and her recent victory and a full stomach gave her courage.
“Would you really have used those on me?” she indicated Cat’s hands, the claws retracted now and almost invisible. She had noticed before that Cat’s fingers had no nails like a human hand, but she had not questioned the difference at the time. Cat contemplated her hands; the claws slid out then back again making The Journalist shiver involuntarily.
“No,” said Cat, “they are a relic from my ancestry. It is considered barbaric to use them as weapons and it is normally considered vulgar to display them in public, please accept my apology.”
The Journalist nodded. “I suppose they are the reason he calls you Cat.”
Cat cocked her head to one side and contemplated her hands. “He has problems pronouncing names in other tongues.” she shrugged. “Mine is more difficult than m
ost and I was a different person then. A different life.” she finished after a contemplative pause and a small smile.
“I get the impression that our recent argument was orchestrated and I was manoeuvred into it.” she was not angry but the thought had crossed her mind in the shower. No matter what her journalistic training taught her about finding the truth, self-preservation should have stopped her offering herself up as a sacrifice.
“Yes, again I must apologise to you. I used a technique on you to stimulate your actions and to act on your thoughts and fears that you would have normally suppressed.”
“Why?”
“Your motives are unclear and I needed to know.” the alien replied.
“That’s the second time someone has said that to me since I came on this ship. Could you not have just asked me?”
“No, our recent dealings with you Earthers have shown me that you never say what you think. I had to make sure you said what you really thought.”
“Did you really believe me to be responsible for Star’s death?”
“Yes.” Cat replied simply.
“Do you still believe so?” The Journalist nibbled a piece of toast to hide her fear.
“I believe you played no part in the situation that led to her death. May I try some of this?” she changed the subject abruptly, indicating the orange juice. “Tshreshan suggested I try. She said the fruit is named the same as the colour, curious.”
“Of course.” A clean glass appeared through the table. Cat poured a measure, sniffed and sipped.
“Pleasant, if a little bland for my taste, and faintly reminiscent of a fruit from my world.” she finished a little wistfully.
The subject had been changed, although not particularly tactfully, so The Journalist erred on the side of caution and did not press further. “Can I ask about your visor? You are the only crew member I have seen with one.”
“My home world was covered in never ending forests where the trees grew over a thousand metres tall and over one hundred metres in diameter, with branches wide enough to use as thoroughfares. My people lived in the forests and made homes in the trees. Light could be full sun to very low light and we hunted at night. My people evolved a set of natural filters that would shield our eyes when we strayed into full sunlight and gave us almost perfect vision at night. My eyes were damaged and my filters no longer work. I wear this visor because even the light in this cabin would hurt my eyes, to look on your sun without protection would blind me instantly.”
“Ahh,” The Journalist was satisfied, “now I understand.” she felt as if the alien was not telling the full story, but she refrained from pressing the issue. “Trees a kilometre high! That must be a sight to see. I would like to visit your world.”
Cat put her glass down and appeared to contemplate it for some time. Eventually she looked up. “I am no longer welcome among my people.” Deep emotions made the words tremble slightly. The Journalist looked across the table, startled but afraid to ask why. “I will tell you some day, but not today.”
Cat ended The Journalist’s reverie by gracefully flowing to her feet, reminding her of a feline uncurling itself after resting by a fire. She felt like a new born foal or deer against this person; all gangly legs and no balance. Every movement she made was unhurried, perfect, and precise, with all the grace of a ballerina. Could this be the product of living in kilometre high trees? The Journalist mused. One slip and you’re road kill.
Cat appeared to stare into space for a moment. “We must go.” she said suddenly. “We are expected on the bridge.” The Journalist grabbed her notebook and pencil from the desk area and followed her to the door, which slid open as they approached. Behind them the table, chairs and the remnants of breakfast melted into the floor.
The corridor stretched for hundreds of metres in each direction with no apparent points of reference and was wide enough to accommodate at least four or five people walking abreast. Instinctively The Journalist took a mental note of the symbols on the door of her cabin which were made up of two columns consisting of dots and horizontal lines. She assumed it was some sort of numbering system but had nothing to base it on. This was a big ship and she would hate to get lost trying to find her cabin again. She still had no recollection of getting there in the first place. She could feel the floor tugging at her feet each time she took a step. As they walked the floor gently pulled them forward. It was like a cross between skating and water skiing, only there was no wake or mark in the floor behind them. They were now moving at a fast run although they were only walking at a leisurely stroll. They passed the occasional crew member but the floor smoothly traced them a safe course without breaking speed. She held back an urge to cling onto Cat in fright and tried to imitate her nonchalant manner.
Their progress began to slow until they arrived at a bank of twenty doors, one of which slid open on their approach. Inside was a cubicle some two metres square with a column of buttons and symbols by the door. A lift! Finally, something The Journalist could understand. Quick, check the floor numbers. There was a sign opposite and she hurriedly wrote down the sequence of symbols so she could find her way back, if needs be. Cat pushed button ‘dot’. Deck number one? The Journalist jotted down the symbols from her door, then started noting the symbols on the lift’s panel. Underneath was deck ‘dot dot’ then three dots and four dots. Aha, a pattern was forming. Then there was a line, a line with a dot above, a line with two dots. Her concentration was interrupted by the doors opening; she did not even feel the lift move. She estimated that they had travelled about thirty decks in a few seconds. They stepped out into a long anteroom some thirty metres wide and at least fifty metres long. Each wall was lined with doors, and the ceiling appeared open to the void, showing a panorama of stars. The end wall had only one door, this is where they headed. The room was deserted and took seconds to cross as the floor assisted their progress. The door slid open as they approached.
Beyond the door was a parabolic room about another hundred metres long and the same at its base, built on two levels. They had entered on the top level which consisted of a platform, where they were now stood, and a mezzanine floor that followed the curve of the wall. The wall was lined with consoles that bristled with holographic displays and high backed chairs, some were occupied but many were not. The chairs, unlike those in the bar, were permanent pieces of furniture, but glided silently and effortlessly as the crew went about their business. Although the design of the bridge followed the sweeping curves and arcs that typified the rest of the ship, as far as she had seen so far, the whole room had a different feel; the floor was metallic rather than the substance that made up the living areas. The ceiling was domed and completely transparent down to the level of the consoles on the mezzanine floor. The Journalist was beginning to feel more than a little agoraphobic. The level below was also bristling with consoles and that is where most of the activity seemed to be, which struck The Journalist as a bit odd. She would have expected the upper level to be the main hub of the bridge, but then what did she know of star ship design? She made a mental note to ask questions later. The floor was dominated by a single circular plinth with a holographic display of stars hovering above it. The Mercenary was stood inside, thoughtfully contemplating the display. He looked up at them and waved for them to join him, then went back to studying the hologram.
Cat indicated an area of the platform with no guard-rail and walked towards it; The Journalist followed. Without pausing, Cat walked straight off the edge. The Journalist gasped and rushed forward to see Cat, five metres below, walking towards The Mercenary with not a hair out of place. They both looked at The Journalist and waited. Cat may have the reflexes of, well, a cat, The Journalist thought to herself, but I am not going to risk my neck on a jump like that. She looked around for some stairs or a lift but found none. The other two stood waiting; The Mercenary with a look of amusement, while Cat’s stance indicated irritation. The Journalist could feel herself blushing furiously. The Mercenary touched Cat’s sh
oulder and nodded towards the stranded journalist. With a head movement that indicated a ‘tut’, she strode forward. At the foot of the platform she rose quickly into the air until she was on a level with the platform and strode off without breaking step. In a single fluid movement she turned round, put a hand into the small of the back of the wide-eyed journalist and propelled her off the edge. The Journalist closed her eyes and screamed until she realised she was now standing on the lower level and the eyes of everyone on both levels were on her. She flushed furiously with a mixture of embarrassment and anger.
“Don’t ever do that again!” she hissed furiously at Cat, who cocked her head to one side.
“To survive, you must learn trust. If we are to trust you, you must first trust us.”
“Next time, at least warn me before pushing me off a ledge.”
Cat smiled with her small pointed teeth and walked over to The Mercenary. The Journalist stomped behind still blushing.
“We have reached the outer edge of the solar system and it is now safe to begin the next stage of the journey.” The Mercenary said, without greeting or looking away from the holographic display. “I thought you might like a front row seat and we can continue our chat. How’s your head by the way?” The Journalist contemplated this: she had woken up floating above a bed that she had no idea how she got to, manoeuvred into a deadly confrontation with an alien with two centimetre claws, been offered a full English breakfast that seemed to have materialised out of thin air, and pushed off a five metre ledge. All that considered, her head was coping, just. The Mercenary’s mouth twitched in amusement. “I meant that Arcturan spirit can have some odd side effects on the unprepared, and the Arcturan you went off with had a huge smile on his face when I saw him in Engineering earlier.”