Rocket Fuel

by Andrew McEwan

  ‘Begin reminiscing, it's morbid.’

  ‘Sorry, Sal. We're not finished - sure. Only where do we go from here?’

  She kissed him.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Isn't that why you dragged me in here?’

  Abdul shrugged. ‘Yes; but not the main reason.’

  ‘I'll bet.’

  ‘Okay,’ he murmured, half submerged in pillow. ‘There's no way we can leave the ship, that's for certain, and neither can we move Tomcat any significant distance.’

  ‘So?’ She felt sleepy, oddly rational: the medicine had worked, strengthened her defences.

  Abdul pondered a while.

  Sally said, ‘We can leave the ship.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘We can leave the ship,’ she repeated, ‘and take the engine.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ He was intrigued, hopeful. ‘How?’

  ‘It's possible. If Friendly's half the engineer I think he is we could fly out of here without the help of the main computer.’

  He liked the brightness, the optimism in her muffled voice, its girlish, confident enthusiasm. ‘Isn't that dangerous, flying blind?’

  ‘Very. But rather a gamble, Luke, a chance of survival, against certain death.’

  ‘Our repairman?’

  ‘Yeah...’

  ‘You're convinced then?’

  ‘That the threat is physical? I am.’

  Sally clambered over him and switched on the lights. She was smiling, but underneath, hardly visible in the glare of yellow luminescence and white skin, lay coiled a potent fear, one he comprehended.

  ‘Let's go for a walk,’ she said, winking.

  The two of them pulled on clothes.

  *

  Byron sighed dramatically as the last digit vanished from the timer. 000 it read.

  Decontamination always left him irritable and thirsty. He was eager to assuage the latter; the former would, he reckoned, take care of itself.

  His comic discarded the engineer stalked a passage, climbed a ladder, entered a large space. It was empty, to the eye. To the touch it contained charged particles and the smell distended, warped and pungent atoms.

  He walked through it, whistling. On the farther side connected ducts and channels, three possible avenues. He took the centre, ascending its subtle curve, stroking its walls, passing, as had other feet before...

  The lock was a welcome sight. To his rear the engine seemed too quiet, its previous occupier - as yet undiscovered - still hesitant, extant and reserving judgement, a vague shape, a cloy static, not entirely prepared to hand over the reins...

  And it was massive, his knowledge stretching to perhaps a tenth of it, the maze which housed him, gave him air. He felt he owed Ernie something and that one day he might be called upon to pay.

  Byron, key the lock, see some genuine faces.

  He did. They belonged to Monica Hat and the repairman, who waved.

  She grabbed his sleeve, pressed a finger to his opening lips, its opposite to her own. His brow knitted.

  ‘We lost Frank,’ she said flatly, blunt nail slipping from his chin. ‘Come on, Luke's waiting.’

  Byron followed her to the lounge, its disarray reflecting that prevalent among the crew. He kept quiet, sensing the renewed mystery, a tangle of threads.

  Sitting, drawing, was Luke the cook; called Abdul, he remembered, although not why.

  Lucky unlucky, Byron said to himself, his mind fuzzy, rough at the edges, discomforted by the change of environment. And there were harsher crossings ahead.

  Abdul folded, then handed him a piece of paper.

  It was a crude plan of the ship, the main decks and bulkheads outlined, the engine a shaded mass below and to one side, like a dog with a fly on its nose. Byron studied the diagram, hunted for clues, not glancing up, knowing they were under observation from the Research Section - but not why...

  Abdul, Sally, each was confused, as was Friendly. On the diagram were three circles in a box representing the lounge; in the machine-room a single triangle. He took a pencil and drew a fourth circle next to the triangle, placing a question-mark inside it, seeing how the strong light obliterated the fine lead traces.

  Sally reached for the paper.

  ‘And Kate?’ queried the engineer, tired of games.

  ‘Ah, she's fine,’ the co-pilot informed him. She crumpled the drawing. ‘Did you manage to find Ernie?’

  He shook his head. The other two exchanged meaningful looks, a mutual shrug.

  Abdul stood. ‘We've a plan,’ he said airily. ‘Interested?’

  Byron settled back in his couch. ‘What can I say?’

  ‘Anything you like,’ Sal said.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Whatever you want, Byron,’ she added. ‘You're among friends here.’

  The cook smirked. ‘Mostly,’ he corrected.

  The engineer decided he'd go along. After all, what choice did he have? He appeared to have provided them with the desired information, the whereabouts of Monica, but he still didn't understand their intentions; or for that matter, how much they were prepared to disclose: in front of the viewers... ‘Did you ever play charades?’ Sally asked him.

  Byron pulled the makings from his breast pocket and began to roll a cigarette.

  ‘This way.’

  ‘Is that thing loaded?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  They followed Sal to a little-used compartment high and to the rear of the ship. Byron suspected that, on board the warship or elsewhere, there'd be gathered a team of eminent scientists scratching their heads and mumbling incoherently as they tried to decipher the apparently pointless actions of this clowning threesome. Or maybe it was what they expected, he amended, the first in a long chain of symptoms, the effect of an alien or mutant virus.

  ‘Are you sure it's his birthday?’ inquired Abdul.

  ‘Positive,’ replied Sally.

  The cook looked guilty. ‘I ought to've baked him a cake.’

  Byron thumbed out the lights.

  From the floor climbed dust-laden beams of gold.

  All was quiet.

  Through the grating the machine-room sparkled like a jewelled cave, its assorted contents poised, colourful ogres and flashing gnomes, richly-dressed imps and sprites. Moving between them, swathed in a pale robe, a ghostly mantle, danced the surviving co-ordinator, the tuneless notes she expressed rising out of the tightly gathered crowd, its silence unmusical, its presence manifold. There was a spell upon her, a weightless chain, one that allowed her to float. The machines seemed numberless, like each grew from and was part of its neighbour.

  Byron rubbed his eyes.

  ‘No Spritzer,’ said Abdul.

  Sal flicked his chest with the back of her hand, admonishing his blindness and impatience. The dance ended, Monica froze, and a clanking shape rose amid the lugubrious creatures, cloaked in copper and enamel, tossing a polished ball...

  There was a hissing noise, that of angry breath. The metal skull turned upward. ‘You're fools if you think you can escape,’ a mouth said. ‘You're infected, all of you. Look at Monica and see.’ His voice was amplified, distorted by the visor, but it was the repairman's.

  The lights came back on inside the compartment.

  ‘Come down, why don't you,’ intoned Rich. ‘We can be together, eh, like in the old days?’

  Sal frowned. Not in the least concerned, thought Byron. She pushed aside some empty containers and levered open a hatch, dropping to the room below without so much as a glance at the two men.

  ‘Did you alter the code on the engine lock?’ questioned Abdul, straightening.

  Friendly mumbled that he hadn't. Perplexed, he remained in the cramped space as the cook left via the door.

  Was he deserting us? he asked himself. A shot sounded from below. He turned quickly, fell to his knees and peered through the hatch.

  Spritzer lay dead, sprawled like some fallen bird. Monica was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘W
hat happened?’ All the colours bled into Byron's mind. He squinted against the glare.

  ‘I shot him,’ said Sally.

  ‘I thought you said it wasn't loaded?’

  ‘It wasn't.’ She stared down at the metallic corpse.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It wasn't,’ she repeated, louder. ‘I don't know; he jumped, I fired, that's all...’ She placed the gun aside. It appeared, to melt into the ethereal machinery.

  Byron swung his legs round and lowered himself. Immediately the illusion lifted, and what had been a fabulous cave became a steel-lined workshop, perfectly ordinary.

  The bird was a man again, shrouded in copper solely from the right wrist to the tips of the fingers...

  ‘There's no blood,’ Sally piped, cheery. ‘Not a drop – but he's dead, I killed him.’

  Byron searched for a pulse. Nothing. She was right, he was dead. He reached for the gun; it was missing.

  ‘Let's get out of here,’ he said.

  So they unbolted the door and walked slowly to the aft lock, where Abdul caught up with them.

  ‘Just a few essentials,’ the cook said, pushing past, entering the chamber.

  Byron noted that these included a wooden totem.

  ‘I couldn't be sure you'd make it,’ explained Abdul, hurrying them forward.

  The engineer ignored him, sealed the entrance. Shyly, he keyed the inner lock, wishing he had thought to change the code, wondering at his own, mixed emotions, the dislike he was feeling for those who were close to him. He was jealous; this was his place, the engine, his private enclosure. Ernie would never have let them in here. And they looked excited, like children at Christmas, eager to get their presents, greedy for what items of worth and beauty were theirs to hold. He swallowed, perturbed. The door edged open and a cool draught licked about his hand, drinking his sweat, binding his arm to the interior: a long wet tongue of probability, remote as only the near, yet predictable can be...

  Then it was later. He remembered something. ‘What happened to Monica?’

  Sal licked her lips, regarded him strangely. ‘Didn't you...’ she began, eyes piercing. ‘Monica disappeared,’ she said.

  Ten - When The Elevator Breaks Down

  She sat on the beach and watched the waves roll in, with them the tide. The sky was blue and void of cloud and the yellow sun climbed high, brushing Kate's hair and warming her skin, next to adjust the shadow about her. She felt content, happy even, unable to say why. The birds called to her and she listened to their voices, recognizing some, and only moved when the water cooled her toes.

  Bench 1 was made up of three adjacent islands (1, 2 and 3) linked by esoteric bridges, floral promenades to the uninitiated. A few people wandered through the lush undergrowth, plucking white and purple blossoms, while others swam in the tepid ocean, one with the fish and oysters, their bobbing faces lost in spray.

  Droover rested by a stubby tree. Its leaf fronds glimmered, translucent and green, rainbow-hued above her. She was a new person this morning, not recalling the night before, oblivious to its passage. She thought back to the Mucho Tomcat, her crew and engine, and it was as if they belonged in a different life, another world. She'd parted from them...how long ago? Kate had lost all track of time. She scratched her nose, pursed her lips and made hollows in the sand, quickening her pace as the sea washed in, chasing her...

  She suspected a man followed, but then forgot as, delicately, the day wore thin.

  Evening found her beneath a large umbrella, sipping an iced drink. She had no money, she reflected. Everything on the Bench, though, was free.

  ‘May I join you?’

  Droover said nothing. He smiled and sat opposite her, a string, a key dangling from his wrist.

  ‘I know,’ he stated, pre-empting the expected question, ‘there are no locks on the island. So why am I carrying a key? Truth is,’ he went on, toying with the object, ‘a man gave it to me; said it'd bring me luck. Do you believe in luck? Eh...’

  ‘If you imagine it will open my heart or my legs,’ Kate told him automatically, ‘then you're very much mistaken.’ She was suddenly cold, a little shocked by what she'd said, surprised that she'd said anything.

  The man retreated imperceptibly; his smile hardened. Droover used the extended moment to relocate her composure. She nearly apologized, trouncing the impulse under a boot of disgust.

  A waiter brought him a drink. He swirled the liquid in its tall glass. ‘My name's Mordy.’

  ‘Droover...’

  ‘Would you like to spend the night with me, Droover?’

  This time she didn't hesitate. ‘Yes.’

  Sex was fluid, long, abstract and pleasing.

  ‘What's that on your finger?’ Mordy asked at some point.

  She'd drawn a map of her pleasure on his skin. ‘Magic.’

  He laughed. She bit him.

  Hours sailed past. Light filtered into the room, piecing together furniture and contours, the ceiling's inward-facing steps rising to a convex window.

  Mordy sighed, as yet asleep, and Kate traced with her eyes the pattern of marks and bruises on his body. There was a definite picture, she was convinced, but an image incomplete and therefore unreadable.

  ‘Droover k?’

  ‘Yeah...who is it?’

  She got out of bed and took a shower.

  Retracing her steps she saw Mordy was gone.

  She shivered, and woke up on the beach, the water about her toes sending tiny shocks through her body...

  *

  ‘Spots on the tongue, Luke?’

  ‘Yeeah...’ What he could see didn't make him feel good.

  ‘I should be so lucky,’ said Sally. ‘My hair's falling out; look.’ Tens of fine strand wrapped her fingers.

  He closed his mouth.

  She touched his shoulder. ‘Don't worry about it. Get some sleep. You'll need it.’

  ‘Isn't Friendly back yet?’ he asked, not for the first time, switching the mirror off.

  ‘Nah – ‘

  Abdul caught her as she dropped.

  ‘No one said it was going to be easy,’ the co-pilot complained later. ‘If you'd let us help...’

  He was shaking his head. ‘You don't appreciate the problems,’ Byron explained; ‘there are things to do and things not to do, things to touch and things not to touch, places to go and places not to go, places you...’

  ‘All right!’ she interposed. ‘I think we get the picture. But there has to be something, yes? We can't just sit here, totally useless.’

  He inhaled deeply. ‘Okay.’

  ‘What? Tell us.’

  ‘There's a leak in one of the auxiliary tanks, you can climb in and fix it.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Abdul. ‘I get suit-sick.’

  Sal gave him a dirty look. ‘Suit-sick?’ she said testily.

  The cook nodded vigorously, held his head and grimaced.

  ‘Well?’ Friendly goaded. ‘You want to or not?’

  Sally folded her arms. ‘You're on,’ she said, and began to strip, tossing her clothes at Abdul...

  *

  She stood on the bridge between islands 1 and 2, the sky laced with purple and indigo, the filigreed woodwork of the arching structure like a bone coat-hanger, hollow, embellished around her. The air was sweet, tanged with the scents of apricot and banana.

  She searched for the moon, rubbed the steel thimble against her palm. It was obscured by cloud.

  A panther, she mused. When the moon was right. When there was a moon.

  She continued across the bridge. Spherical bodies protruded, bulged from the forest-floor like fungi, lights within, shades of red and amber, blue and coral, swirling. Kate Droover stepped over the smallest, feeling her skin tingle, reminded of Mordy, real or not, his gentle fingers as they slid up her thigh and dipped inside her. She smiled; a larger globe oscillated, black and white and gold. It beckoned her, she thought. She approached carefully. There was no one, no person to be seen. Touching the pulsing surface brought
a second recollection, that of death, how it had felt to kill: easy.

  She pressed too hard and the bubble burst, knocking her cold and dizzy, sprawled on the damp earth like a hunted animal, its flank bloodied, an arrow projecting, the shaft long, flighted with green feathers.

  Kate dragged herself from the spot as if dreaming.

  And maybe she was.

  'A friend.'

  She got out of bed and took a shower.

  Retracing her steps she saw Mordy was sitting up, examining the bite marks across his stomach. He glanced at her, dripping wet, wrapped in a bulky towel, and said, ‘What did I do that you liked so much, Droover?’

  She spun around.

  They breakfasted on fruit and goat's milk.

  Mordy was quiet, brooding, his earlier good-humour vanished with the stars, outshone by a nearer reality, that of parting; a farewell in his eyes, their shimmer diluted.

  ‘I know it sounds oldfashioned,’ he said eventually, ‘but I'd really like to see you again.’

  ‘You will.’

  He looked surprised. ‘How? When? I don't know anything about you. Where do you come from? How long are you staying?’

  ‘I have no past,’ she said abruptly. ‘Just a present, maybe a future.’

  Mordy was incredulous. ‘You know how old I am? Twenty-six! I design interiors, which I loathe. There's nothing I'd like more than simply to pack up, go away, forget my life - become like you, Droover. A person without a past...’

  She swallowed, danced in her chair. ‘What's stopping you?’

  ‘You can't be serious; I've commitments.’

  ‘Break them.’

  He leaned forward and stroked her elbow. ‘And wait for you to throw me away?’

  Kate was puzzled. ‘You wish to hang on to something,’ she told him. ‘You can't. Not me, anyway. I don't belong.’

  ‘Right,’ he said; ‘you're elemental, a wraith, a succubus I happened upon in the night.’

  She liked that. ‘Give me the key,’ she said.

  Mordy looped the string from his wrist to hers. Right to left, the metal object passed over a bridge of flesh.

  ‘Now you have two.’ He indicated the thimble, in hue the key's twin, shining dimly.

  ‘Let's go back to bed,’ suggested Droover.

  He wiped his mouth. ‘Did I tell you about this machine I have that can make love thirty different ways? True, it's programmed in the styles - all copy-righted of course - of famous twentieth century women. There's...’