The Spiral Arm (episode 1, season 1)

by Peter Boland

  *

  Fresh tears spurt from my mom’s eyes. Her head drops into her hands and I feel her body shivering against mine.

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “I’m not Call-Up material. Why would you say such I thing?” I’m on my feet now, standing in front of Uncle Mike and searching his eyes for any hint of deception but there’s none. He’s serious.

  “You’re upsetting mom, for no reason.” I sit back down and hold her. “It’s okay, mom, I’m not going anywhere. They don’t take people like me. Cadets are big, brave and strong. Not small, weak and geeky.” I add a laugh at the end to show how absurd the whole thing is, but nobody joins in.

  “Size has nothing to do with it,” says the stranger in the corner. He steps forward and I get a proper look at him. He’s tall and athletic even though he must be pushing sixty. Thick grey hair, a low forehead and icy blue eyes give him a wolfmanish appearance.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “This is General Stone,” says my uncle. “He’s commanding the ship we’re taking to Kepler.”

  “We?”

  “Yes,” replies my uncle, “I’m stationed on the same vessel.”

  This isn’t happening. My mind simply won’t compute the information I’m hearing. The whole thing doesn’t make sense. The idea of me going to Kepler to fight is about as logical as firing chocolate bars at the sun.

  “I’m not going,” I say, tightening my grip around mom’s shoulders, hoping she’ll anchor me to this planet.

  “Please, Mike,” she says. “Wren doesn’t want to go.”

  “I’m staying with mom, to look after her.”

  “Your mother will be provided for,” says the wolfman. “We’ll move her to better accommodation, she’ll want for nothing.”

  “What I want is my daughter,” she screams.

  Uncle Mike takes my mom gently by the hand. “We need to talk,” he says and pulls her to her feet. They walk into the tiny kitchenette and slide back the metal screen that separates it from the rest of the apartment. I strain to hear what they’re saying but all I can make out are muffled whispers.

  General Stone studies me with cold eyes, as if I’m an old car he’s thinking of buying. I’m surprised he doesn’t tap me with his foot to see how well made I am.

  “You’ve got this wrong,” I say to him. “There are thousands of people who would make a better cadet than me. I’m tiny, I don’t sleep, I’m certainly not a team player and I’m not aggressive; I’ve lost every fight I’ve ever been in. Even kids three years below me kick my ass.”

  He smiles, or is it a grimace? It’s difficult to tell. “There’s no mistake,” he says.

  Mom and Uncle Mike return. She’s crying again. She rushes forward and holds me, rapidly kissing my forehead. Then she turns to my uncle.

  “Please take good care of her,” she says, but something’s different in her voice. What has Uncle Mike said to change her attitude?

  “What?” I demand. “I’m not going, Mom. I’m not leaving you.”

  She holds both of my hands and lifts them up to her mouth, kissing them one at a time. “Please, Wren. You have to go.”

  “Mom, no. I want to stay with you, I’m happy here,” I say. She doesn’t answer, in fact she doesn’t even look at me. She’s resigned to the fact that this is my fate. “Don’t worry mom, I’ll straighten this out, I’ll be back before you know it.”

  I hug her but she doesn’t hug me back.

  “I’m sorry, we have to go,” Uncle Mike says, “there isn’t much time.”

  He takes one of my hands and tugs me toward the door. With my free hand I desperately hold onto my mom. Suddenly she doesn’t want to let me go and pulls me back. General Stone steps in and dislodges her fingers from my hand, making her wince.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he says without a trace of genuine sympathy.

  “Hey, don’t you touch her,” I snarl.

  The General fixes me with those eyes that are harder than a couple of ball bearings. Then he grins. “Not aggressive, eh? I think you’ve just proved otherwise.”

  A second later I’m shoved out of the apartment and into the corridor. I shout and hear my mom screaming from behind the door. The people who live on the floor in the hallway look concerned. One of them asks if I’m okay. I’m touched by his concern.

  “Back off,” General Stone says, “this doesn’t concern you.” They instantly obey him.

  I’m half-lifted, half dragged to the elevator and down to the limo outside. My uncle’s grip is strong and the next second I’m dumped in the back of the car.

  I feel as if I’ve been kidnapped in broad daylight.

  I’m sandwiched on the backseat between General Stone and my uncle. Up front a young marine sits at the wheel.

  “Where to, sir?” he asks.

  “The Processing Centre – fast.”

  “Yes, Sir, but it’s awful busy.”

  “Don’t worry. We’re insured.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The engine hums into life and the driver throws the car into a U turn with little regard for anyone standing nearby. Several people are broadsided by the car and are knocked to the ground. I see the shocked faces on everyone else as they jump out of the way to avoid a similar fate. I’m still in shock too, but it’s quickly turning to anger. What the hell am I doing here? The whole thing is pointless and no-one has given me a decent explanation why.

  I turn and face Uncle Mike.

  “Why are you doing this? Is it to get back at my mom for something? You want to hurt her, right? Because I’m the last person on Earth that should be going to Kepler and you know it.”

  Uncle Mike opens his mouth but General Stone gets there before him, leaning in so I can taste his breath.

  “You do not speak unless spoken to.” His voice makes me jump. It cuts through me like a red hot knife. It has a power and weight behind it that is merciless and unshakable. His eyes weld me to the spot, I cannot, dare not look anywhere else. “He is not your uncle any more, he is Colonel Hodges. Do I make myself clear? And you are no longer a citizen or a student, you are a cadet in the United Earth Marine Corps with a job to do. You are one of the elite. You are one of the few who will fight for the many. This is your purpose in life now. There is no other.”

  He sits back in his seat, calm as anything.

  The car goes silent and I feel as if my soul has been ripped out of me and now belongs to General Stone. He is the most frightening man I have ever met, if he is a man at all. There is a supernatural quality about him, like I’ve just been talking to the devil who will torture me for all eternity unless I do his bidding. I don’t think I have a choice. When this man speaks you obey with every cell of your body.

  No-one says anything for the rest of the journey. My mind is numb after General Stone’s little speech and I feel like I’ve accepted my fate. Can this really be happening? He called me one of the elite. Has this guy actually seen what I look like?

  City block after city block scrolls past my window. It’s never ending and the same pattern is repeated over and over again. People everywhere sliding past each other; they rush, they push, they shove, they argue, but somehow it all seems to work despite the pressure cooker of a planet we live on. We have adapted and become insects scuttling around in a maze with mile-high walls.

  The car slows and pulls up alongside a gigantic metallic building that takes up a whole city block. Its walls are angled, pointing inwards, reminding me of a steep pyramid with a flat top. There doesn’t seem to be an entrance or any windows, it’s a solid shape of gleaming metal. Impregnable.

  Outside, a mob waves banners scrawled with hurried slogans. Half want the war to end; they’re protesting against all the lives we’ve lost trying to gain control of Kepler. The other half want more troops sent to the planet. They’re fed up with the overcrowding and think Kepler should be ours by now. They want more space at any cost.

  “Just waiting for clearance, Sir,” says the driver, tapping s
omething into his com screen. Suddenly it changes color. There is an almighty clunking sound like the Earth’s tectonic plates have shifted. A small rectangle opens in the side of the building, just big enough to fit a car through.

  A group of Marines fan out of the hole that’s just appeared. Some have weapons trained on the car while others shove the protesters aside with the butts of their guns. They create a hole in the crowd and one marine steps forward and scans us with his com chip.

  A second later he waves us in. As we drive past, a few people manage to kick and punch the limo, shouting things I can’t make out. Their faces are angry and desperate, and squash against the window, steaming it up. The marines move in and push them back. Shots are fired into the air to make them disperse.

  Suddenly we’re in a cavernous parking lot. The marines step in behind us and the gap we have just driven through closes up. Everything goes silent apart from the hum of the engine and the marines’ combat boots clopping on the concrete. Finally the driver slots the car in a space next to a row of other limos.

  “Cadet Harper,” says the General.

  I jump in my seat at the sound of his voice.

  “How many marines did you see?”

  “Er, what?”

  “What, Sir,” my uncle corrects me.

  “What, Sir? I mean, pardon, sir?” I say, trying to hold it together.

  “How many marines were there?”

  “I don’t know, I can’t remember.”

  “Think.”

  “Er, twenty two. Twenty one had guns …”

  “Firearms.” He corrects me.

  “… twenty one had firearms and one was scanning the car.”

  “Good, you’re already thinking like a marine. Remember,” he says, pointing to my head, “your mind is the most powerful weapon you have.” Then he steps out of the car. “I’ll see you on the bridge, Mike.”

  I watch him get out and walk off with the driver beside him and wonder what the hell that was all about. First he shouts at me, then he starts giving me random advice. Maybe he’s bi-polar, he seems like the type.

  “We’re at the Processing Center,” says my uncle. “Get out and follow me.”

  I do exactly as I’m told. I want to fire questions at him, ask him when all this will be over and when I can go home, but my lips won’t work. I don’t know whether it’s shock or fear or the fact that I’m in a military facility, but I feel I have to obey or something horrible is going to happen to me.

  We’re in a basement parking area and behind the rows of limos are hulks of metal on giant tank tracks stacked with vicious-looking weaponry. It’s bleak and grey, wall to wall with brutal concrete.

  I follow him over to a row of elevators. As we near them one of the doors opens automatically, not like the ones in my apartment block, which take half an hour to reach you.

  We step in and he presses the button for floor 76. A second later my stomach is in the soles of my feet as the elevator catapults us upwards. The instant we hit max velocity we slow to a stop and the doors open.

  “This is where we part company,” says my uncle. In front of us is a huge white echoey hanger about ten times the size of our school hall. He gives me a gentle nudge out. “Everything will be fine, Wren. Go get yourself processed.” Then the elevator doors shut and he is gone. I stand there wondering what I’m supposed to do next, squinting beneath the humming clinical white lights.

  In front of me are temporary metal barricades arranged to herd multiple columns of people. Beyond these, stretch rows of long trestle tables, behind which are wide utilitarian metal shelves that reach up into the ceiling and nearly across the entire width of the space. The place is deserted. I quickly figure out that everyone has already gone through processing. I must be the last one.

  I can’t stand here any longer so I shuffle forward, between the barriers, still unsure if I’m doing the right thing. Any moment now I think a loud metallic voice will tell me to halt and drop to the floor. I keep moving and pass through the queuing arrangement. When I’m out the other side I hear somebody clear their throat, but I can’t see anyone.

  I’m at the rows of tables. I look one way and then the other. Off in the distance to the right I see a seated figure. He’s typing into his com screen. As I get closer I see he’s playing some sort of game. He looks up startled and shuts the game off. I sort of bow my head in submission, thinking he’s going to start shouting at me like General Stone did.

  “Name?” he says. It’s not friendly but it’s not aggressive either.

  “Wren,” I say. The croakiness of my voice surprises me. “Wren Harper.”

  His fingers flick over his com screen and I see my name come up in reverse through the back of his screen. His eyebrows raise. “Mmm, Alpha One. Well done.”

  “Excuse me?” I ask timidly, thinking he’s going to bite my head off. “What’s Alpha One?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No. I, er, didn’t realize I’d be selected to be a cadet.”

  “Okay, well, all cadets on board ship are divided into groups or pods, there are hundreds of pods on board. Your designated pod is Alpha One. Wait here a second.”

  I still don’t understand as he turns and starts searching through metal shelves stacked with clothing. He busily moves along the shelves until he finds what he’s looking for and then returns with a pile of five crisp white t-shirts. Printed across the front in a no-nonsense military style typeface are the words: Alpha One. He hands them to me.

  “I’m afraid this is the smallest size we do; might be a bit baggy on you. Let me get you the rest of your kit. What size shoe are you?”

  “Four.”

  “Four? I think the smallest we do is a five, let me check.”

  A few seconds later he places five pairs of green combat pants in front of me, some thick blue underwear, several pairs of woolen socks and two pairs of boots. “These are size five but I’ve given you double the number of socks. If you wear two pairs at a time it should take up the slack. Go behind the shelves and change.”

  I clutch my new uniform with both hands and follow his directions. It takes me an age to get around the giant metal shelves. On the other side is the strangest sight I’ve ever seen. Gargantuan stacks of discarded civilian clothes, piled up so high they form conical heaps. One is made entirely of shoes and sneakers. Another is just pants and others are full of t-shirts and tops. These must have been left by other cadets who came through here earlier today. Thousands of them must have passed through here because the piles are mountainous. It’s a surreal sight seeing all this abandoned clothing. Reminds me of 20th century concentration camps just before the prisoners were gassed. They were told they were having showers and were made to dump their clothing before they went in. The thought sends a shiver through me.

  There are no cubicles to change in so I just strip off where I stand and toss my old clothes onto the piles. My new T-shirt is huge and so are my pants, it’s like I’m wearing hand-me-down clothes. I decide to knot the back of my shirt to make it look less ridiculous and move on to the next station. Even with two pairs of socks the new boots slop up and down – I might have to add a third pair. They’re as stiff as hell and creak when I walk.

  Past the piles of clothes are more barricades arranged to funnel people into hundreds of different queues. I naturally follow the arrangement until I’m faced with a row of medical screens stretching across the width of the vast space. The screens form little cubicles and I peer into one of them. It has a bed and some hi-tech medical equipment I don’t recognize. It’s military stuff so you can’t get the details on a com chip. I know I should try and find someone to help me, but curiosity gets the better of me. I step inside and begin poking around. There’s a stack of computer panels and readouts, and hooked up to this are two long snaking tubes, each with a gun on the end. These are not firearms, as the General would say, and are made from sleek stainless steel. As I pick one up it hisses with compressed air.

&n
bsp; “Put that down,” a firm voice says behind me.

  I drop the gun immediately and swing around to see a stern-faced doctor who wears a white coat over his uniform. He’s flicking through his com screen.

  “Harper, Wren. Park yourself on the bed,” he says. I sit down and place my uniform next to me and opt to sit on my hands to stop them shaking.

  “Don’t do that,” he says, “I’m going to need them.”

  “Sorry?” I say, uncomprehending.

  “Your hands. Hold them out. I’m going to be removing your domestic com chip and replacing it with a military one. An upgrade, if you like.”

  I nod.

  He takes my left hand and feels around near my wrist until he’s located the chip underneath my skin.

  “Ah, there it is.” Then he takes one of the guns, the larger of the two and places the nozzle over it. “You might feel a little scratch.” He pulls the trigger and I hear the air pressure building in the gun, until suddenly there’s deep thud. I feel the chip being ripped from my skin. Pain spreads across the top of my hand like a giant bee sting. I bite my lip to stop from screaming. He takes the gun away and I can see a small tear in my flesh. Almost immediately he picks up the other gun and places it over the same spot. There’s a build up of air again and then a higher pitched thud. I feel the cold metal chip as it’s rammed into my hand. The pain has just increased ten times. I will not scream. I will not scream. I try controlling my breathing, taking slow breaths in and out. This helps a little. My hand feels like it’s been knifed all the way through. But it’s okay, I think I can keep a lid on it. Just.

  He takes another gun-like object and waves it back and forward over the hole in my hand.

  “This is a cellular accelerator to plug up the hole I’ve just made,” he says, as if he’s a plumber fixing some pipework. There’s a pins-and-needles sensation across the back of my hand. I watch in wonder as thin layers of skin build up, closing the wound. First pink and fleshy, then white and smooth, until there’s just a pale patch where the hole was. My head starts to swim so I concentrate on a spot on the floor, focusing to stop myself fainting.

  “Right, now the other one.”

  “What?”

  “You need a chip in both hands.” He tells me casually.

  “Why?”

  “In case one hand gets blown off during battle.”

  My day keeps getting better and better.

  After the second chip is implanted, my head doesn’t so much swim, as jumps off the top board and hits the bottom of the pool. I start to sway and the ground begins to tilt. The doctor holds me upright.

  “Hold it together, cadet,” he says. His firmness snaps me out of it. He puts a plastic cup of water in my hand and I down it in one. I thank him and ask where to next.

  “Over to the elevators at the end. Top floor, then take the stairs to the roof. Your transport is waiting for you. Good luck, Harper.”

  “Thank you.”

  I try not to zigzag my way to the elevators as I’m still woozy, but I know he’s watching me. Trying to co-ordinate walking while carrying my uniform and not blacking out is tricky, but I’m determined to get there without making a fool of myself. I get to an elevator and use my elbow to press the button. When I look round, the doctor has already gone and the lights at the other end go off one by one. The whole room is now in darkness. A second later the elevator doors ping open and I step into the cube of light, then I’m whooshed to the uppermost floor. The doors open and a bored-looking marine with a rifle hanging over his shoulder yawns at me.

  “This way,” he says. “Hurry, this is the last cadet transport to leave Earth.” I follow him up some wide cement stairs to a meaty reinforced steel door. He passes his wrist over a security panel and it clicks open. Before we step through he grabs me by the arm.

  “It’s okay,” I say, “I can walk there myself.”

  “No, you can’t. Hold on.”

  We step out onto the roof and the wind nearly takes my feet from under me. The top t-shirt on my pile of clothes flies off in the air. I try to grab it.

  “Leave it,” he shouts and drags me on. Up ahead is the back of a drop ship, its rear door open like a gaping mouth. I sneak a glance around at the forest of towers and accommodation blocks stretching as far as the horizon. It’s a confusion of irregular shapes and Frankenstein architecture, built one on top of the other, as if each building is struggling to reach the light. There are no aesthetics, just a sprawling ugly mess.

  Above it all is the sky; big, beautiful and unending. It’s a rare sight for anyone and I want to stay and drink in all its vast pure blueness, but the marine pulls me harder.

  When we reach the entrance ramp he gives me a shove. “Strap yourself in,” he shouts.

  I’m inside, relieved to be out of the banshee wind. The hold of the drop ship is deep and hollow, like a wide metal tunnel. It’s designed to take military ground vehicles. Deep scratches cling to the walls and the pungent aroma of grease and sweat hangs in the air. Along each side are rows of bucket seats fitted with overhead restraining bars that pull down, similar to a fairground ride.

  About halfway down, I spy a sleeping cadet. As I make my way toward him there’s a grinding sound and then a whine as the back door closes behind me. I figure I better get seated soon before this thing takes off. As I pass the snoozing Cadet I notice he has a T-shirt like mine with Alpha One printed on it. I want to wake him and see if I can at least get to know one person before I step on board the combat ship to Kepler. But even though he’s asleep, he looks tired and slightly angry, his eyes tightly shut so his eyebrows are pulled in. I decide it would be a bad idea to interrupt his sleep.

  Further down, a group of three cadets - two boys and a girl - are deep in conversation. I know I should go and talk to them and introduce myself but my shyness gets the better of me, so I turn and head as far to the back as I can go. I’d rather sit with my thoughts for company, and try to make sense of everything that’s happened today.

  I’m just about to take my seat when I hear a whistle from up front. The group of three beckons me over. I don’t want to go. I’m frightened I’ll make a fool of myself, but if I don’t they’ll think I’m stuck up and I’ll have made three new enemies before I’ve even set foot on the training ship. My breathing rate increases and I tell myself to be confident. But no matter how much I tell myself this, I don’t really believe it so it doesn’t work and I feel more self-conscious than ever.

  Forcing myself to put one foot in front of the other, I pass the sleeping boy and stand before the two boys and the girl, although they’re nearly the size of adults. The girl has Upsilon One printed on her shirt and the two boys both have Omega One on theirs.

  “Hi,” I say weakly.

  The girl looks me up and down. The boys stare at me, then scrunch up their noses as if they’re puzzled. It’s pretty obvious what they’re thinking: I’m a bit small for a cadet.

  No-one says anything. Their looks change from confused to aggressive. If they didn’t have restraining bars holding them in their seats I’m sure they’d spring out and attack me.

  “We’ve been here three hours,” the girl finally says.

  I make what I hope is an apologetic smile. “What? Oh sorry,” I say. “That’s my fault. I was the last one through processing.”

  “You don’t say,” she replies.

  “You know there’s a welcome party going on at the moment,” says the boy sitting opposite her, “and we’re not there because of you.”

  “I didn’t know. Listen, I’m kind of new to all this.”

  “Alpha One?” says the girl, reading my shirt. “Seriously?”

  The second boy joins in now, “You’re a bit small to be an Alpha One aren’t you?”

  “Bit small to be anything,” says the other boy.

  “Yeah,” says the girl, “Since when did they start sending nine-year old boys to be cadets?”

  “Are you sure that’s a boy?”


  “Well it can’t be a girl, maybe it’s an it, you know, something in between.”

  “Eeww, disgusting.”

  “I like what you’ve done to your T-shirt,” says the girl, noticing the knot I’ve made. “Didn’t they have any children’s sizes?”

  I’m fairly used to this kind of stuff from Sagan and his buddies, so it doesn’t bother me. “I think I’m going to sit up the other end,” I say.

  “Oh, no,” says the girl, “it’s going to cry.”

  “Ah, I bet it is. I bet it’s missing its mommy.” Both boys laugh and high five each other.

  “Do you want your, mommy, sweetheart?” The girl joins in.

  Up to this point I was doing okay. The whole shock of being called up and stuck in this over-size uniform was overwhelming but I gritted my teeth and swallowed it down. But mentioning my mom just opened up the cracks in my defenses. I don’t really care what happens to me, but the thought of my mom being all alone down there on that vast overcrowded planet stabs me where it hurts. Don’t cry I tell myself. Don’t cry. Even though I’m carrying my uniform I still manage to dig my nails into my hands in the hope that the pain will distract me. It doesn’t and little drops of salt water start pooling in my eyes.

  Their laughter is unmerciful.

  I stifle my sobs, sniffing them back but they get louder and louder.

  “Hey!” comes a violent shout from behind me. I spin around. The sleeping boy has woken. “What the hell are you doing?”

  I turn and face him. “I’m sorry,” I say, tears bubbling out of my eyes, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “Not you,” he says. “Them.”

  My tormentors have stopped laughing but none of them speak.

  “Three against one?” His voice has that fiery authoritative edge, like General Stone’s. “You guys must be tough. You think that’s honorable what you’re doing? You think that’s fitting behavior for marine cadets?”

  They look shocked that someone is standing up to them. It soon turns to anger.

  “Who the hell are you?” The girl says with a sneer.

  “I’m an Alpha, that’s who, and so is she.” I wonder who he’s talking to and then I realize it’s me. “We technically outrank you, so learn some respect.”

  The ship judders and I nearly fall on my backside just to add to my humiliation. It must be taking off. I quickly make the decision to sit - or should I say collapse - into a seat opposite possibly the first boy (actually the first anyone) to stick up for me.

  Chapter 4