Long Paradise

by James Murdo

  …

  {The mirror-nodules are small – there’s less chance of them being damaged by another collision.}

  [Exactly.]

  {When will you release them?}

  [One batch soon, another immediately once the sensors flip again.]

  *

  The sensors flipped.

  Immediately, Ciqalo jettisoned the millions of armoured mirror-nodules – at the same time as another arcing strike swept into them, removing everything in its path from existence. One nodule survived, pushed from the influence of the anomaly. It hurtled away, gravitationally drawn towards the only nearby object – a planet.

  From the seemingly empty space behind it, a spaceworthy vessel materialised, travelling on a similar trajectory to the nodule.

  PART 2

  12

  TOLREN

  Slinging his pack to the side, Tolren ran to the front of the ship. His leg pressed against the single chair fixed to the floor, and he stared in disbelief at the lack of controls.

  “Ship,” he shouted, desperately. “Take me–”

  He shut his mouth and looked back with concern at the open entrance hatch. Moving quickly around the chair, he hurtled back to look for an obvious button or lever – anything to close it. He ran his fingers along the hatch frame’s edges and tried to pull the hatch door closed. It would not budge.

  Huffing in frustration, he rushed back to the front of the ship and looked for anything that would help. Every few moments, his eyes flicked to the curved glintsparse window that rose out from the end of the infuriating non-control panel.

  “Are you voice activated?” His voice was a strong whisper. “If you are, please go. Take off.”

  He tried many more times, before nervously walking back to the open hatch entrance. Poking his head cautiously out, he gasped. The Roranian soldiers were near. They had been steadily filing deep into the spaceport for some time, on his trail. The only reason they had not stormed the entire stock of ships immediately was that there were many from the other twenty-eight races of the Alliance there too, not just those of the Roranians.

  “Come on, let’s go, please!”

  The ship was silent.

  The shouts and sounds of the approaching soldiers’ clanging equipment intensified. Tolren’s eyes widened.

  “We need to go,” he hissed, trembling. He ran to the front and thumped the non-control panel with his fists. “Take us away, now!”

  There was movement through the side of the glintsparse window to the right. Tolren stared, frozen. Three rifle-bearing soldiers were at the adjacent ship. It was a small Quillian cargo ship, discernible by the distinctive frond-sensors haphazardly stemming from its sides. He crouched lower.

  “Please! She’ll kill me.”

  He peeked, seeing the soldier closest to the Quillian ship raise his arm to display a fist-sized instrument in his hand. Instantly, the front-sensors directly in front of the three soldiers recoiled, slithering back into the ship. A flat, circular segment of the Quillian ship’s hull was revealed. The hull rippled away concentrically from the centre of the segment, creating an opening. A single Quillian moved into view, standing on its single, undulating, leg-like appendage.

  The soldiers shouted at the Quillian. Tolren could hear the noise but not their exact words. From the vigorous movements of their heads and the side of the lips of one of the soldiers, it was clear they were not asking politely.

  The Quillian waved its body-fronds about wildly in distress. Tolren almost felt sorry for it. Suddenly, all of the Quillian’s fronds joined into one large group-frond, and pointed directly away from it, towards the side of the glintsparse window through which he was observing them. The soldiers turned around.

  He swore, ducking low and sliding to the floor. It was too late. It had been stupid to forget the Quillians’ most famous ability – incongruency detection. Their fronds were adapted to collect and analyse great volumes of ambient information. Most of the time their observations were ignored by the rest of the Alliance due to their peculiarity and utter irrelevance. This time, the soldiers paid heed. Tolren swore again and banged his fists on the floor.

  A soft thud sounded in front of him. The entrance hatch had closed.

  *

  Ships hurtled away from the port and into the sky. Many were neutralised by the soldiers’ hand-fired neu-rifles as soon as they lifted off and fell freely – with only their internal safety systems required to minimise damage to the occupants. The neu-rifles’ laser sights determined when ships were too high to allow a safe fall, automatically resisting fire.

  “Why are they trying that?” one of the junior soldiers asked her superior standing beside her, pointing up at the fleeing ships. “Command’ll authorise safeties off soon, surely?”

  “Don’t know that though, do they? It’s panic. Pilots panic. Panic always creates a commotion. You’ll get used to it.” The superior looked at the rest of the yet-to-be-searched ships. “Look – them over there. Idiots.” He pointed to a group of soldiers aiming their neu-rifles pointlessly at an airborne ship. “Ship’s too high, safeties not off yet.”

  “But when they are–”

  “Dangerous fall,” he said gruffly. “That’s for sure.”

  “Those three’re shouting a lot.”

  The superior glanced over to where she pointed. “Think they’ve found him, don’t they?”

  “D’you think they have?”

  “Doesn’t matter, they’re not the only ones. Look.” He pointed at various clusters of soldiers around them.

  “Do these work properly on Alliance ships? Non-Roranian ones?” She gestured to her neu-rifle.

  “Supposedly,” he said in mild irritation, looking back to the three soldiers she had just pointed out. “These ones really do think they’ve found him though, don’t they?” He looked away, sighing. “Come on, we’ve got our own jobs to do.” He nodded at the ship in front of them. “Let’s make sure no one’s hiding inside.”

  They swept the ship, finding nothing, and moved on. The shouting and firing of neu-rifles filled the air. The superior looked back again to the three nearby soldiers. The ship they had been interested in was now airborne. Unfortunately, they looked to be having some targeting issues with their neu-rifles.

  “Should we help?” the junior asked.

  He shook his head. “Not protocol. What if they’re wrong and he’s here.” He pointed at the next ship they were about to sweep. A third soldier ran up behind them.

  “I’m back!” he shouted, settling beside them and pointing his neu-rifle at the ship in readiness.

  “Everything’s sorted?” the superior asked with slight impatience.

  The newcomer smiled apologetically and shook the neu-rifle. “Sorted. Newest issue,” he said. “From the new supplier, this one.”

  “Who’s that?” the junior asked.

  “The Quest-Meld,” the superior said. “Come on then.”

  They checked the ship, with audible disappointment from the newcomer at the lack of fly-happy occupants, and moved on forwards. The next ship made the newcomer shout in delight. “Ready, ready! I’ve got this one!”

  The ship flew off. The newcomer raised his neu-rifle. “What the…?” He took his eye off the sights to stare at the weapon, before pressing his eye back to the sights and trying again. “S’broken too!”

  The superior put his hand on the newcomer’s weapon to force it down. “Look.” He pointed behind them. “They’ve been disabled now.”

  They stared back. Six large hover-plated units had entered from the back of the docking port. They stopped moving, dropping heavily to the ground. Immediately, multiple rotating turrets on each unit began whirring into action – targeting the fleeing ships and firing.

  “Was only a matter of time,” the superior said.

  The newcomer cursed and kicked angrily at the floor. “Why not bring them at the start, if that’s gonna happen anyway?”

  “What are they?” the junior asked.
<
br />   “Neu-cannon prototypes,” the superior answered. “Nice, aren’t they?” The neu-cannon units fired consistently. Wherever an airborne ship was hit, it glided gracefully down. “Forced descents.”

  The junior looked puzzled. “Same thing as these.” She lifted up her neu-rifle.

  “No, far smarter. Not cutting them down, forcing them down. Safely.”

  “How?”

  “That’s proprietary.”

  “I’ve heard they shoot neutralisation packets at the ships, make them fly back down in a controlled way,” the newcomer said. “Same new supplier who made this – the Quest-Meld, or something.”

  “As I said, it’s proprietary. Maybe that’s right, maybe it’s not. Either way, there’s less damage,” he said, looking condescendingly at the newcomer. “But don’t worry, I expect they’ll be hand-held in time.”

  “Not yet, though.” The newcomer grimaced.

  “Who’re the Quest-Meld?” the junior asked.

  “New,” the superior said, turning to her.

  “I heard they’re the repurposed Alexis-Meld,” the newcomer said. “Hierarchy became quite muddled towards the end, didn’t it?”

  “Don’t be dense,” the superior chided him, still looking at the junior. “Nothing to do with the Alexis-Meld. That’s finished. That’s what we’re doing here – cleaning up the mess.”

  “I heard they were working on other tech, stuff–” the newcomer began.

  “Don’t waste your time listening to nonsense. You’re better off recording what a Quillian tells you.”

  The junior soldier laughed.

  “Not everyone thinks they’re rumours,” the newcomer argued. “It’s been proven they were working on other techs, secret ones, before it all disintegrated.”

  “Still rumours,” the superior said exasperatedly. “And their techs were useless.” He smacked his stomach. “Pointless now, these are. No one trusts Alexis tech.”

  “But the head of the Quest-Meld, this lady… Quesimone – where’s she from? From out of nowhere–”

  “Not from the Alexis-Meld,” the superior said, matter-of-factly. “I can promise you that. And it’s not the only new meld that’s come about recently either. There’s another off the top of my head that’s supplying smarter defensive tech too. The Inner-Meld. You gonna accuse them of being the Alexis-Meld in disguise as well?”

  “Course not! Well anyway, this Quesimone, she sounds horrible, the…” The newcomer looked at the superior, “Talk about her isn’t exactly nice.”

  “And that’s coming from you!”

  They watched the ships drop down from the sky, helpless against the onslaught of the neu-cannons.

  “D’you think we’ll get him?” the junior soldier asked.

  “Not a clue,” the superior replied.

  The newcomer whistled. “I hope we do. Needs to suffer, doesn’t he? Not a good person.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Can’t think he’d be safe anywhere in the Roranian territories… except perhaps Nirloden.” The junior laughed, even the superior smirked. The newcomer continued, “Nah. Won’t make it off-planet. Not a chance. Anyway, tracking him somehow, aren’t they? Can’t hide!”

  A flash above caught their attention. One of the ships was drawing the majority of the neu-cannon attention.

  “’How’s it doing that?”

  “Dodgy neu-cannons, aren’t they? Not working!”

  “It’s the same one those three were–”

  “It shouldn’t be able to…”

  There were more flashes as the ship was impacted, yet seemingly unaffected. It carried on, speeding away into the sky.

  “What the–”

  13

  TRANSFIGURED SPACE

  Tolren and Gerstial II walked side-by-side. The guards they passed, placed at regular intervals, paid them no obvious attention, or acknowledged them with only the briefest of nods.

  “What does your father want?” Tolren asked suspiciously, keeping his voice low.

  “I’m not sure,” Gerstial II replied absent-mindedly.

  “Will your mother be there?”

  “No idea.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  Gerstial II frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “D’you think he’s sending my father away?”

  Gerstial II swung his head to look at Tolren. “Why?”

  Tolren shrugged his shoulders. “Your father’s never sent for me before. Your sister became ill after the implantations–”

  “Phils was unfortunate, Tolren, don’t worry.”

  “Perhaps he needs a new Alexis specialist.”

  “She’s fine now. She’s my sister, and she’s fine. It wasn’t Taiden’s fault.”

  “Even so, he did the operation.”

  Gerstial II did not reply immediately as they turned the final corner. “Why would he ask to speak with you, then? Tolren, don’t worry. You’re not going anywhere… I won’t let that happen. Don’t worry.”

  “You couldn’t…” Tolren ended his reply as they entered the room. Gerstial II strode in first.

  “Gerst, Tolren,” Gerstial said, smiling thinly at them both.

  “What’s happened?” Gerstial II asked.

  Gerstial walked to the entrance and pressed his palm to the wall on the side. The door slid across, sealing the room.

  “Nothing. Nothing’s happened. I wanted to ask something of you – both of you.”

  Tolren pursed his lips and looked to Gerstial II.

  “What’s there to ask?” Gerstial II asked.

  “It’s about your sister,” Gerstial began. “Phils. How do you think she’s coping?”

  “Fine, I think,” Gerstial II said lightly. “She’s better now.” He looked at Tolren. “Back to normal, isn’t she?”

  Tolren nodded.

  “It’s not the physical aspects I’m worried about. Your father’s work was immaculate, as usual,” Gerstial said looking at Tolren. “She was unfortunate, a congenital issue. It’s…”

  “Father?”

  “It’s the other aspects. Your mother and I are concerned.”

  “What other aspects?” Gerstial II asked. “Will she be okay?”

  Gerstial looked at them both thoughtfully as he straightened up. “I sometimes wonder if… Trict was right.”

  “Right about what?”

  “Waiting.”

  “For an Alexis-ring?” Gerstial II said. “But Phils wanted one, she always wanted one – like everyone else. What’s wrong with her?”

  Gerstial hesitated and turned to the side, as though able to see a holo invisible to them. Finally, he sighed and placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “We’re not sure if there’s anything wrong with her. Look out for her, please. Both your sisters, but especially Phils. Spend more time with her.”

  “Yes, Father,” Gerstial II said, while Tolren nodded, looking relieved.

  *

  The recycling of old memories was pulled back from Tolren’s conscious mind. Lifting the cheek that had been pressed against the floor, he groggily opened his eyes. He was lying prone, beside the fixed chair at the front of the ship. His recollection about what had just happened was not forthcoming.

  He sat up to look around, noticing that his pack was right beside him. The general design of the ship appeared Roranian, although there were also some other members of the Alliance with similar aesthetics. Judging by its size, the ship was unlikely to have been used for overly-extended journeys. It was by no means cramped, but the additional requirements for longer voyages – namely personal side-rooms for sleeping, washing and other associated activities – were not present.

  He stood up and stared, wide-eyed, out of the window. The ship was in space – a blanket of darkness, peppered with specks of light. Nothing was recognisable. Lillea was gone, and with it, hopefully, the soldiers pursuing him. Fleeing to the spaceport had been reckless, although there had had little choice at the time, but here he was, away from it all.<
br />
  He turned around again to survey the new surroundings. The entrance hatch was to his right. Just past that was a culinary area – with what appeared to be a food dispenser. There was nothing except the ship’s hull to his left. At the far end, there was another hatch, larger than the entrance hatch.

  He frowned, not having noticed the larger hatch before. It covered most of the back end of the ship. He turned around to face the front, in case he had also somehow missed its controls, but they were still hidden.

  “Ship.”

  …

  “Ship,” he said louder. Voice-activated vessels supposedly included manual fail-safes. “How do I operate you? If you are damaged, show me the controls.”

  He sat down in the solitary seat, staring blankly at the emptiness where the controls should have been. Its warm, cushioned surface was comfortable. “Where are we going? Where are the controls?”

  “Ah!” He rushed out of the seat and tapped the glintsparse window with his hands, waiting expectantly. He pressed against the window again and again, running his hands across the front and to the sides. “Is this the control panel?” he asked out loud.

  Nothing. The hissing of escaping air caused him to jump. He spun around, just in time to see a crack appear down the centre of the hatch at the back of the ship. It was opening in two parts which both slid towards opposite directions into the walls.

  “No, wait! What are you doing?” he shouted, rushing around the chair and holding onto it for support against the impending depressurisation. “Please, don’t do this–”

  A slither of light spilled into the ship. A moment later, both sides of the hatch door were gone, slid into the recesses of the ship. His arms relaxed and a redness washed across his face. There was another compartment, beyond his own.

  Clearing his throat, he asked in as authoritative a tone as he could muster, “What’s going on?”

  Beyond the hatch should have been vacuum. This ship was not this large when he had stumbled across it. There was another hatch at the back of the newly exposed compartment too, the same as the one that had just opened.