by Rob Rowntree
Alan wasn’t sure whether that was a statement or an opening to a conversation, but he said, “Could you fetch me some water?”
“Sorry, of course.” Stowe rose from her seat at her easel.
Following a short bout of coughing caused by a dry throat, Alan said, “Are you working on something? I heard a lot of charcoal action.”
Pouring the water, Stowe said, “I’ve had trouble sleeping.” She laughed nervously. “Guess I needed to sketch things out of my system.” She hesitated and handed him his water. “Do you want to see it?”
Alan wondered what she’d drawn and although he knew this would be a very private image, he felt obliged to say yes. Stowe obviously wanted to show it to somebody. “Yes. I’d love to. And...thank you.”
Stowe blushed, maybe having recognised his intuitive understanding.
Turning the easel towards him Alan saw that she’d been working in fine pencil, creating a landscape that possessed both sterile beauty and passionate fervour. Against an angry, churning sky filled with chopping wings, Stowe had drawn a white hill standing proud of a flat plain. Atop the hill a crowded mass of snarling, malevolent Unbound had presence. And atop them, swinging an enormous axe stood Pickering.
Alan absorbed the picture immediately aware of a great sense of pride: pride in the human spirit, but most of all pride in the ability of the little man to overcome, to even surpass their ordinariness. Pickering was a hero and Avram Stowe would make sure everyone at home knew about his bravery.
Pulling his gaze away he said to her, “It’s wonderful, Avram. You’ve captured the true spirit of heroism and put down a legacy for Pickering’s descendants to be proud of.”
She averted her gaze, and then revealed: “I won’t be showing it.”
With that she turned the picture away but before she did Alan caught a glimpse of the title, ‘Pickering’s Hope.’ There’d be rumours about this picture circulating for many years, providing they got home of course. “Is there any word? Any reply to my message?”
Stowe perked up. “Yes. The SN Michael Lucas should be alongside within the hour. Woodland’s talking to his buddies aboard the corvette right now. He’s like a kid with a new toy; you’d think he discovered all this.” Stowe spread her arms for emphasis.
Fatigue dragged Alan towards sleep. “You did good down there, we all did. Once we’re home there’ll be no stopping the gossip. Media will be all over us.” He paused, “Like those retched things back there.” He hesitated again, summoned up more strength and said, “We need to make sure the truth, our truth gets told.”
Stowe said something, but as Alan tumbled into a dark sleep, it was snatched away.
***
The wardroom aboard the SN Michael Lucas, bore a resemblance to all wardrooms, everywhere; low tables for playing cards and chess, dart boards, bar and stools, the ubiquitous library stocked with moth eaten readers and, would you believe, one actual paper book.
A small reception forced Woodland, Stowe and Alan into the limelight. Alan wondered what their future held as they waited for the captain to join them.
“Alan, Woodland tells me you’re a Merchant Man. How many years?”
The speaker, who looked to be around forty years of age, wore a second engineer’s epaulets. Alan couldn’t remember the man’s name.
“How many years?” Alan repeated. “Around fifteen, started as a navigation cadet and worked my ticket. That’s all in the past now. You boys can have blue-space.”
“Six months ago I’d have taken that offer, but there are rumours back home that the Valhiem project has been a success. Our days might be numbered.”
Alan wanted to duck out, “That’s very interesting, but would you mind? I need to, you know...”
“Ah, quite,” said the engineer. “Well done lad.”
Sometime later Stowe and Woodland looked deep in conversation with two men in plain clothing. Alan remembered them from an earlier introduction, they were official trauma counsellors.
Stowe smiled as he joined them.
Woodland grinned, “Old Rogers get you on a good day?” He pointed towards the second engineer. “Not the most effervescent character in the woodpile.”
Alan shrugged, “What are you guys up to?”
One of the counsellors, Markam, Alan remembered, said, “We were just expounding on the merits of various post traumatic stress treatments against the rather novel, modern notion that it’s best to leave the affected person alone to deal with things internally. Can you believe it? Poppycock.”
Alan said, “There’s somebody here that needs counselling?” Meant as a joke, but glancing at the counsellors he saw his comments received seriously. Glancing at Stowe he noticed a cheeky grin. One for his team then.
The counsellors said, like mentally conjoined twins, “Are you saying that you don’t believe in counselling? Mr Abrams, counselling is the backbone of modern professional healthcare. That said we would urge you to maintain a healthy ongoing relationship with the counsellor of your choice—”
“Evening gentlemen, lady.” Captain Hulick, all medals and smartly dressed, breezed in to rescue his fellow spacers. “I trust these medical buffoons are leaving you well alone. If you have any requests please feel free. Now, loosen your inhibitions and take a few drinks.”
Alan touched the Captain’s sleeve as he was about to leave, “Captain Hulick.”
“Yes, Abrams?”
“I wondered whether you’d considered my request sir.”
Captain Hulick, hesitated, acting as if an ill advised question had been asked. “Mr Abrams, your request is totally out of order. Not only is it against naval regulations, but it’s also a foolhardy request. Are you sure you know what to expect?”
“Sir,” Alan replied, “I have piloted starships for a lifetime. As this is probably going to be my last entry into blue-space I thought I’d better watch it, commit it to memory.
Pondering this for a while Hulick said, “All right, I will on this occasion agree to it. However, it will be from this wardroom. I want you in an easily accessed place in case you freak out.”
“Fine Captain. Here it will be.”
***
The SN Michael Lucas vibrated, a deep resonance filling bulkheads, decks and air with power. In the subdued lighting of the deserted wardroom Alan let the engine’s song infuse his body with its pounding beat. The rhythmic pulses helped Alan order events, place perspectives.
Rosie Black, Shepperd, Gibson, Kiki and Conway; such loses should be worth something, and definitely mean something. Was Kiki right? Should we pull back from the abyss? Alan did concede the fact that the universe would always be a dangerous place, but then the unknown will always be dangerous for the weary traveller. Alan grinned; stagnation lay at the end of that road; stagnation and death.
And what of the Peterson’s mysterious cargo? Perhaps Woodland held some information, Conway had hinted at it. Tired and unsure if he’d return to space again Alan decided that the cargo and the ship could wait.
The engines changed pitch, and Alan moved towards the wardroom’s panoramic window. “Lights down, one hundred percent.”
He felt alone, despite others not being too far away. Alone and floating in space above the upper deck of the SN Michael Lucas. Smooth except for twin tram-tracks for the rail guns, the upper hull looked like a flat table strewn with Landers and skiffs.
The darkness began to fade, a blue sheen washing across his vision.
Something flickered across the deck. It moved fast, darting and skipping. If Alan looked at it directly, it had a tendency to slip away from his sight. The more he stared, the harder it became to see. A shiver stole over Alan as he watched the apparition slip into a skiff. Shaking his head, Alan wasn’t sure if he’d seen anything.
But as space and ship faded to blue, his mind raced.
***
Some things never change. Others do.
The lodge’s sixth floor corridor stretched before him like a tunnel lit by spilled roo
m light reminiscent of light from oil burners. Patients drifted aimlessly, lost in their own worlds. Unlike the last time he’d made this journey he no longer avoided contact, happy to take the occasional bump and collision, simply enjoying the human contact.
The last door. Light spilled from the room. Cosmic Journey played loudly. Alan had what he wanted: soon Jimmy would too.
Entering the room Jimmy looked up and said, “Alan my brother.”
END
Table of Contents
Title Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Unbound Brothers
Chapter One | Jimmy
Chapter Two | Conway
Chapter Three | Introductions and Farewells
Chapter Four | Ascent and Answers
Chapter Five | Blue Sunrise
Chapter Six | Doubts and Vortices
Chapter Seven | Darkness and Light
Chapter Eight | Secrets and Wreckage
Chapter Nine | Something Found, Something Lost.
Chapter Ten | Heavy Metal and Swiss Cheese
Chapter Eleven | Cloud Decks and Decisions
Chapter 12 | Mutinies and Misdirection
Chapter 13 | New Worlds and Natives
Chapter 14 | Weather and Watchers
Chapter Fifteen | Languages and Lies
Chapter Sixteen | Paranoia and Persuasions
Chapter Seventeen | Worries and Welcomes
Chapter Eighteen | Fires and Frustrations.
Chapter Nineteen | Drawings and Ugly Cows
Chapter Twenty | Journeys and Mutilations
Chapter Twenty One | Escape and Sign Language
Chapter Twenty Two | Freedom and Guilt
Chapter Twenty Three | Wind and Wagons
Chapter Twenty four | Wings and Warriors
Chapter Twenty Five | Aeolian Cities and Doubts
Chapter Twenty Six | Interrogations and Maslov’s Gift
Chapter Twenty Seven | Deaths and Designs
Chapter Twenty Eight | Dust and Memories
Chapter Twenty Nine | Graves and Stone
Chapter Thirty | Sacrifice
Chapter Thirty One | ‘Something Wicked...’