Across The Universe Page 3

Part Three: Careless Love

  37

  Five little stars rose up and flew like departing geese across an autumn sky in perfect formation above the numberless milky constellations of deep space. The little stars slowed and hovered as if looking for a place to set down. The ground rose up beneath them and all at once the clouds of white dots clarified and became separate. The stars moved on still searching for a place to land and at last they found it, five little spots of light identically spaced and proportioned like themselves. The stars descended and blurred together, perfectly absorbed by the pattern beneath.

  "Look from the inside out," Whetu murmured to himself. "So the old bugger was right."

  Once KOTUKU II had forced through the last of the planet's atmosphere it generated warp bubble and the inboard gravitation took over. Whetu released his harness and moved to his console to bend himself to the task of solving von Wittering's riddle. Slowly and with great care he had done exactly as the old navigator had told him, following the steps precisely. From KOTUKU II's sat/nav-membank he had located a standard image of the Southern Cross and surrounding stars and turned it inside out on his scanner. Then he lifted the tiny triangle of dots from the corner of Caleen's star map and overlaid the two images one on top of the other. Two images of the Southern Cross, one made from Earth and the other from an observatory on the other side of the solar system slotted together perfectly. Whetu shook his head at the simplicity of it.

  "The other side of the Cross." It was so obvious he wondered how he hadn't seen it himself. His only problem now was why the rest of the sky didn't fit together in a perfect composite. One constellation in particular refused to fit anywhere near its twin image no matter what he did. The Big Dipper just wouldn't behave.

  "So now that the two maps sort of fit, where exactly are we?" he asked the Beast. It took a full thirty seconds for the recuperating computer to cough up an answer.

  "Inconclusive," the Beast replied in its familiar non-committal monotones. "Unable to recognise all components."

  "All components? But you do recognise some." Encouraged, he began to flick back and forth between the two images to analyse them separately. There were exact similarities in the number and proportions of the components but the positioning of the individual stars was different in each sky. If he lined up the Dipper or the Bear or the Milky Way then all the others, even The Cross went out of whack. Slowly the penny dropped.

  "Duh!” He thumped the worn-out keyboard affectionately, offered himself an ironic smile. "Wrong time of year lad." He could hear von Wittering's words even from this distance. "Stars don't stay in one place, they move around with the seasons."

  Ten seconds later the Beast concluded that KOTUKU's picture of the Cross would have been captured during a Northern winter while Caleen's map was made in the Earth equivalent of high summer.

  "The last of the three co-ordinates is time," the old man would have said. "Start with the current time at Turangi Base where your voyage began. Then you will determine exactly where each of these stars is right now and where you are in relation to them." He was interrupted by a sharp beep as the small screen beside him lit up in a burst of static. In its centre a tiny bright red light was flashing on and off. It was a command digit - the letter R inside a circle like a trademark. Even in normal working order the Beast had been unstable. Now that it was awake it was resuming its previous random behaviour. He ignored it, turned back to the matter in hand.

  He consulted the ship's chronometer and was startled to learn that the current time at Turangi Base was 00.05 a.m. on Sunday January 1. At home it was just after midnight on New Year's morning. Everyone everywhere would be revelling drunk, dancing in circles and singing 'Auld lang syne.' Whetu paused to reflect on how remote it all seemed to him now. His parents, brothers and sisters all seemed quite vague and distant, inhabitants of someone else’s life. So much had happened since the voyage began less than two years ago. He wondered how much might have changed in his absence. What would be waiting on his return?

  He entered base time and sat back to wait for the Beast to ponder the variables. A single micron of error could lead to millions of miles divergence. But even allowing for aberration in the images he was working with, on this scale the information should be close enough. Whetu felt hopeful. Maybe it was because it was New Year back home, a time for renewal and fresh starts. The feeling of elation momentarily spread to include Mariana, then faded. Unheard of since their forced landing, she was lost. He was sadly coming to terms with it.

  The small screen beeped and the command digit flashed bright red again - R for RECEIVE. The signal was sounding at two-second intervals. Whetu tried but couldn’t turn it off so he entered a search code and waited for the Beast to respond. Slowly the static cleared revealing a stretch of internal duct and a ladder with a strip of cloth fluttering.

  The sat/nav interrupted. It began advising him the ship was just East of a group of three stars barely visible in the dark centre of the Southern Cross. For some reason the triad was called The Thermette. Whetu made another request, one he had been longing to make for eighteen months. If the request was answered the end of their ordeal might finally be in sight.

  "Find Earth," he commanded in a steady voice. The Beast groaned as if in protest at the new directive. Soon after take-off Kurt had convinced Steve that the ship would be struggling to make it back to Earth let alone reach its original destination, Asteroid Millie-5B. The standard of repairs to the ancient Troika V. was marginal to say the least. They were airborne again but to press on deeper into space could be suicide. The crew were firmly in accord. No-one wanted to go on. Steve resisted but eventually gave in under the consensus of pressure. The mission to intercept Millie-5B was formally abandoned.

  The signal beeped again calling him back to the small screen. Whetu began to power it down. The view of the duct shattered into digital fragments. Then it glitched and as the image clarified Whetu found himself face-to-face with a shadowy figure wearing the robe and cowl of the desert people they had just escaped. Had one of them stowed away? How many more might be on board? He was about to sound the alarm but paused. The hood had been drawn back to reveal a face he thought he would never see again. He enlarged the image and there it was unmistakeably smiling at him and saying something he couldn't hear.

  “I’m alive,” Mariana seemed to be saying.

  38

  Below decks in the cool store an avenue of portable lights had been set up in the glass metal corridor leading to Refrigeration Locker #29K where the remains of Captain George Thacker lay encased in ice like a human popsicle.

  Out in the middle of the cooler in a pool of bright light the green baize card table had been pushed aside to make room for two long metal tables draped in clean white linen. On one of the tables lay a human figure swathed in thermal blankets. The demi-mort removed from the Khadees Medical Academy had not been unwrapped. Celine decided it should remain swaddled in its head-to-toe bandages to help maintain body temperature and repel infection. Only the crown of the demi-mort's head had been uncovered revealing an oval of thick dark hair.

  The other table was empty. Beside it five figures androgynous in green surgical robes and headgear stood in a fog of vaporised breath.

  "Are you sure this is the right way to go about it?" Steve was unmistakable dressed even as he was. It was the way he moved nervously clutching his hands and fidgeting.

  "Under the circumstances Steve, it's the only way to go," Celine replied testily. "The longer the brain remains chilled throughout the process the better. Now bugger off and let me get on with it."

  She turned her attention to the metal table in front of her. On its polished surface lay a neat array of gleaming surgical instruments - scalpels, probes and clamps of many shapes and sizes as well as various saws and an electric bone mill. Everything present correct and in place, she wheeled the trolley to the demi-mort's table where Mohammed was standing by with a basin of steaming water.

 
"Alright Moe, shave him," commanded the ship's doctor. "Take it all off and sterilise his head as best you can." Celine had nominated the ship's cook and barber as her assistant because of his experience with butchery. She also felt his even temperament was better suited than the others to the job in hand.

  "OK Kurt, wheel him in!" She might have been talking about a side of beef. Her pragmatic, clinical tone startled even Liam the arch cynic. Steve, still hovering behind her like an expectant father cried out in stifled terror.

  "Jesus," he said, and Celine stopped and wagged a finger at him.

  "One more word from you Steve, one more sound and you're out of here, understand me? G-O-N gone!"

  "I'm sorry, it's just that he's…"

  "Or I'll go and your mate's brain stays in the fridge.”

  “No.”

  “Alright then?"

  "Yes."

  "Not a word?"

  "No."

  She led the way and Kurt followed wheeling a gurney through the avenue of lights to the glass door of R/L#29K. There was a hiss of air rushing in and fog gushing out as Kurt turned the handle unsealing the locker door. He pressed a button on the control panel and a motor whirred. Something old and mechanical creaked and groaned. Slowly the Captain appeared floating on a sea of dense mist, his naked features strangely magnified inside the clear symmetrical sarcophagus of ice.

  Kurt slid the gurney under the long forks on which the cadaver rested and lowered him down. Watched closely by the doctor he wheeled George Thacker back to the operating table. Liam and Mohammed helped them slide the Captain onto the table. Then Kurt scribed a line around the head end of the ice block and picked up a large circular saw normally used for woodwork.

  The roar of the saw filled the cool store. Kurt lowered the spinning blade to the ice and was immediately enveloped in a dense cloud of snow as the blade bit deep into the block. Kurt leaned on the saw and cut a series of straight lines across three sides of the block, millimetres short of the Captain's cranium. They rolled the block over and he cut adjoining lines on the underside. It was only when the saw was turned off and noise abated that they noticed Steve lying comatose on the floor.

  “Get him out of the way,” Celine ordered.

  Liam dragged him away and Kurt took a cold chisel and mallet and struck the end of the block, splitting off sections of ice above below and to the sides of the top of the Captain's head. Then, with increasing care he chipped away the remaining cap of ice to reveal a clean oval of closely cropped cranial hair.

  "Thaw the skin to pliable and shave it," said Celine. “I want a smooth clean cut.”

  When it was done she took a scalpel and briskly cut a circle around the top of the Captain's frozen head. Before their astonished eyes she peeled off the cap of skin as if it were a yarmulke.

  "I'd advise anyone who might be squeamish to look the other way." She switched on the bone mill and lowered the whirling blade towards the Captain’s head.

  They all took her advice. The pitch of the device rose to a sickening scream as the blade began to bite. One by one her helpers absented themselves as the reality of the procedure turned their brains and bowels to jelly.

  "Don't go too far away!" she yelled above the saw's wail. "I'm going to need you again very soon."

  There was no sensation of change in direction but Whetu knew from his instruments that KOTUKU II had locked with Planet Earth. There would be little for him to do now other than look in on the compass once in while to confirm that the Beast had not lost the plot. All he had to do now was wait and occasionally watch.

  "His momma said one day you gonna be a man," He sang aloud as he closed the door to the radio shack and set off for his cabin. Preparations had to be made for the conclusion of his quest for The Princess. "Play guitar in a rock n' roll band." He began to run and every step felt lighter until weightlessness overtook his entire body. "Maybe one day your name will be in lights." He was gliding through the corridors, wind streaming through his hair. "So Johnny B. Goode and baby shake it tonight."

  Whetu showered and put on clean clothes. He tried to smooth down his hair and only reluctantly gave up when he realised he was wasting precious time. He travelled via the canteen to borrow some dried flowers Mohammed had gathered to decorate tables and very soon he was springing through an airlock into the lower ventilation system. He had no trouble finding his way through the maze of ducting. He had lit his path in advance from the shack. Now as he turned into DRM/41 he felt his pulse quicken. Moments later he was standing by the ladder leading upwards into sub/station DRL/42, the place where he'd rediscovered his love. His heart was pounding and his mouth was dry. His hands, as they gripped the rungs, were shaking.

  Celine was exhausted after seven hours of surgery. She had rehearsed an electronic template of the operation on the VRT half a dozen times using proxy instruments on a model brain but the real event was always going to be a different story. Brains had always bothered Celine. She didn’t like them and the thought of being inside a real one made her claustrophobic. So Whetu had rigged a camera and enhanced screen to make the event remote like the electronic exercise she had rehearsed. Even so and even with Mohammed’s expert assistance it was hard work. All the little blood vessels and nerve stems looked the same. She reckoned she got most of them connected but inevitably there were some left unaccounted for. But worst of all the Captain's brain wouldn't quite fit inside the demi-mort scull.

  "It's too bloody big," she concluded as she rotated the rapidly thawing mass of pulp in her hands trying to find a fit. She couldn't believe the size of it having never thought of George as being particularly bright. Maybe she'd underestimated him or maybe in life he hadn't been using all of it. It was commonly believed a human being utilised only a small part of his or her brain so perhaps she could nip off a portion and make it fit that way. But which bit - occipital lobe, pars orbitalis, transverse temporal? "Are you serious?" she asked herself and realised she was.

  She switched the screen to an anatomic plan of the human brain and overlaid an image of the contents of the Captain’s cranium. His brain appeared to bear little resemblance to the standard road map with its mass of lines, pipes and labels. She studied the detail of the Captain's brain and tried to relate it to the cavity it was supposed to fill. Generally the shape and volume appeared similar except for one little bulge on the upper left of the Thacker brain, a minor fold in the sensory cortex. With that one little obstacle removed it might just fit. "What the hell, he'll probably never notice. If he ever survives this bloody fiasco he might be quite content not to feel pain or heat."

  Little more than an hour later she'd recapped the demi-mort head, installed drain tubes and was stitching skin. Kurt was waiting in the comparative warmth of the corridor, churning a bucket of plaster of Paris and Mohammed was standing by with a damp muslin winding cloth. Steve was recuperating in the sick bay drinking whisky with Liam.

  Leaving only nose holes eyes and mouth, they encased the new receptacle of the Captain's brain in cloth reinforced plaster and removed him to an air tight annex of the sick bay. Then Celine closed off the Captain's former head and bandaged it tight. She watched Kurt reload him into his locker, and lit a smoke.

  "Right now I could murder a drink," she said wistfully.

  "I'll kill one with you," Kurt replied without thinking. Then he changed his mind. Celine saw the look on his face and laughed.

  "Don't worry mate. I'm far too poked for hanky-panky."

  Mohammed was left to clean up and dispose of the debris. He carried the demi-mort's erstwhile brain from the cool store on a bed of ice and stowed it in a jar in his freezer. He didn't know what else to do with it. He'd buried bodies at sea before after small rituals but this was something else. In the meantime it would keep in the fridge until he found an appropriate occasion to deal with it respectfully.

  He pressed his face against the thick glass of the galley porthole and strained for a last glimpse of the departing p
lanet. Now it was just a glowing dot to his wistful eye, one star of many in a rapidly expanding galaxy. Mohammed wiped a tear away. For someone so eloquent with advice for others he could think of nothing to salve his heavy heart. Only something his father used to say, that eventually all things do pass. He would have to wait until that day.

  "Adieu mon amour," he whispered. For some reason it sounded better in French, more evocative.

  He pulled a creased photograph from his trouser pocket and pinned it to the wall above his workbench. From the picture Saalo smiled back at him, dressed in immaculate whites, a striped scarf tied tight around her waist. She had a cricket bat draped casually across her shoulder and a KCC cap set at a jaunty angle on her head. Her smile was a little shy it seemed to him, but such a beautiful smile. He wept to read the inscription in neat compact hand writing in the top left corner.

  "Avec tout mon cœur - Saalo." She had given him the picture at their moment of parting. She gave it to him sealed in an envelope with a request not to open it until after he had gone. Mohammed had taken the picture himself during one of their training sessions before the final match.

  François sensed the rumble of life in the ship. After such a long absence the familiar vibrations moved through his body awakening his senses like a bear emerging from hibernation. He shuddered, stretched against the restraints pinning him to his bunk and awoke refreshed and smiling. Although he didn't know it this was the first time he had moved in months. To him it felt like minutes, maybe hours, except that his muscles felt stiff. He strained against the restraints until they burst, sat up and ripped the intravenous drip out of his hand. Sitting on the edge of his bunk he looked around. Blood ran through his fingers and dripped on the floor.

  Something wasn’t right. He wasn’t in his cabin; he was in the brig. He stood up unsteady on his feet and tried the door. It was locked. There was a plate of food on the floor and seeing it he realised he was hungry. He swept it up and consumed its contents in a flash. The food made him sleepy. He lay back down on the bunk and drifted into a semi-conscious dreaming doze. Thoughts began to float disconnected through his mind. Thoughts led to vague memories. Images began to float in the vague area between mind, eye and the other side of the room, unfamiliar images. He could see a rugged mountainside where the navigator, the old drunk von Wittering appeared to be struggling against an unseen force while all around him there was flame and flying dust. Then the cook Mohammed was there. He was staring at an empty plate lying on the floor. He picked up the plate, replaced it with a full one and departed as silently. The aroma of warm food wafted through François’ nostrils. He sat up and saw the food Mohammed had brought. He consumed it without thinking and lay back down. He was back on the mountaintop.

  Now there was a tall, thin birdlike man with the navigator and a wild stranger newly arrived. François couldn't see him clearly because his face was obscured within the folds of a cowled robe made of rough fabric but he sensed he was a powerful man, strong in physique and will. He was dangerous and would not be impeded by anything standing in his way. He understood this man. He was a kindred spirit, a man like himself. The birdman stood by while von Wittering submitted to the stranger.

  39

  The scholars and their retinues had not yet arrived on the mountain for the winter semester so Buzz was happy to see the old navigator again although he was surprised he'd not left with the others on the ship. The old man offered no explanation. He seemed nervous and wary of the rugged man who had arrived with him. This man refused introduction and declined to speak. At first Buzz thought he might be a new member of the institute or a man from before his own time returning from a distant sabbatical. The travellers were both tired and dirty from many days travel by droon so Buzz showed them to sleeping quarters and stabled their mounts.

  The following morning Buzz awoke to find the stranger inspecting his machine. Naturally the man had never seen anything like it before and Buzz was delighted to explain his triumph in great detail although cautious not to encourage rumour of heresy. He knew he was taking a risk sharing information with a total stranger but he just could not resist the temptation to show off.

  He explained he'd named the machine Voyager III in honour of the first spacecraft to come to their shores. He explained that the MMC Micro had been developed as a transportation utility in low gravity environments. The cabin was pressurised and could carry one crew and three passengers. The stranger was interested to hear this.

  Then Buzz explained he'd made some modifications to the craft. He had been fortunate to come into the possession of an electro/magnetic thrust unit. The weight of the big engine was about the same as the micro's maximum payload and the cargo tray was just big enough to hold it. Repairing the thrust unit had been relatively simple and he was amazed the original owners hadn't found the fault themselves.

  The stranger grew impatient with Buzz’s lecture. He abruptly interrupted the flow of jargon and demanded. "Will it fly to the stars?"

  The archæologist was silenced for a moment and stunned into dropping his guard. "Well it hasn't been tested yet, but…" He went on to explain that the micro probably could fly to the stars but he knew nothing about navigation. He'd burgled mapping componentry out of the Voyager II exhibit at the Institute to augment and replace damaged Troika V navigation equipment but the Voyager gear was more than a hundred years older so he couldn't be certain it would all work together.

  "The old man is a navigator," interrupted the stranger.

  "So he is." Buzz had overlooked that and was glad to be reminded. "Yes, a stellar navigator."

  Von Wittering shuffled uneasily. He'd tried to play down his knowledge of navigation when Abou'ed had tracked him down at E'kandah but the man refused to listen. He had seen their ship take off and fly. He knew what they could do.

  "He will guide us," Abou'ed commanded. In his hand he held a sword long and serpentine in the shape of a slithering snake. The edge of its ancient pitted surface had been honed to gleaming keenness. He became passionate. He beat his chest with clenched fists and declared that the heretics had kidnapped his love. Tears ran down his creased face as he explained they had stolen her and she must be rescued.

  Von Wittering explained to Buzz in German that the man was mistaken. For some reason he believed his fiancée had been abducted by the crew on board KOTUKU.

  "Kidnapped?"

  "It’s not true," von Wittering continued. "A male patient from the Khadees Academy was taken on board for urgent medical attention. He is mistaken."

  "But still this abductee must be rescued," replied Buzz, extending his hand towards the brigand. "Delighted," he said.

  "Wait," cried von Wittering. But Buzz wasn't listening. He assumed the motive for the old man's reluctance was modesty.

  "You can do it," he said. "Of course you can."

  40

  "I was watching you, observing your behaviour for my survey," Mariana said plainly as if it were the most normal thing in the world to do. "You are a good subject."

  "Thank you." Whetu felt confused. The whole thing had turned out to be an anti-climax. He had pushed his head tentatively through the hatch and there she was doing laundry as if nothing had happened and she'd never been missing even for a moment. He rushed towards her imagining somehow that he would sweep her into his arms and they would explode with passion. But they didn't. She looked at him over her shoulder for a brief moment and said - "Hi." Whetu came to a deflated halt while she went back to washing her underwear. He was left standing like a fool wondering where to put himself.

  "Where were you?" he began quietly.

  "Where was I when?" Mariana seemed puzzled.

  "All the time we were on the ground? I was looking for you?"

  "I was around. I was in Khadees and spent a lot of time at the oasis. I collected so much data, enough for a book maybe several books." She was animated, excited but not about seeing him. “The whole religious uprising, the killing of the three convicts
, there are parallels with the Christian myth.” Whetu couldn't hide his disappointment and his shock.

  “You saw that, the meatheads.”

  “I was there, I witnessed it all first hand, religious mob hysteria. It was amazing and I have pictures.”

  “Wow.”

  “I know. This is going to stand anthropology on its head.”

  Whetu was lost for words. Mariana rumbled on.

  "It's why I came on the voyage," she continued. "It was meant to be a field trip for my doctoral thesis on animal behaviour but as you know it all went wrong and in the end got to be so much more."

  "Thesis on what?"

  "Male Animal Behaviour in Isolation and Extremity. I told you about it, didn’t I?"

  "No."

  "Well, you know what happened. The subjects became uncontrollable so I built a hide to observe from a neutral distance. When you found me I had to move again, regain anonymity." She was talking as if he was just another aspect of her experiment, a lab rat in a cage.

  "You were watching me all the time, on video surveillance and making notes?"

  "Not all the time. I was watching the others too and the nymphomaniac doctor. She’s a study in itself."

  "Didn't you realise I was looking for you. I was worried about you?"

  "Really?" She brushed his question aside. "It was such a relief to get outside again. The local men are very interesting as well. They are also isolated, in their own way. A kind of cultural sequestration."

  "And what about us?" Whetu didn’t try to conceal his irritation. "Are we culturally isolated too?” Mariana didn’t appear to notice.

  "Some subjects definitely, the navigator for example and the acting commander."

  "What about me?"

  Mariana thought for a moment. "No, you were easy to watch. You weren't suspicious, no threat."

  "No threat?"

  "It can be dangerous. Some subjects react violently if they discover what you are doing, the security officer for example. But you and the cook are different from the others. You most of all."

  "Different how?"

  "You behave differently." It was as if she was describing some mammal sub-species. "A little erratic from my observation but essentially unaffected by other behaviours, innocent you could say."

  "Erratic, innocent?"

  "Erratic like something that’s distracted, not acting logically."

  "Me?"

  "You.”

  "And did you discover the cause of this erratic distraction?"

  "That was my conclusion."

  "What was your conclusion?"

  "That maybe the subject was affected by some kind of unconscious obsession, a possessive obsession.”

  “Unconscious possessive obsession!” Whetu had heard enough. ”What does that even mean for Christ’s sake?”

  Mariana turned away. Her face flushed, she looked at the floor. “After much thought and deliberation I concluded the subject might be suffering an infatuation."

  Whetu was gobsmacked. He still had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Furthermore, the object of his infatuation,” she paused. “Might be the observer.”

  Whetu took a deep breath. “Jesus, will you just say what you mean.”

  Again Mariana hesitated. “I realised that he might be in love.”

  “With who? With what?”

  “With me.”

  There was a moment while they looked at each other, afraid to move or even breath. Were they both thinking the same thing and if so who would make the first move? Was it Whetu or it was Mariana? In the end they sort of lurched and awkwardly collided.

  Time passed slowly on KOTUKU II. Progress through the cold interstellar night seemed interminable, like treading water. With the Beast at the helm no-one needed to do anything. Their course was intermittently updated and when necessary corrected by Whetu from the radio shack. Otherwise the crew marked time like wilting vegetables. The tedium of a long space passage can have a destructive effect on morale and very soon it felt as if they'd never had their time ashore. A single day of confinement within the corroded metal walls of the old Troika V was enough to wipe out six months of fresh air and open spaces. As the weeks ticked by those fortunate enough to have something to do tried to keep themselves occupied with their professional tasks. The others sank into deep torpor.

  Kurt concentrated on keeping the oozing ship alive, prowling the engine room and vital sub/stations seeking out problems before they occurred. Liam was not so lucky. Now that their mission had been abandoned the Demolitions Officer had nothing to do, no obliteration to prepare for. He just sat in his cabin drinking whisky, playing patience and brooding until the next mealtime crept around.

  In the infirmary Steve watched on impatiently while Celine continued to tend the needs of her inert patient. It was like watering a seedbed that never sprouted. Whatever might be going on inside his skull George Thacker’s host showed no outward signs of activity. Body and brain lay bandaged from head to toe, inanimate except for the gurgle of surgical drips and the beep and flicker of monitoring devices.

  "At least they both seem to be alive," Celine was trying for reassurance but Steve just grunted despondently. Desperate for deliverance from responsibility for the death of his friend and colleague, Steve was hoping for a fast result. He was pacing the room like an expectant father willing his friend to wake up and forgive him, thank him for his miraculous return to life. He hoped George would approve of his new receptacle.

  “I don’t want to get your hopes up, mate but…”

  “What?” Steve was at her side in a flash.

  There was evidence of activity on the neuro-scanner wired into the patient's head. Celine tuned the device to reveal an image resembling a cold front on a weather monitor, a gigantic depression closing in over an unfortunate archipelago. On the outside there was no sign of turmoil, not even the flicker of an eyebrow, but Celine could see the storm. Lightning rose and fell drawing wicked patterns on the screen. The patient was under stress. She moved quickly to load his veins with sedative. Shortly the cephalic activity resumed a regular pattern indicative of normal sleep.

  “What is it?”

  "I think it's alive, the brain. There are signs of neural activity.”

  “When can I talk to him?”

  "No so fast pal. It could be a week, a month or more before we even know if the body has accepted its new tenant. Meantime anything could happen."

  Steve couldn't hide his anxiety. “Why wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, principally because the donor is an alien. We haven’t had time to asess his chemistry, his cellular structure.”

  “If they can do it with a gorilla.”

  “Don’t get me started.”

  Steve turned and buried his head in a corner of the room.

  "If the brain accepts its new environment and manages to feed on the host blood he has a chance. But compatibility will be the hurdle. The body may reject George’s brain. Only time will tell."

  Steve visibly sagged. Celine put her arm around him. “I’m sorry mate. It may seem brutal but it’s best to be honest rather than raise false hopes. Don’t you think?”

  “Hmm.”

  "We'll look in on him later.” She led him to the door. “Look on the bright side. He's doing as well as can be expected considering what he's been through.”

  Thunder rolled, lightning licked the distant mountains and a savage wind swept the plains. When the land could take no more there was darkness, soothing darkness and relief from pain. In the void he heard a voice.

  “I am here,” the voice whispered.

  Slowly the mist began to clear. There was a glimmer of light, a pale ragged line of half-light between the flat black earth and the dense dark clouds crowding down from above.

  “I am here,” the voice whispered. “I am George.”

  He was travelling with two companions mounted on fast moving beasts,
a variety of camel as far as he could tell. He wanted to stop and rest but his companions urged him onwards, always looking back as if expecting some menace in pursuit.

  Eventually the plain began to rise into a rocky terrain where the going was slower and harder. The low clouds swirled and gathered into a flowing molten eye that followed them whichever way they turned. The wind grew stronger until it reached hurricane force and although there was shelter in scattered copses of gnarled trees they pressed on into the blinding dust storm. He pulled his scarf tight across his mouth but still he struggled to breath. Days went on like this endlessly travelling without rest. He no longer knew if he was awake or dreaming, alive or dead.

  His companions stopped. One of them was pointing back towards the distant horizon. They peered through the wind blown dust and there it was visible at last, the menace they were running from. On a distant ridge the dark figure of a man ran tirelessly after them. They whipped their mounts and set off again with renewed urgency but every time they looked back the man was closer. George’s companions were desperately afraid. They began to panic, lose direction and valuable speed. Relentlessly their pursuer closed the gap eating up the miles between them as if they were running on the spot waiting for him to inevitably catch them.

  In a turmoil of terror his companions ceased their travel and fell to their knees in desperate prayer. Now George began to wonder whether his companions were his protectors or in fact his captors. Was the man pursuing them his saviour or his nemesis? Soon he would know the answer.

  They made love in her nest, a hidden place on a ledge high in the catwalks above the sub/station. When eventually they were done they lay still, quietly drinking in the sight and sense of each other while they regained breath. For Whetu it was a miracle, a time and place to be held forever.

  "We are upside-down," she said in disbelief. "How did we get here?"

  "We lost control, defied gravity," he replied and she laughed. Watching her laugh, he thought must be the most beautiful sight imaginable.

  "You don't have to block my ears," he said at last.

  "I don't know what came over me." Mariana had covered his ears in embarrassment when she began to lose control and emit sounds she'd never heard before. "I made such a pig of myself, I didn't want to stop." Mariana was euphoric. Love she’d made before had never been like this.

  “Music to my ears.”

  Whetu swept her embarrassment aside but secretly Mariana was sensing a problem. She had always considered herself a rational being but now she was feeling an urge to follow instinct, heart and body, she was afraid. The change had taken her by surprise. Until now she'd remained emotionally remote from her subjects, untouchable, but her judgement had been eroded by contact with this subject over the months she had observed him. Love was a condition she had studied but it was territory for poets and romantics not scientists like herself. She struggled with an urge to retreat but then thought maybe she could continue as an anthropologist, make herself part of the study, observe the phenomenon from within. It could be a ground-breaking move and the more she thought about it the less possible it seemed to turn down such an extraordinary academic opportunity.

  Mariana rolled on top of Whetu covering him like a blanket. "Make love to me again," she whispered, biting his ear. Whetu didn't need to be asked twice.

  Their mounts were gone. They stumbled blindly on foot through a rock-strewn wasteland, George leading as his companions fell further behind. Inevitably the moment arrived when their pursuer finally overtook them. The man in black cornered them in an abandoned quarry. He was tall and strong, rugged of countenance, fierce and full of rage. George watched helplessly as his companions drew weapons and stood to fight. They were no match for the man's power and fury and he showed no mercy. Without hesitation he slaughtered them in quick succession. His cruel serpentine blade dripped with blood.

  Too late George realised he should not be watching but running. The man was no saviour, he had come to destroy him. But it was too late. George had no means of defence, his tormentor was too fast and too strong and quickly had him in his grasp. He told George that if he surrendered and returned with him he would not be harmed. He alone would possess him; no other man could be his master. Without knowing why, George refused to go. Surprisingly the man fell to his knees. He begged and beat his chest but George remained resolute.

  The big man became enraged. He tied George to a gnarled tree on the top of a windswept mountain and tore off his clothes. Lightning flickered in the sky and thunder roared about him. The cold wind bit into his naked flesh.

  "If I cannot have you then no man will!" the crazy man screamed. George struggled to be free but his hands were tied fast. The man tore off his cloak and lunged. He grasped George by the hair and then something unexpected happened. George felt his head move but nothing else. He tried but could not open his eyes. Above the roar of wind he heard voices.

  "He moved. I saw him move."

  "Could be a muscle spasm. Keep hold of his head."

  The voices were indistinct, far away as if echoing from a distant chamber. Then slowly they faded up into a kind of brittle clarity. He couldn’t make sense of what was being said but he had the feeling they were talking about him. The crazy man, his tormentor had gone but George felt sure he would return.

  "What was that noise, was that him?"

  "Pulse is racing, breathing's a bit faster."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Stress, returning consciousness, I don't know."

  "Can he hear us? George, George!"

  "I don't know, maybe."

  "George, it's me Steve. Can you hear me? It's Steve."

  Steve? Who was Steve? He searched his memory for the name. Long ago there was a boy who lived in his street. "Stevie?"

  "What'd he say? He said something."

  "I don't know, it sounded like Stevie, maybe."

  "That's me, Stevie, that's me! George can you hear me?"

  "Stevie?" Celine looked at him curiously. “A bit gay isn’t it?”

  "We were kids. It was my nickname when I was six.”

  George could sense excitement nearby. The voices blurred together, the echoing returned and everything was lost in the roaring wind.

  "Calm down. Don't get him excited."

  "Jesus I don't believe it, he's come back. He's alive again."

  "Hold him still.” Celine was delicately removing sections of the plaster cap encasing the Captain’s head revealing blood stained bandages underneath. “We need to change these dressings.”

  He felt his head move again and was aware of a softly glowing light above. It flickered and grew brighter as if he were surfacing from the depths of a murky pond. Maybe he was with Stevie, swimming in the river. He thought he could feel water swish past his face.

  "George, George!"

  The voice was closer but it still sounded as if it were coming down a pipe. Then he saw them, a woman and a man floating above dressed in white staring down at him. They were too far away to be recognisable. He couldn't identify the place either, neither the sight nor the smell of it. It wasn’t the mountaintop although his arms were still tied.

  "Where am I?" he said slowly. "Why am I tied up?"

  "Jesus did you hear that?" the one claiming to be Stevie said. "He says he can't move his arms. Jesus!"

  "They're tied down for Christ's sake." Celine was removing the surgical dressings. The Captain’s face looked bruised and swollen. “Hold him still, please.”

  “Jesus, he looks awful.”

  “So would you if you’d been through what he has.”

  "Am I injured?" George whispered. “Am I dying?”

  “No, no mate, you are living again.” Steve was shaking with excitement. “You’re back!”

  “What did he do to me?” He could hear his own voice clearer than theirs. It sounded warm and deep like God's voice might sound through a PA system. He liked the tone of it so he tried it again. "The
madman," he said and the rich resonant words boomed away through the void, speeding off towards infinity and back again. He felt quite detached from it, drifting away into silent darkness. “What did he doooo-toooo-meeee?”

  “I’ve upped his dose to keep him calm.”

  “But we need to talk to him.”

  “We need to get these dressings on and let him rest. Help me for Christ’s sake.”

  "Are you there?" George whispered but there was no answer. “No way, he’s gone.”

  Stevie and the woman were quiet. Maybe they had gone. He tried again to move his arms but they were still tied to the tree. He strained hard but neither his legs nor any part of his body would move. He began to panic. "Help me," he gasped. Then there was darkness.

  Celine finished replacing the bandages and wrapped the Captain’s face. “We need to leave him for a while, let him rest.” She pushed Steve out the door. “We’ll check up on him later.”

  "It's like we're part of some mad biological experiment," Mariana explained. "The female doesn't know what the plan is and the male knows even less. Pure muddled instinct. How else, if we thought about it, could we continue reproducing like mindless rabbits?"

  "Because it’s fun," suggested Whetu simply.

  "Possibly," she agreed. "But there must be more to it. Why do we enjoy it so much?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "And why if it causes so much pain and anxiety do we persist? If we could discover that we might be closer to explaining the discrepancy between behaviour and self-control."

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  Whetu was warming to the philosophical discussion, particularly the practical application. Sex - they talked about little else whether it was in bed or on deck. Even now when he was at work in the shack she was sitting in his lap and they were contemplating sex.

  “As sentient human beings," Mariana continued. "We believe we ought to know actually what makes us tick. We believe that by understanding our motives we should be able to control our behaviour."

  "It’s what you study and still you don’t know?”

  "It’s the great mystery.” Mariana admitted. “No-one really knows.”

  Whetu nodded but he wasn't listening. His hand was resting in the small of her back and his mind was drifting. He must have applied a little pressure because he felt her bend and press against him. His pulse quickened, his breath shortened. He untied her shirt and buried his face in her breasts. Then a noise interrupted, a beeping sound and the moment passed.

  There was a blip on the EWS scanner. He reached around her and magnified the image three hundred per cent.

  "What is it?" Mariana turned to look.

  "Signal of some sort, magnetic. Could be anything. Electron radiation from some random asteroid or a piece of space junk, discarded vehicle part, a beer can." Many sectors were now full of space junk making the main interstellar routes hazardous. He scanned the blip for chemical profile but the answer was inconclusive. It was just a blur on the screen, an indistinct blotch of multi-coloured energy.

  Whetu sat back, vague concern furrowing his brow. Two days ago he'd picked up a similar signal and wondered about it. Was it just something passing by? If it was the same object it should have gone on by now out of the system's range. It was unusual for the signal to be moving closer instead of further away. If it was the same thing, could it be following them?

  41

  It was the change of weight he noticed first when he surfaced, a gravitational pressure on his leaden frame as feeling gradually returned to his body. He didn't dare move for fear of breaking. After that came recollection of a flash of terror and sudden pain. His body shuddered and he saw again the ceiling behind his head bursting open in slow-motion and a shower of metal shrapnel raining down on him while he sat on a toilet with his pants round his ankles. He dived forward but couldn't escape. It hit him hard in the back slamming him face down on the floor. An involuntary cry of agony started in his mind but he was careful not to broadcast the sound.

  He opened his eyes to find himself staring at a ribbed metal ceiling covered in flaking green paint. He swivelled his eyes across the ceiling and down a similarly coloured wall. There he saw a man sitting on a metal chair playing a board game with himself as if he were two people.

  "Who are you?" George asked quietly and the man stood up in sudden speechless fright, tipping the board and its contents on the floor. George recognised the game as Backgammon. Without uttering a sound the man ran from the room and George heard voices off, one excited, one calm.

  "He's awake!" shouted the man. "He spoke to me, come and see!"

  "Okay okay, hold your horses," replied a woman's voice. "Calm down."

  "He said something, he spoke to me."

  "Please don't expect too much," she continued. "Then you won't be disappointed."

  The man returned with a woman. They came and stood beside his bed. George thought he'd seen them before but couldn't remember where. The woman placed her hand on his neck.

  "Captain Thacker, can you hear me?” she asked. “How are you feeling?"

  "I don't know. Where am I?"

  The man became excited. "It's him, that's George's voice for sure. I'd know it anywhere."

  "Of course it's me." He knew who he was but little else. "Who the hell are you?"

  "You must remember me, Steve your First Mate, your childhood friend Stevie Perone!"

  George stared at him without recognition. "No, I don’t remember you.”

  "Don't worry about it," said the woman. "You probably don't remember me either. I'm Celine, your ships doctor."

  "Hello Celine." His tongue had a little trouble articulating her name. “Of course I remember you. How could I forget?”

  Celine groaned and turned away. "Take it slowly," she whispered in Steve’s ear. "We don't want to cause anxiety, panic."

  “Why are you whispering?” They both reacted the familiar overbearing tone. “Speak to me.”

  "It's probably only temporary,” Celine continued. “He's still healing."

  "My head's itchy and my arms and legs don't work but I’m not stupid."

  "You had an accident," said Celine. "Your arms are strapped down because you mustn't touch your head, understand me?"

  "Why not?"

  "You've had major surgery. The wound is still healing. That's why it's itchy. It's a good sign."

  George thought for a moment and Celine was interested to observe his eyes squint in concentration. He was trying to remember.

  "I thought it would be my back that was injured?"

  "You remember that?" asked Steve.

  "Some of it. What actually happened to me?"

  "Don't worry about that for the moment." Celine increased the sedative dose in his intravenous drip. “You should rest.” She took Steve by the arm and eased him towards the door. "Steve will tell you all about it later. Get some sleep first. Are you hungry?"

  "Hungry?" He had to think about it. "I don't think so." His voice was becoming drowsy.

  "Good, toilet?"

  "No." George shuddered at the thought.

  "Fine. We’ll keep you on the drip for a while longer. Food here's not so hot anyway and we don't want to risk infection."

  George was already asleep.

  The following day his memory still had not improved. Celine asked Mariana to examine him. Mariana ran some tests and came to some interesting conclusions. She discovered that even under deep hypnosis his medium range memory was non-existent. He had near normal recall of most events up to a decade before his accident but only fragments of more recent life. He could remember a Stevie who was a childhood playmate but not Steve his adult colleague. The detail of his profession was ingrained from training but he had no recollection of the current voyage or it's purpose. He did not know until told that he was their captain.

  Even under sedation his emotions showed signs of hyperactivity. Mariana predicted volatility. She
concluded the captain might have reverted to a pre-mature emotional state, disturbed adolescence. The condition could become permanent if he didn't retrieve his lost years.

  "He’s mislaid the time during which he would have matured as a young man, essential experience for a functioning adult."

  "Probably wouldn’t have made much difference," Celine observed dryly. “He’s always been a prick.”

  "Brain function is nearly a hundred per cent in most aspects and zero in some others.” Mariana was puzzled. “It's as if something is missing, like a portion of his brain has disappeared."

  Celine nodded. "Possibly,” was all she said.

  "Can’t be sure but if someone walked him through his last decade it might come back.”

  "So you were my little mate Stevie?"

  "Right." Steve grinned nervously. "Been a lot of water under the bridge since then."

  "And we were on this voyage together when the accident occurred?"

  "That's right."

  Mariana advised Steve to progress cautiously piece at a time on a strictly need-to-know basis. If the whole explanation was delivered in one volume, serious emotional trauma might result. So George would ask a question and Steve would answer, avoiding anything that might frighten or confuse his friend. So far he'd guided George back through the origins of their mission past the accident up to their crash landing at E'kandah. George showed a remarkable ability to retain the information even though all of it was new to him.

  "And once we landed on this planet what happened then?"

  "We ah, fixed the ship. It was damaged at the same time you were hurt."

  "And where was I all this time?"

  "We had you on ice, frozen. At the time we thought you were dead."

  "On ice?"

  "Yeah."

  "How long ago was all this."

  "The accident was more than a year ago."

  "I was dead for a year?"

  "Not completely dead but, yeah we thought so."

  George pondered this for a moment storing it away, putting the pieces together. Steve felt it wise to change the subject. He continued in a breezy tone.

  "Then we fixed the ship and took off. We're on our way back home again."

  "What about this mission you were talking about, the asteroid?" George suddenly seemed concerned.

  "We've had to abort the mission. The ship won't make it."

  "But you say this asteroid is going to collide with Earth and there could be another ice age if we don’t stop it?"

  "We'll be lucky to get back to base as it is. We can't go on."

  George was thoughtful. Steve sensed the approach of deep water. He could see concern in his friend's eyes.

  "Don't worry," he said placing a reassuring hand on George's shoulder. "We'll advise base as soon as we can."

  “Won’t it be too late?”

  Steve shrugged. “These days, technology, you know, anything’s possible, eh?”

  Steve was desperately trying to think of some way to change the subject. George got there before him.

  "So how did you patch me up?” he asked. “I don't remember that part.”

  "Well we…" The subject had arisen previously and Steve had deflected by simply saying it was very technical, too complex for him to explain, a question for Celine to answer. "George, you, we…" he began and stopped.

  "What?"

  "You shouldn't be surprised if…" He stopped again. How do you tell someone they are not who they think they are? In mind and spirit they may be the same person but in body they are someone else entirely.

  "Surprised by what?"

  "We can talk about it later."

  "No, tell me now," the captain ordered.

  "Later. We've done enough for today." Steve stood to go. "We don't want to overdo it, do we? You should try to sleep."

  “I want to know.” There was an alarming edge of panic in George’s voice. Steve wavered then backed away. "Untie me!"

  “Not a good idea George.”

  “I am your commanding officer!”

  “I’ll get Celine.”

  Mohammed brought François his food twice daily now and always it was gone by the time he returned. While he was present there was no movement from the recumbent Security Officer but the cook did notice his breathing sounded normal and that the toilet roll was getting smaller. He reported back to Steve and Celine that the s/o was apparently eating again but they were too preoccupied with the recovery of Captain Thacker to register the news. As far as they were concerned François posed no present threat so no longer seemed to exist.

  These days Mohammed was a sad man. Back in the galley he'd returned to porridge and old clothes. Gone were the glory days on the pitch at the K.C.C. But far more than the cricket he missed Saalo and gazing at her photograph pinned to the wall above his bench only made him sadder. He tried to remember the precise colour of her eyes, the sound of her voice, the way she walked, the way she smelled and the feel of that first last and only kiss. Sadly the memories were fading. Every day he lost more and more of her until soon he knew she would be just a shadow. It was, he thought a little like when his father died. When you know you will never see someone again, even if she is not dead it is like mourning.

  He did his work in the kitchen automatically, without thinking, feeding the taciturn crew and sending rations down to the hapless meatheads in the dungeon by remote control dumb waiter. He had forgotten about his promise to dispose appropriately of the demi-mort brain. As more and more leftovers were crammed into the fridge the jar was pushed further back into the murky mould infested recesses at the rear of the cabinet until it became invisible behind a bottle of salad dressing.

  Mohammed was focused on his return to base and the completion his contract. This would be his last voyage. His brothers would be waiting for him in Mumbai anxious to conclude a deal that would re-establish them in shipping. He had recalculated his finances to discover that he was still several thousand short of the price for the dhow they had their eye on if it was still for sale. He resolved to encourage the players out of their lassitude and back to the card table to fund the shortfall.

  42

  "So Jean-Pierre took pictures of all these patients at the Medical Academy and we selected the one who looked most like you, you know, same kind of size and weight.” Steve was choosing his words carefully and maintaining a moderate, reasonable tone of voice. “Skin and general colouring was a little darker but we had no choice in that." Steve paused. He was concerned that George had become blankly silent. The steady flow of questions had ceased. The others - Celine, Kurt and Liam shuffled behind in apprehensive moral support. They were keeping their distance aware that a reaction was bound to come.

  "This chap had no relations to claim him so we thought…" Steve had a photograph of the abandoned demi-mort in his hand. “Do you want to see?”

  George glanced at the swarthy stranger staring vacantly from his hospital bed. He closed his eyes in a grimace of denial.

  “He’s not bad looking apparently.”

  "Untie me," George hissed. Steve recoiled. His friend was not receiving his explanation as positively as he’d hoped.

  "George, I really think you should…"

  "I've heard enough of this shit!" His voice had risen to an abnormally high pitch. "Take these straps off me right now!"

  "Mariana said you'd probably feel a little strange about it at first but that should pass with time. You will adjust."

  "Adjust to what? To another man's body, a bloody alien!"

  "It was all we could do George. It was either that or permanent death."

  "Untie me. I am the captain of this ship!” He wasn’t sounding at all like the captain they knew. “I order you to release me!"

  Celine nodded from her position by the door.

  "Alright, but you should…"

  "Shut the fuck up and untie me!"

  Steve released the body ties while Liam undi
d the Captain’s feet. They stood back as Kurt released his arms. For a moment the captain just lay there quivering, unable to get his rigid limbs to move.

  "Take it slowly sir," cautioned Celine. "Those muscles haven't moved for a long time. You should take it…”

  "Shut up!"

  Eventually he managed to swing his legs off the side of the bed and lever himself upwards into a sitting position. The change of position must have made him light in the head. He wobbled and looked as if he might fall. Steve made to dash forward but Celine held him back. After a moment George recovered and tore at the bandages remaining on his head. The cloth fell away revealing a surgical scar drawing a bright red line around the top of his head, visible through the regrowth of dark hair. There was no sign of stubble on his cheeks or jaw where beard would normally have reappeared by this time. Now that the swelling had dissipated his face didn't look anything like the photographs Jean-Pierre had given them. It was finely boned, softer in line and curve and considerably paler.

  "Jesus," Liam muttered through clenched teeth.

  "Do-do-do you want a m-mirror to look at yourself George?" stammered Steve with a nervous glance in the direction of Celine. Celine merely raised her eyebrows. Steve stumbled on. "You look good, honestly you do, really good."

  "Sure do," said Kurt. Like the others he was somewhat taken aback by the Captain's fine features. Perhaps the length of time without real food had caused loss of body mass and thinning of the face.

  George tugged at the bandages around his legs and arms and as he staggered to his feet the dressings began to unwind of their own accord like thread from a reel. He stood wavering slightly on shaky legs as layer upon layer of thick wraps rolled from his torso revealing first shoulders, then legs that seemed slimmer and more shapely than expected. Although they'd never seen him properly before, this demi-mort. He'd always been wrapped in bandages and the pictures Jean-Pierre took of him had been hastily snapped in poor light.

  A dumbstruck silence gripped the infirmary as the bindings continued to slip away revealing the upper region of the Captain's chest. His profile began to expand in an unexpected direction swelling voluptuously outwards in a quite unmanly way. Those present barely had time to draw breath in expectation before their most fanciful suspicions were finally made flesh.

  "What have you clowns done to me!" the Captain screamed in horror as the bandages rolled away to reveal two identically formed cones of naked flesh bulging from his chest like the peaks of a pair of perfect mountains.

  "Jesus, Mary and Joseph." Liam was the only person in the room with words appropriate to the moment.

  The Captain stood trembling in panic as the remaining bandages folded away and hit the floor revealing waist, hips, thighs, and legs. He gasped and his audience gasped with him. To all appearances Captain George Thacker had become a woman. And by anyone's standards she was a beauty.

  "The kid switched corpses on us," Kurt said with an appreciative smile.

  "Who can blame him," Mohammed ventured. "He was in love and he wanted her to live again."

  "All that wailing and gnashing of teeth, we should've seen it coming." The card room had returned to a version of normalcy. There was no necessity to continue in the cool store but games had returned there in a spirit of tradition. Steve had been conscripted to make up the numbers in place of François. He wasn’t adept at the game but welcomed the distraction and a place to hide from the Captain’s ire. Not only did he have George's death on his shoulders but also his disastrous rebirth. He felt as if he'd jumped from a frying pan into a fire.

  "Don't tell me, any of you, that you would not crawl over broken bottles to climb in the sack with that paragon of beauty,” Liam muttered as he dealt cards.

  The talk around the table had descended from the customary trivia to sex. Liam and Kurt still hadn’t recovered from seeing their private fantasies made sumptuous flesh. The events immediately following the revelation had also made a lasting impression. They'd all stepped briskly aside as the naked young woman hurled herself at Steve. Her dark eyes blazed with fury as she grabbed him by the throat and wrestled him to the floor pounding him with her fists. Their heads still reeled at the memory of it.

  "Bastard, bastard!" The Captain’s rich baritone voice had screamed from her lovely mouth. Despite the ferocity of the tussle they would both of them gladly have changed places with the First Mate.

  "Holy shit, imagine what it would be like to…" Liam’s voice was slurred from drinking.

  "Shut it!” Steve protested. “I won’t have you talk about the Captain like that." He was out of touch with the protocols of men’s card games where any manner of talk was permissible.

  "Well bugger off then sir, with respect. We're all equal in this school. We can say what we bloody well like."

  An awkward silence ensued. Humbled, Steve looked at the floor. Liam remained defiant. "Except for Celine. We shouldn't forget your little fling with the lady doctor." Liam looked straight past Steve to turn his scorn on Kurt. "But I wouldn't include Celine and herself in the same breath let alone the same category."

  "That's enough," snapped Steve, pounding the table with his fist.

  "God it's great to be in love, aint it?" Kurt observed wryly. "It's such a bitch."

  The others said nothing. Privately they concurred although none would admit it. Smitten by the same bug each one of them was in a constant state of alternate elation and deflation, except for Mohammed whose source of anguish lay in a different and very distant place. The presence of their captain in his new nubile persona was an unrelenting source of agitation. Sadly they knew from past experience that such a prize would always remain inaccessible.

  Steve had tried. When the dust had settled and his former friend had regained some form of equilibrium he had gone to him and tried to explain.

  "We didn't know George, really. We were tricked." George made no comment. Steve was moved by the sight of his friend looking so downcast draped in a blanket sipping hot tea. Without thinking he put his arm around (her) shoulders as a brother would to comfort a sister. "It's better than being dead, isn't it?"

  "Don't touch me!" George snarled and pushed him away spilling tea in his lap. Steve had withdrawn in shock.

  There was trouble brewing within the confines of KOTUKU II, individually and collectively.

  "No other man shall possess you!"

  George had returned to the dark lands, to the windswept hilltop. The madman’s words had taken on new meaning now that he’d become a woman. His naked tormentor was clutching him by the hair. The stench of his breath was terrible.

  "You shall die if I cannot have you!"

  George tried to explain that he was not the woman he appeared to be, but the maniac wouldn't listen. He wrenched George's head back and poured hot sickly sweet liquid into his mouth. As the liquor cooled it tasted like bitter acid. George gagged and tried to spit it out. He could feel it bite the back of his throat and turn his gut to bile.

  All at once he gave up the struggle. In his heart he knew it was over, there was no way back. A searing pain began in his stomach and spread throughout his body causing his limbs to throb and weaken. He became dizzy and disoriented. For some reason he imagined the potion had transformed him back into a man. George Thacker the man who had become a woman had become a man again. Confused and afraid he closed his eyes and screamed.

  "Wakey-wakey," a soft voice crooned from close by. George opened his eyes to find himself back in the infirmary. Celine was bending over him mopping his brow. "Was it the same dream?" she asked.

  "Yes." He struggled for breath. "I was naked and couldn't get away. He had me tied to a tree again because I refused to go with him." Suddenly he wondered if maybe he did feel different. Had the dream come true? He ripped open his shirtfront but his breasts were still there. Celine understood.

  "You dreamed you were a man again."

  "I was both man and woman. It was terrifying."

  "I
think you should talk to the Psych/o again."

  "And this time I was dying."

  "It's going to be hard adjusting. You've effectively been reborn as an eighteen year old woman but with none of her experience of childhood, puberty, anything. It's not going to be easy catching up."

  Soft music played, strings sighing like voices accompanied by fluttering drumbeats. Light from flickering tallow candles illuminated smoke curling about the room in swirling shafts, rising from cones of incense burning inside tiny terra cotta bowls. The space was warm and intimate, enclosed in sheets of finely woven fabric striped in colours of the earth. The floor was carpeted in hand-knotted rugs decorated with primitive images of trees animals and birds. A part of George found the furnishings familiar although he didn’t know why. The two of them, patient and counsellor lay on mounds of buxom cushions. Mariana's aim had been to recreate the simple opulence of a desert dweller’s tent from artefacts gleaned at the market of E'Kandah. She had even recorded music there and hoped the comforting womblike atmosphere would awaken something in her patient and make (her) more receptive to therapy. So far Captain Thacker had resisted.

  "I don't want to be an eighteen year old girl. I want to be me. I want to go back to who I was.”

  "It's important that you regain a normal life as soon as possible. You need to come to terms with who you are or you will suffer mentally. Returning to work will help.”

  "I’m a forty year old man for Christ's sake! I don't know how to be a woman. I don't want to be a woman.”

  The next advice Mariana gave him was advice she was trying to accept herself for very different reasons. She was amazed at how the same wisdom could apply in such different situations.

  "Stop resisting," she advised. "Just follow your instincts, listen to your body. It's already where it should be. Your mind only has to relax and accept it."

  "Accept it how?"

  "Be what you are, who you are. Stop thinking about who you’d rather be. Relax and discover your potential."

  "Potential? What potential?”

  "It will happen without you so you must prepare. Soon you will notice men are paying attention to you."

  "Which men?"

  "Your crewmen."

  "But I'm their commanding officer."

  "You are a very attractive woman sir. It’s only natural that they will to want to be with you. You need to know how to deal with that, how to accept or reject them."

  “You mean have sex them? No I couldn’t, I won’t.”

  “You are beautiful. They will all want you.”

  “All of them?” George was overcome by a new source of panic.

  "He feels resentful about the way his life has been overturned. Since Fate itself is an intangible quantity he blames you as it's representative." Celine had finally convinced Steve to talk to Mariana.

  "But I…” Steve blinked, his words sounded thick with emotion. “It's not my fault." The acrid smoke filling Mariana's tent was irritating his eyes, catching in his throat.

  "You don’t really believe that." Before Steve could speak Mariana continued. "Deep down you feel that you alone are to blame for the accident that killed your friend. Now that he has become a woman you feel you are to blame for that as well. You are confused. You feel you should treat your friend as a man even though he is a woman. You feel guilt about being attracted to him. You are afraid of being homosexual. It's a very complex situation."

  "I’m not gay. We’ve been best friends since we were kids." Mariana mistook his weeping eyes for emotion. She leaned across and gripped his hand reassuringly.

  "Any man would feel sexual attraction towards the Captain. You can't help it. She’s beautiful so naturally you want to have sex with her."

  "No I don't! He's my friend, dammit!"

  "Your friend is a woman. As long as you refuse to admit that, you have a problem." She passed Steve a handkerchief to wipe his eyes.

  He stared blankly at the floor for a long time. Finally he spoke slowly and awkwardly. "It's not just the way she looks. I've known her… him since we were six years old for heaven's sake. It’s so confusing." He stopped unable to continue.

  "You are in love with your friend." Mariana stared into his eyes with a question. “Perhaps you’ve always loved him.”

  “Well yeah, in a manly way,” Steve conceded. “You know, as mates.”

  “But he has changed and so has the nature of your admiration.”

  43

  He was alone. There was no more thunder and lightning, his tormentor had gone and he was cold. The place was quiet dark and empty. There was nothing, no tree or ground beneath his feet, just a voice whispering somewhere nearby.

  "Who are you?" he asked but the voice did not reply. "Where are you?"

  "All around you," came the soft mysterious voice. "I am in your eyes and your heart."

  He felt a paralysing fear when he realised the voice was speaking to his thoughts and not his ears. He was afraid to speak, afraid to think. If he emptied his mind the voice might go away.

  "Fate has brought us together, a cruel fate." It sounded like a female voice. "But now we must make the best of what we have, begin again. Two halves can become one."

  “Who are you?”

  "I am Layla." Her voice was clear now, a beautiful softly accented voice.

  "Layla?"

  "I am the stolen girl. I am your body."

  “How can that be?” He had been led to believe the place he now inhabited was unoccupied, unencumbered.

  “I didn’t steal you,” he protested. “I don’t want to be here,”

  “Neither do I.”

  "It's unbelievable.” Mariana was excited. She couldn't stop talking about it. “His brain has adhered physically to her body but now some remnant of her personality appears to be attempting to re-establish itself."

  “But without a brain, how can that be?”

  “That’s the point. The division between mind and body may not as clear cut as we thought.”

  "Sounds impossible.” Whetu was struggling to keep up.

  "Exactly. How can there not be compatibility issues? Basically there will be two individuals in the same space trying to manage the differences between themselves."

  "Sounds like any relationship," Whetu dryly observed.

  "Except this is a dialogue between two entities in one being. The characteristics of each are very different, male and female, mental and physical not to mention cultural. I warned him if he didn't give some ground he'd be in serious trouble."

  "What will happen?"

  "The stress could tear them to shreds, destroy them mentally and physically like transplant organ rejection. It's hard enough to pretend you're a man when everyone sees you as a woman but it's another thing again when body and brain can't agree. It's an outrageous study. Better than watching rats."

  "Rats?" said Whetu, alarmed at her clinical excitement. "This is real life. Captain Thacker's life."

  "And Layla's."

  "Layla?"

  "That's her name, according to the Captain."

  “How does he know?”

  “She talks to him apparently.”

  “Does she speak English?”

  “He’s not sure. He doesn’t think so.”

  “But how do they communicate?”

  “Pure thought has no language apparently.”

  “Really?” Whetu thought for a moment. “Do you think our captain has slipped a cog?”

  “Considering what he’s been through, quite possibly.”

  “But he’s the captain. He’s in command of the ship.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  George finally left the security of the infirmary and returned to his former cabin. He'd had qualms about it, thinking it might be like reopening the tomb of his extinguished life. In fact he was shocked to find the room had very little character and almost no resonance of its former occupant. It was functional even ascetic, sm
aller than the infirmary ward he'd inhabited through post-op convalescence and only marginally less sterile. Everything about it was utilitarian, impersonal. It was an odd experience opening drawers and wardrobe, confronting the clothes and personal effects of his former life. He felt no connection with any of it. Only a faded photograph taped to the wall beside his bed struck a chord. It was a picture of three women standing in front of a narrow two storied house surrounded by trees, a small feisty matriarch flanked by two dutiful daughters. His mother and sisters looked older than he remembered them.

  Prior to his move back Mohammed had trimmed his hair similar to the other crewmen, No.1 all over. He strapped Layla's breasts as flat as comfort would allow and buried her body in a pair of baggy coveralls. His name and rank were embroidered over the breast pocket – 001/G.THACKER/COMDR. He examined his image in a mirror. How did he look, was the woman gone?

  "Damn it." His heart sank. He had to admit she looked even more intriguing dressed like this. He added a cap to the disguise but it made little difference. Who would he fool if he couldn't convince himself? There was only one way to find out. It was six pm Turangi Base time, mealtime on KOTUKU II. He was about to emerge in public for the first time since his unfortunate unveiling. Since then only Celine, Mariana and Steve had seen him. This was the acid test. Could he fit back into normal life on board ship and resume command?

  The crew only came together at meal times and then only for as long as was necessary. There was very little conversation. Generally they stared at their plates in a daze until the food was gone and then they left. George waited until they would have started eating in the hope that no-one would notice him enter. There was faint chance of that. The three bachelors paused mid-bite. Mariana had already spotted signs of trouble in the form of a general improvement in grooming. Kurt had cut his hair and Liam had taken to shaving and wearing fresh clothes. Steve was in full regalia, indicating superior rank.

  George noticed none of this. He was careful to keep his eyes on his meal as it was dished up at the servery, beans and reconstituted bacon with synthetic rye bread. But then as he moved away he dropped his cutlery. The clatter rang out like an alarm bell. He froze. The bachelors stared, poised. He smiled brightly and bent over to pick up his knife and fork. Immediately they leaped to their feet, tripping over each other to get to him first.

  "It’s OK, I'm fine," he muttered dodging around them to take a place beside Mariana who was sitting with Whetu. Reluctantly Liam, Kurt and Steve returned to their seats, their eyes never leaving their captain. George could feel the pressure and was already wondering if the outing was a good idea. He seemed to be the only one eating. Even Whetu and Mariana had stopped as if waiting for something to happen. Tension hung in the room like a visible haze and nobody spoke or made a sound except for Mohammed in the kitchen clanking his pots and pans.

  "Anybody for seconds?" he called from the serving hatch. "Before I send it downstairs." Nobody answered except for Whetu.

  "No thanks Moe. But it was good," he said pushing his half finished plate away. "What's for pudding?"

  Mohammed swung a big double handled pot onto the servery bench. He raised the lid, peered inside.

  "Can't remember. It's brown with red bits in it. Might be the Choc Strawberry Delight."

  "Same as what we had on Monday?"

  "Mmm, could be."

  "I remember. It was pretty good too."

  "You want some?"

  "No thanks."

  "Anyone else?"

  George could feel the bachelors waiting, watching him. The strain strangled his appetite. He pushed his plate aside.

  "I'll have some of that," he said just to break the ice. The bachelors jumped up. Steve was fastest and closest to the servery. He was there and heading back in a flash. He placed the bowl of quivering mud like substance in front of George and took the opportunity to pull out the seat opposite and sit down.

  "Thanks." George began to scoff the desert quickly in case Mariana and Whetu finished and left him to face his torment alone.

  "Good to see you out and about," Steve blurted enthusiastically. "Are you feeling better?"

  "Thanks, I'm fine," George replied between mouthfuls without looking up. So long as he was eating conversation could not be expected of him. But the desert was inedible, sickly sweet and sticky and Steve was waiting to restart the dialogue.

  "When do you want a briefing - current position, E.T.A. et cetera and so on?"

  "I ah…" George gagged. Everyone stared as he convulsed and shook. He gripped the edge of the table and coughed. Partially digested desert projected from his mouth across the table into Steve's lap.

  "I-I'm sorry," he barked and leapt to his feet. As he dashed towards the doorway, eyes streaming with tears of humiliation, Liam and Kurt shot up from their seats tripping over each other to assist. Suddenly Celine was in front of them in the doorway.

  "Stop!" she growled putting her arms out to halt them. "Where do you think you're going?"

  “To help.” Liam’s lame attempt at innocence failed.

  “Not required!”

  “But.”

  "Pull yourselves together, both of you," she snapped. They looked at the floor. "What do you think this is, a high school bloody dance?"

  That night George was careful to lock his cabin door when he went to bed. Some hours later he was awakened by a sound and felt the presence of someone in the corridor outside. The door handle quietly turned and stopped. He slipped out of bed released the safety on his service weapon and moved silently to the door. He unlocked it and eased it open. The corridor was dark apart from the intermittent flicker of a single overhead lamp. Someone was standing in the shadows close by. He couldn't see a face but he could hear breathing and could smell alcohol. He recognised the bulk and shape of a male but couldn't tell which of them it was.

  "I've got a gun in my hand," George advised. "One step in my direction and I'll blow your balls off, whoever you are. Understood?" There was a grunt, more fear than assent. "Now piss off and leave me alone."

  He closed the door and went back to bed. It was only when he was lying down that he realised his heart was pounding. His mind was racing.

  "You are afraid." The voice came from within him. It was as if she read his mind.

  "I can't hide in here forever,” he replied aloud. “I have a job to do.”

  “You must be strong, have courage.”

  “Our mission is in ruins, the ship is in chaos and it can only get worse."

  "Then you must regain command, take control.”

  He knew she was right. He had to be decisive, grab the tiller before it was too late. “But I am only one against all the others.”

  “You are not alone. I am with you.”

  “They will resist.”

  “You must lead. The others will follow.”

  He was silent. Gradually he felt his body relax. For no good reason the fear, the crisis seemed to pass. It was as if an unseen influence had taken control of him. He was filled with admiration. "How can you know all this? For someone who…" He stopped.

  "Say it. For someone who, what?" She knew what he was going to say, what he had stopped himself saying.

  "For someone who doesn't have a brain."

  "The brain only thinks, the body knows."

  For the first time he was thinking about Layla herself, the woman whose body he inhabited. He realised that he’d been taking her for granted, someone else to blame for the torment of his situation. But none of it was her fault. She was as much a victim of circumstance as he was. He began to wonder who she really was? He stared at her face in the mirror looking for a clue.

  “Who are you looking at?”

  “You.”

  “Why?” She sounded unsure.

  “I was thinking about you, wondering who you are.”

  “I have told you who I am.”

  “But I haven’t really thought of you before, as a person.
I have been thinking of you like a suit of clothes that I wear against my will.”

  “Alien skin.”

  “Pretending that I am not you.”

  “You can never be me.”

  “So what does that make us, room mates?”

  It was the first time he had felt her laugh. His eyes locked with the mirror image. He had a sense of looking inside himself through someone else’s eyes, close, intimate and uncomfortable. He felt a need to know more, to understand. It was within his power. His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. He felt a flush of excitement but couldn’t tell if it was it him or her. Her face gave nothing away.

  “What are you doing?” A note of alarm in her voice.

  “I want to see you as yourself, not as me.” The garment slipped from his shoulders. He stepped back and stared at the image in the mirror - eyes, arms, shoulders and breasts of this young woman. It felt wrong and he wanted to look away but fought the impulse like a struggle of wills. The expression in her face changed. He saw humiliation but still did not look away. He touched her shoulder and let his fingers slide down towards her breast. He felt a shiver run through her body, his body. He felt her fear.

  "Please," she whispered.

  “What do you feel?”

  She held her breath.

  “I feel something,” he continued. “But I can’t tell if it’s me or you.”

  “It is me. You are touching me.”

  George felt her embarrassment. He was taking liberties, degrading her like the creep in the corridor. He felt ashamed and covered her with his shirt.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” Still he could not draw his eyes away from the mirror. Her expression was unreadable but he sensed sadness. He knew how she had suffered. He had been there himself.

  “We must find a way to put this right.”

  "If only," she replied simply. "But how can it be possible?"

  "I don't know."

  "I will never see my people again,” she said. “That much I do know."

  George said nothing.

  44

  In the morning there was a posy of dried flowers lying at his door tied with a pink paper ribbon. This was the last straw. Unless he did something quickly it would never end. He had a sworn duty to perform. As well as that he had an obligation to Layla to protect her. He studied his standing orders, consulted the company manual and examined the flight log. Then he went to the canteen.

  The crew was gathered for breakfast when he entered. He knew exactly what he would say.

  "There will be a change to our current flight plan,” he began. “We are returning to our original orders. Our mission is to intercept Asteroid Millie-5B and redirect it. After that we will deliver what's left of our cargo to Mars. Then and only then will we return to base. Is that understood?"

  There was a stunned silence. They looked at each other to confirm what they’d heard and then at him as if he were mad.

  "We're running on less than two thirds power Captain," ventured Kurt. "We've got zero capacity for anything extravagant.”

  "Considering crew safety wouldn’t it be expedient to remain on course for home sir?" Steve attempting tactful. “Under the circumstances.”

  "We have been charged with a vitally important task. We have a duty to do everything within our power to see that task complete, whatever the personal consequences."

  "The ship's leakin like a bloody sieve," Liam spat. "We're all gonna bloody die if we don’t get it down asap!"

  "The future of our planet is at stake!" George continued calmly. "We have a responsibility! We will carry on to our target and that is the end of it!"

  A sour dumfounded silence descended on the room. Contrary to the way he looked and what they thought of him, Captain Thacker was serving notice that he had returned to command. To emphasise the point his hand rested deliberately on the butt of the weapon strapped to his thigh.

  “We are now operating under Code Seven compliance. The armoury has been secured.” There was a whiff of mutiny in the air. "Whatever I might currently appear to be I must remind you that I am your commanding officer. I demand your respect. I am not, repeat, not going to fuck any of you and that's that. Get used to it!"

  In the silence that followed Celine glanced at Mariana and smirked, Whetu tried to look nowhere while the bachelors blushed and looked at the floor. Mohammed continued rattling pots and pans as if nothing had happened.

  "As of now our course will be altered. We will be heading for the stipulated asteroid and we will not deviate until our mission is accomplished." There was silence. "Mr O'Reilly please prepare your explosives. Your assistant for the operation will be Ship's Carpenter Mr Shubert. Mr Perone I will require you and the Electronics Officer to report to the bridge directly after breakfast."

  With that the Captain turned on his heels and strode out of the canteen. "You were great," the voice whispered in his head with pride. "Very commanding."

  The change in direction was indiscernible to all except Whetu. Under Captain Thacker's supervision he entered the command - Find Asteroid Millie-5B - and Steve reluctantly did the rest. Unhappily they were back on track speeding with all the haste they could muster back into the void in search of a piece of rock the size of an ocean liner. George was the man with a mission. The detour would also delay the problem of returning home in his present state. It would give him time to think it through and come up with a plan.

  "What's mum going to say?" That was the question that concerned him most.

  "Love oh love oh careless love,” Liam’s fine tenor voice echoed with metallic reverberation around the hard steel walls of the powder room. “You see what love has done to me.” It was a song he had learned from his mother and it had come to mind as he set to work preparing explosives for the redirection of Asteroid Millie-5B. The powder room was a solid metal vault with a low ceiling and a single barred door. The walls were stacked with open shelves and locked compartments for delicate dangerous and unstable substances. With his materials laid out there was little room to move so he'd turned down Kurt's assistance, preferring to work alone. He needed to minimize opportunity for mistake. In the demolitions profession slip-ups at any level could prove fatal. Besides, relations between himself and the carpenter had become strained. Although neither would admit it there was a contest in progress.

  Liam was in a strange mood. As a craftsman he was happy to be back at work. He'd put the bottle aside and set to with a will that surprised even himself. It made him feel good to be doing something tangible again. He hummed contentedly as he assembled his array of detonators and timers and counted out the heavy canisters of nuclear accelerant. His orders were clear - employ appropriate explosive force to ensure safe margins of target displacement. In other words give it enough nudge at this end to be sure Millie would comfortably miss her mark at the other end, Planet Earth. Until he made a physical examination of the patient he couldn’t be sure of the exact dose of medication required so he was preparing for all eventualities.

  “Oh what will my mama say when she learns I’ve gone astray.” The sad sound of his song hinted that something was bothering him, an itch he could not scratch. The spectre of the Captain’s new suit of clothes still haunted him. It was a distraction he could do without while handling high explosives.

  Elsewhere on board the new regime of enforced discipline was working if not well, at least adequately according to the rules of the company manual. Captain Thacker had returned to his post and the crew had resumed an arbitrary eight hour work shift for all hands with a rotating roster for night duties. If there was no essential work to be done, work was created. "Idle hands know the Devil's work," George’s grandmother used to say and these days he could appreciate the truth of it. He remained watchful. Unless he constantly cracked the whip individuals had a tendency to drift off and neglect their duties. The slightest relaxation of his own discipline, a smile or a kind word could cause any one of the bache
lors to melt and direct amorous attentions in his direction. Flowers returned to his doorstep along with personal offerings and notes protesting ardent everlasting love. There were clumsy attempts at verse. In desperation George passed the poems on to Mariana for assessment. Could she determine who the authors might be and whether there was cause for concern?

  Love indivisible, stretched and broken

  the scent of you fills the air

  like a promise, a fatal bloom

  destined to wither in barren soil

  Mariana was dismissive - verbose overblown mawkish and it didn’t scan. It suggested a flawed self-absorbed melancholic personality potentially depressive but probably harmless. The poet might be Steve but Mariana thought not. His expression would have been more naïve and besides Steve didn't seem the type to be writing poetry. Kurt would be a more likely candidate. References like fatal bloom and barren soil made a more obvious fit with his profile or possibly Liam’s. She assured George that the sentiments were harmless and filed the poem with notes for her thesis.

  Another poem was composed entirely in French. This poet appeared to be emotionally immature and hopelessly romantic, harmless enough. Another more disturbing tribute was delivered electronically direct to the Captain’s scanner.

  Profetik vision doth choak my brayn

  it quick the blood with carnal desire

  I see we two locked as one blood red

  plumeting threw voyds of darkness!

  This was a perilous poet. Apart from the poor spelling and marginal grammar the content suggested a disturbed and dangerously perverse mind obsessing on death. The message was possession through destruction. The thought of such an extreme personality loose within the confined space of the ship was a concern. It was hard to immediately imagine who he might be. The verse seemed too visceral to be the work of Steve and too inarticulate for Liam. Mariana couldn’t see these thoughts emerging from the gentle giant that was Kurt and Whetu was beyond reproach. That left the enigmatic cook and the sedated security officer. A detailed examination of personal written records of the crew might eventually reveal the writer’s identity but that would take time. She suggested a general programme of mental health reviews for the whole crew with particular emphasis on the three bachelors. Captain Thacker made it official.

  Mariana was in her element. Within a few sessions she had enough material for several books and a multiple media series. But as time went on the novelty wore off. Attempting to unravel and make sense of the multitude conflicts assailing the male brain became exhausting. The received psychological wisdom maintained that the minds of men lacked the complexity of their female counterparts. They were supposed to be easy to analyse and repair like an early model combustion engine. Change the fuel, adjust the jets and spark and the machine should run smoothly. Mariana found that this was not so. She found herself drawn into a maze of collective neuroses. The pressure of mother confessor, romantic adviser and reluctant referee between three men in love with the same woman overwhelmed her. She had to declare time-out.

  But more interesting than the bachelors themselves were her conclusions relating to Captain Thacker. The containment of male turmoil within the contradictions of a female body seemed beyond impossible. If anyone was in danger of mental disintegration it must be the Captain.

  Her discoveries also made her look at Whetu through new eyes. What did she really know about him even after her close observations and their intimacy? Not much really, she had to admit. Underneath superficial differences the animal was probably pretty much the same.

  "Boys! Aren't they great?" Celine laughed out loud. Mariana thought she might be joking at her expense. "No I mean it. They're so, I don't know, so predictable, so funny. Don't you just love them for it?"

  "I suppose." Mariana remained sceptical. "Some of them, some of the time."

  "They are an acquired taste. I had five brothers and an unreliable dad and sometimes…" She shook her head at a loss for words.

  "There is something restless within them,” Mariana admitted. “Something impermanent."

  "You mean they've always got one eye on the door."

  Mariana thought about it. “I suppose we have that in common with them.” Then she added. “What about Steve? I thought you and he…”

  Celine looked away, suddenly short of words. “It’s just an infatuation. He’ll get over it.”

  Steve was first to break cover with his feelings. He approached the Captain on the bridge just before a shift change.

  "The Psych/Officer has advised me to explore my feelings sir. She feels it's best for me to get them out in the open and examine them."

  "Not in front of me thank you."

  "George, we've been friends for so many years. We know and trust each other."

  "What difference does that make?”

  "Would it help if we were strangers?"

  "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

  "I can't deny my feelings any longer.” Steve was on a roll with a new-found boldness. “I love you George. I realise now that I probably always have.”

  "Dammit Steve, you of all people. You are my First Officer, my second in command. You have an example to set for the rest of the crew."

  "I know that, but…"

  "Well bloody act like it or I'll have you slammed in the brig with that other crazy bastard."

  George ordered Mariana to abort the psychotherapy programme before anyone else felt the necessity to share their feelings with him. The search for the perilous poet was abandoned. But Steve’s outburst had been a timely reminder of how tenuous his grip on command was. If his mere presence amongst them was so provocative he realised it might be expedient to confine himself to quarters and run his command from there. Thus he chose to withdraw into the company of himself and the solace of Layla. In his isolation she became his sole and constant companion. The dialogue between them became virtually continuous whether awake or asleep. Only when others were present and George was required to give them his dutiful attention did she withdraw. Otherwise she became the only place he could relax, the only voice he was confident he could trust.

  45

  Day by day life plodded on as they drew inevitably closer to their rendezvous with Asteroid Millie-5B. By now Whetu could read its shape and dimensions. He was also seeing something else on his scanner and it puzzled him. The intermittent blip he had noticed on the EWS monitor weeks before was still there. But instead of passing by and diminishing as expected the signal was becoming stronger, more regular indicating something might be following them and getting closer. Whetu tried to generate a visual image but the object was still too small to produce anything other than a vague shimmering lump of static. The centre of the lump suggested the mass might be metallic but that was all.

  "But why would it still be following even after we've changed course?" Mariana asked. That was question concerning Whetu as well although he chose not to acknowledge it. For peace of mind he ran a detailed emission search in all categories.

  "Beep-beep-beep!" came the unexpected reply. The thing, whatever it was, was transmitting some sort of radio signal on a standard communications frequency. The signal was weak and intermittent but it was there.

  "Does this mean it's trying to make contact with us?"

  "It means there's a transmitting device of some sort on board. Could be a communications satellite, some kind of ancient scientific device launched years ago, still circling around further and further out like Voyager II."

  "But why would it be following us?"

  Whetu stared at the screen. The other possibility concerned him. It might actually be tracking them. In which case it could be either a manned craft or remote guided device.

  "A missile?"

  "Unlikely."

  The Captain was resting and should not be disturbed, according to Mariana. Whetu put a call out and found Steve in the cooler playing cards with Mohammed and the Liam. He explained about the unidentifi
ed object and the radio signal and requested permission to employ evasive action. If KOTUKU changed course and the thing changed too, they would have confirmation they were being followed.

  Steve was reluctant to change the Captain’s orders without consultation but rather than disturb George in his present mood he cautiously accepted responsibility. Whetu entered a new set of random co-ordinates and moments later the ship made a ninety-degree turn and powered away. The signal diminished and disappeared. Whetu breathed a sigh of relief and Steve was moving off to re-join his card game when Whetu stopped him.

  "Steve, check this out.” The thing was already back on the EWS scanner following like a bloodhound after their scent.

  "How far away is it?"

  "Hard to tell, but it's closing on us at a rate of maybe a two hundred k’s a day based on the signal change since yesterday."

  "Get back on course," said Steve. "Keep an eye on it. I'll advise the Captain."

  "Maybe you should let me do that," suggested Mariana.

  “What do you look like?” she asked him.

  “I was six foot two, like Jesus.”

  “Who is Jesus?”

  “Something my mother used to say.”

  “Where you handsome?”

  “My mother thought so. Would you like to see me?" It had been on his mind, a pilgrimage to the cool store to visit his former self. He did have some misgivings. Having finally achieved a functional equilibrium he was loath to risk losing it. Still the thought weighed heavily on his mind and he felt sure his recovery could not progress until he had laid the ghost. He gave the order and it was organised.

  Mariana advised she should accompany him in case he suffered an adverse reaction. Celine would also attend in case of medical emergency. George agreed but insisted that once they arrived he needed to be alone. The women promised to stay back. Whetu would wire him up so they could monitor his brain and vital signs from a discreet distance. If anything went wrong they could quickly retrieve and render assistance.

  The poker club was banished from the cooler so they wouldn’t be disturbed. Mariana checked George's wiring before Celine led him down the now familiar avenue of lockers to R/L-29K. Celine pressed the release. The locker door swung open and the ice coffin rolled out on a cloud of mist and stopped in front of them.

  "Alright?" Celine asked.

  "Thank you." George nodded and she left.

  He stood very still for some time in a kind of trance enveloped in a cloud of fog from his own breath.

  "Who am I now," he whispered. "This flesh or that?" The mouth he could touch felt so very different to one he could see locked in a frozen ripple of blank contentment. He had imagined it would be different, that there would be an immediate affinity, a kind of re-joining with his former self. But it wasn't happening. He felt disconnected from this once familiar face locked in its shroud of ice. Mariana had warned that a subjective view of himself would be very different through another's eyes. Perhaps he was seeing himself for the first time.

  “You are older than I thought.” Her voice startled him and he felt a flush of embarrassment. He had forgotten she would be listening.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “I don’t think so.” She had paused just long enough to cause uncertainty. “But you look nice.”

  "I suppose I was quite good looking," he replied modestly.

  “Thank you for bringing me to visit."

  "You are welcome."

  Shreds of incomplete memory were flooding back but they made no sense. His life had become fractured, split in halves and he feared they could never be reconnected. Even if his body were to live again how could he cross the chasm? It wasn’t like reloading a computer or climbing into a car?

  "Hello, are you there?"

  "Huh? I'm sorry my love, I was miles away."

  "Where were you?”

  “Somewhere in the past.”

  “What did you say?"

  “I don’t know, I was miles away.”

  "Can we go now please,” Layla said. “I'm getting cold."

  Celine reappeared without being summoned. George watched his former self disappear into the misty darkness of the locker. He pressed his face to the glass for one last look. There was the germ of an idea in his mind but he didn't dare let it form in case he was overheard. He would articulate on paper when he got back to his cabin.

  "Did you mean that?" Layla asked as they walked back ahead of the others.

  "Mean what?" Was she already reading his unformed thoughts?

  "What you called me."

  "What did I say?" He had no idea what she was talking about.

  "You called me, my love. Did you mean it?"

 

  "What are you doing?" The voice was gruff, reproachful. François sat up with a start. Someone had spoken but there was nobody else in the tiny locked room. He knew it wasn’t him. He lay back down on the bunk and closed his eyes.

  "I am having trouble keeping up with them.” A different voice this time, light and jovial compared to the first one. The voice was vaguely familiar but he couldn’t place it. “They are changing course and this equipment can’t quite…” He could see an outline of the speaker but the place was dark. "We are locked onto them but when they change course we lose their field. Then we lose power." The speaker turned and his face was lit by the ghoulish glow of a scanner below him. There were tiny winking pinpoints of light behind him, instrument panels maybe. The man looked odd, tall and emaciated like an ancient bird. François recognised him from a previous dream, the rocky mountainside. The birdman thumped a control panel in front of him. “The system,” he muttered. “It wasn’t meant for this I’m afraid.”

  There were two other men jammed in beside the birdman in what François now recognised as the cockpit of an MMC Micro transporter. They wore shiny grey suits with red and black trim. There was a great deal of turbulence in the cockpit and a lack of gravity. The birdman moved and François could see that one of the other men was old von Wittering their navigator. He looked sick. He was strapped into a seat but then he broke loose and drifted above them laughing and muttering deliriously. He was probably drunk. The navigator was usually drunk.

  The birdman peered at the controls in furious concentration, his eyes glowing a fanatic green from the lights on the panel in front of him.

  “Turn back Buzz,” von Wittering shouted at the birdman from above. “This is futile. You’ll never catch them.”

  The other man was standing behind Buzz peering over his shoulder. He was big and rugged with muscles straining to burst out of his uniform. François recognised this man even though he had never seen him clearly before. He remembered flame and dust and the man who had overpowered von Wittering. This man was a warrior, a worthy adversary.

  "They changed again,” Buzz groaned. “If they keep doing this we'll lose them."

  "The old man will know where they’re going." The rugged man grabbed von Wittering’s leg as he drifted by.

  "My oath Eddie," the old man muttered. "Then you'll be in business. Oh yes, then you'll really be in business."

  “What does you mean?” the man snarled.

  Eddie? The name didn’t seem to fit the rugged man’s countenance. He deserved a noble name, François felt, a name worthy of his calling. He felt a thrill of excitement. He didn’t know what the dream meant other than that this would be his destiny. He must prepare for the arrival.

  46

  Next morning Whetu managed a visual sighting of the thing. The Captain was sitting beside him and behind him a buffer zone of Celine and Mariana separated Steve and the bachelors from the front row. Whetu enlarged the image on his scanner and ran a resolution programme to sharpen the edges of the signal. Little by little the blob of static haze became a shape throbbing in and out of contour like a rubber duck in the hands of a delighted baby.

  “What do you think it is?” George asked.

  “Hard to tell.” W
hetu was struggling to keep the image sharp. "Course is erratic. Hard to get a fix on it weaving all over the place." He asked the Beast to run a profile check on known space equipment all eras. The computer took its time and eventually failed to find a resemblance with any craft in its inventory. It refused to - collaborate all data.

  "Pedantic son of a bitch." Whetu vented his frustration. "Use your fucking imagination!"

  As if sensing impending violence the Beast admitted there was a partial similarity in size and proportions to a class of low gravity micro utility used principally in asteroid mining operations although this unit’s mass was consistent with laden weight.

  "Just tell us what it is!"

  "There are a number of manufacturers in this class,” the Beast droned. “General specifications are roughly similar." The computer generated a list of all known manufacturers. Towards the end of a catalogue of fifty vehicles there was one they recognised. It was fabricated by the Mitsubishi Motor Corporation. It was called an MMC Micro utility/tender.

  Whetu looked back at Kurt who looked at Liam who shook his head.

  "No way," he said. "Impossible."

  "What?" George asked.

  "It could never have made this distance." Kurt shook his head in agreement. "Bloody thing was damaged anyway. That's why we gave it to him."

  "You gave what to who?" George persisted.

  "Buzz. We gave him an old micro."

  "What are you talking about?” George was losing patience. “Who the hell is Buzz?"

  "Ah, Buzz was the archæologist we met on the planet George," Steve began. "I told you about him. We gave him all kinds of junk for his museum."

  "His museum?"

  "He has a space museum in the desert sir," Kurt came to the rescue. "Me and Fet went there with him. That's how we found out about Voyager II and so on."

  There was silence while George processed the information. "What is the range of one of these vehicles?" he finally asked. The Beast gave him a rapid answer.

  "Twenty-seven hours without refuelling."

  "And how long since we left the planet where this Buzz individual has his museum?"

  "Almost six weeks now."

  "Then how can a machine with a twenty-seven hour operational range travel in excess of one thousand hours without refuelling at least thirty-seven times?"

  Nobody knew the answer. It was clearly impossible. Then Celine made what appeared to be an absurd suggestion. "Didn't you guys give him an old motor as well? Maybe that’s got something to do with it?"

  The men laughed.

  "It was broken,” Kurt pointed out. “We tried, couldn't get it to run."

  "How the hell would he fit an electro/magnetic thrust unit in a micro? It's too small."

  "You gave him a thrust unit too?" The accusatory tone in George’s voice made them feel guilty as well as stupid.

  "We had to unload some dead weight sir.” Kurt the stand-in engineer. “It was crucial to lift off and the unit was unfixable."

  "Maybe not?"

  "No sir, it was dead. We ran tests."

  "It's a micro alright. The Beast just confirmed it." Whetu's pronouncement hung in the air like a judgment. They glared at the scanner calling it a liar. But they couldn't. The computer had a readable picture now with a three-dimensional rotating plan overlaid for comparison.

  "MMC Micro utility/tender – modified,” the Beast pronounced. “Additional electro/magnetic power unit."

  "I don't believe it. Their mag unit must be powering off our own field."

  "But it was broken. How did he get it to work?"

  "This Buzz is obviously a lot smarter than you lot."

  It seemed undeniably true. "I want an hourly update of this, thing's progress," the Captain continued to Whetu. "Try to raise him on the blower and if you can’t, keep trying. I want to know what he wants." He sighed loudly and left the room followed by Celine and Mariana. He paused in the doorway.

  "Why was I not informed about this earlier?"

  "You were indisposed sir,” Steve replied. “You were not to be disturbed.”

  "Right.” The Captain strode away followed by his entourage. “Bloody idiots.” Silence in the shack as their ringing footsteps receded.

  "How long to target?" Whetu asked the Beast.

  "Forty-five hours to target," replied the computer. The statement fell on dazed and deafened ears. They were still smarting from the Captain's rebuke.

  Mohammed opened the door to François' cell to bring him his breakfast. But the s/o was not on his bunk. The room was small, a floor space of eight feet by six feet wide. He wasn't under the bunk nor was he standing behind the door. There was nowhere to hide, except. Slowly, the tray still clutched in his hands Mohammed looked upwards.

  François smiled down at him. He was splayed across the ceiling like road kill, hands and feet pressed against the sidewalls.

  "Hi," he said to Mohammed and let go.

  Mohammed dropped the tray and turned towards the door but François was on top of him before the food even hit the floor. They landed in a messy heap and the tiny cook experienced a momentary loss of consciousness. As he came round he felt himself being dragged to his feet, hoisted by his collar and pressed against the cold metal wall. He was dangling from François' meaty fist.

  "I got no quarrel with you cooky," the security/officer whispered. "You always been decent to me, bringing me food and things. But I have to warn you not to oppose me. My destiny is approaching and nothing will stand in my way. Understand me?"

  Mohammed replied as best he could through a restricted windpipe. "Yes," he croaked.

  François continued his deadpan warning as if reading from a manifesto. "My adversary is coming, the rival I was born to encounter. Nothing will stop me." Mohammed nodded. "I will put you down and you will not move. You will not stand in my way because if you do I will break your neck. Understand me? Not a sound or I will return to kill you although this is not part of my plan."

  François dumped him on the bunk and left the cell locking the door behind him. The corridors were dark and empty. He ran all the way to his cabin panting in time to the chanting in his head. The thousand warriors were singing again. "He is come! He is come!" they sang in exultant unison.

  His cabin was locked but the thin metal door was no match for François' foot. The first kick loosened the hinges, the second exploded the flimsy bolt. Inside, the room was exactly as he'd left it. The racks of weapons lining the walls were all in place undisturbed - rifles, launchers and blades. He quickly stripped off his clothes. This time he had no purified water to cleanse his body so he used the shower in the latrine next-door.

  François opened his closet in search of clothing appropriate to the occasion. There was nothing to match his special suit, only standard issue coveralls and a high pressure flight suit and helmet. The suit was an airtight fireproof one-piece overall made from grey metallic cloth just like the one his rival was wearing in the dream. His name and rank was printed in red above the breast pocket. The warriors chanted to him softly as he put on the suit and made his preparations. He wrapped a ceremonial sash from his dojo around his waist. Then he turned to his weapons.

  He ignored the array of machine rifles, handguns and grenade launchers. It was amazing, he thought to himself, when it comes to the moment how simple it was, how very little you actually needed. He untied the ribbons securing an ancient samurai sword with a double-edged blade, a blade to match his rival's. Although he had not yet seen his rival’s weapon he knew what it must be like.

  François stood to attention.

  "Our father.” He led the chant and the thousand warriors joined in unison. “Our father, our father.” The chant swelled gathering momentum. “Deliver them to evil, to evil.” On the forged blade of his upright sword the etched image of a leaping tiger glittered in the dim light. “For mine is the kingdom the power and the glory.” He pressed the cold steel against his nose. “The power and
the glory.” The warriors repeated, their chant rising to triumphant crescendo. “The power and the glory the power and the glory.” Screaming feedback filled his ears. He sank to his knees and drew the blade across his forearm. Bright blood ran to his elbow. He caught it in his fingers and smeared it on his face.

  “Ay-men."

  47

  Asteroid Millie-5B sat square ahead through the pitted flight deck windscreen as Steve, closely observed by George manoeuvred the ship into a standing off position near the huge lump of jagged rock confirmed to be their target. They would maintain their distance throughout the operation because although Millie was not large by planetary standards, little more than three hundred times bigger than the ship itself, it was nonetheless big enough to exert low-level gravitation. If the ship drifted close enough it might be drawn in and sustain damage on the asteroid's rocky surface.

  "You think you’ve got enough bang here mate?"

  Liam ignored Kurt and continued ticking off the boxes of explosives on his inventory while the carpenter sweated loading them into the cargo hold of a utility/tender similar to the micro they'd left behind with Buzz.

  "Just shut up and do what you're told," Liam replied sourly. "If that’s not too much to ask."

  “Mate.” Kurt sighed. “Can we just put our differences aside, at least until this is over? In the interests of co-operation and safety.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “She’s never going to go for either of us so why don’t you just forget it?”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Get real son.”

  “You think you’ve got more of a chance.”

  “Jesus, grow up will you.”

  There followed a moment of standoff until common sense at last prevailed. Instinct gauged Kurt’s body mass and general fitness and delivered Liam a red light. He lapsed into a sullen silence and returned to his lists. Kurt resumed loading.

  Whetu completed a volume scan of the asteroid to assist Liam in calculating the amount of charge required to redirect Millie-5B. The scan would also advise him where to place the explosives to achieve the correct direction of displacement away from its collision course with Earth. Kurt was loading the last box of thermodets when Whetu arrived with the printout. Liam glanced casually at the sheet.

  "Sure," he said and stuffed the paper in a pocket. He reached for his helmet and motioned for Whetu to leave before they defizzed and opened the hatch to the outside void.

  A few minutes later the doors creaked open to reveal the asteroid less than a mile distant, perfectly framed in the doorway. Kurt pushed forward on the shift and they felt the little craft bump and slide across the floor towards the hatch. There was an abrupt jolt and a series of after shudders as the micro broke loose from the ship's gravitation and achieved neutral weight. Kurt was in his element. He’d spent many happy hours tooling around in similar craft when he worked for The Interplanetary Mining Co. He powered the little machine right at the rock, turned on a sixpence and slammed on the anchors. Liam was not impressed.

  "Jesus H. Christ man!" he yelled as the micro bobbed to an unsteady halt inches from the rugged rock face. "What are you tryin’ to do, kill us all?"

  No reply.

  "Try and remember what we got on board here."

  "Yeah yeah where do you want it?"

  "This'll do for a start."

  "How do you mean, start?"

  "We do this side first, then we do the other side."

  “How come?” Kurt was confused. At the briefing with Captain Thacker there had been mention of only one or two moderate charges on the near side of the asteroid. When detonated, the force of the explosion would push the rock gently away, thus altering its course.

  "Won't a charge on both sides neutralise the direction?”

  "Everyone’s a bloody expert aren’t they?"

  "No, I just thought."

  "Well don't. It’s not your job to think, and anyway you’re no good at it."

  “Fine.” Kurt eased the little craft sideways until it bumped against the craggy cliff edge and nestled on its fenders.

  "Now don't touch anything, until I tell you," barked Liam.

  "Lighten up mate, for Christ’s sake."

  They sealed their helmets. Kurt depressurised and moved aft to open the cargo door. He attached anchors to the rock face to steady the craft while Liam began sorting through his boxes. As he worked he began to sing in a soft, pleasantly tuneful tenor voice.

  "How pleasant in winter to sit by the hearth, listening to the barks and the howls of the dogs. Or in summer to wander the wide valleys through.”

  Kurt could hear him on the intercom. Curious, he thought, that such a cynical and generally unpleasant man could be capable of such sweetness.

  "And to pluck the wild flowers in the May morning dew."

  In the radio shack Whetu had scanned all the frequencies on his radio dial but had failed to raise a response from the incoming craft. On the bridge George and Steve could now see it clearly, a tiny pinpoint of light glimmering in the void. George was becoming nervous in spite of Steve's assurances that Buzz was perfectly harmless. He gave Steve the key to the armoury.

  "Break out the arms, two low calibre weapons each for all hands."

  "Really sir? Surely there's no need. He's a little eccentric but totally harmless."

  Something inside George was telling him there was danger. Layla was silent but her bones ached. "Just go and bloody do it, now!" George shouted. "Two weapons each, then standard defensive positions."

  "Honestly." Steve’s protest got no further. George slapped him open handed hard across the mouth.

  "Do as you’re told! That’s an order!”

  "Yes sir." Humiliated, Steve departed.

  "We have contact sir." Whetu's voice sounded hollow on the tannoy. "It's not very clear but I'll patch it through." There was a loud click followed by a deafening hiss of static. Through the mess of noise George could just make out a tremulous voice with an odd foreign accent.

  "Hello friends, how are you? I’ll bet you didn't expect to see me up here eh?"

  "Who's that?" George couldn’t mask the fear in his voice.

  "That's him," replied Whetu from the radio shack. "That's Buzz. What are you doing out here mate?" Whetu continued.

  "What do you think of my machine?" replied Buzz. “Isn’t she a beauty?”

  "She's a beauty all right. Nice work."

  "Thank you. I have your colleague the esteemed Manfred Hugo von Wittering with me."

  "Von Wittering? That’s our navigator." George’s emotions lurched from trepidation to confusion. “What’s he doing there? I thought he was on board.”

  “Ah,” Whetu hesitated. “Von Wittering stayed behind when we left.”

  "What?"

  “You know what he’s like.” Silence suggested George didn’t. “It’s a long story, sir.”

  "Jesus!” What else didn’t he know? “Put him on. I want to find out what in god’s name is going on!"

  The request was relayed with some difficulty. Apparently Buzz was having even more trouble receiving than they were. As George waited his anxiety grew. "What is it? What is it, tell me?" he whispered.

  “Excuse me, could you repeat please?” Whetu’s voice replied.

  “I wasn’t talking to you!” Deep inside, George was feeling very uneasy. “Speak to me.” He hissed but there was no reply.

  "He can't talk at the moment," came the eventual crackling response from Buzz. "He's sick."

  “Jesus Christ Almighty!” George shouted. The incoming micro was bearing down on them, closing fast. Where was Steve with the guns? Why was he taking so long? "Steve!" he yelled down the intercom. "Steve, answer me!" But there was no answer.

  Still stinging from the slap in his face Steve took his time heading to the armoury. Hurt and insulted he had lapsed into a passive-aggressive go-slow. He was tak
ing the long way down by a route he seldom used. The narrow stairway was pulsing with red fluorescent light. It was one of many thoroughfares in an emergency network linking all levels of the ship with evacuation ports. If Steve had not chosen this route, if George had not slapped him, if Steve had done as he was ordered in the first place things might have worked out very differently.

  "Silly bitch," he muttered to himself. "Bloody nerve of her. Oh no she wouldn't listen to me would she, oh no."

  He was rounding a corner into the armoury corridor when he found his progress impeded. It was like hitting a brick wall. Steve collided and bounced back landing flat on his backside on the floor. Recovering composure he looked up to see a tall bulky figure clad in a grey flight suit. The red daubed face grinning at him looked familiar but unexpected.

  "François, what are you doing here?" He was too surprised to be afraid.

  "I woke up, Steve. I am rested and now I’m ready."

  "Great, because there's an emergency on."

  "I know."

  "Do you? There's an unidentified craft approaching."

  "I know."

  "How do you know?"

  François dragged Steve to his feet and slammed him against the wall. "I just know OK?” He snarled. The vacant savagery in his eyes chilled Steve into momentary silence.

  "Right, well then can you, could you help us then please?"

  “Help you?” François smiled. “I was going to kill you but right now there are bigger fish to fry." He plucked the key from Steve's hand and tore open the armoury door. “I don’t have time to kill you properly right now.” He sounded almost apologetic. “You will have to wait till this over.”

  Steve nodded gratefully.

  "But if you oppose me I will kill you right now. Do you understand me?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "In due course your time will come. The time for all of you will come. But right now there is something more important that I must do."

  "That’s cool, I understand."

  François slammed the door and double locked it. Steve waited in darkness, listening until he was sure the security officer had gone. He turned on the lights. The armoury was a narrow oblong with walls of ribbed alloy plate. There was only one door and no way to unlock it on the inside. Steve bent his mouth to the intercom beside the door, entered the flight deck code and waited for the connection.

  "George,” he whispered. “This is Steve, do you read me?"

  "Steve, where in God's name are you?” came the panicked reply. “It's almost here,"

  "I'm in the armoury."

  "Move it for god's sake. Distribute weapons, deploy the crew. Cover the bloody exits."

  "I can't."

  George took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Through the windscreen he could see Buzz's craft circling on approach. He recognised it as one of their own micros except for an unusual bulge behind the cockpit where the cargo deck should have been. It was painted bright green with a dragon’s head and flames pouring from its mouth.

  "Steve," he began in a kind of shivering false calm. "If you don't carry out your orders immediately I'll have you court martialled and shot." The strange craft was alongside them now, hovering close.

  "I can't George. François locked me in the armoury and took the key."

  "François?" George had never had occasion to know the s/o’s Christian name. He had only ever addressed him by his rank and surname. "Who the fuck is François?" He waited for Steve's reply but the answer came from another quarter closer to hand.

  "I am François," said a quiet voice from the doorway behind him. "But I don't remember you." George turned and immediately remembered the man of last resort hired to keep them secure. His first impression had not been favourable. He had protested the appointment but the company had advised there was no-one else suitable and currently available for the position. François smiled. "Pleased to meet you. You must be the one he seeks."

  48

  Buzz was delirious with fatigue. He had been piloting for forty-three days without a break so he didn't see the open load/bay hatch when they came around the port side of the stationary Troika V until Abou'ed punched him and pointed at it. The door was wide-open with bright light streaming from inside like a beacon. Gigantic white arrows were painted on all four sides of the opening for the guidance of incoming traffic.

  Buzz was not adept at handling the craft. His first two attempts to dock would have resulted in serious collision had they not been deflected by the mother ship's force field. He circled round and came in again with more speed but still could not penetrate the field. Abou'ed wrestled the controls away from him and climbed into the seat. Working on instinct and what he’d gleaned from observing Buzz during the voyage he lined up the edges of the windscreen with the arrows around the entry port and propelled the machine forward at full thrust. There was resistance and powerful turbulence but Ed did not back off. The machine burst through the hatch and hit the deck sliding to a halt in a shower of sparks. Behind them the doors closed automatically. Lights flashed, warning them not to open their doors until the load/bay re-pressurised.

  "Well done son!" the archæologist exclaimed. "Nice work!" He opened the cockpit and they climbed out slowly and painfully straightening into a fully upright position for the first time in six weeks. Abou'ed did five quick knee bends, ten rapid press-ups, stretched his arms and shoulders and grabbed his weapon.

  "Help me with the navigator." Buzz was unbuckling von Wittering from his restraints. "He needs urgent attention." But Abou'ed was gone. He was already at the door of the airlock trying to get into the body of the ship. Unfamiliar with the technology he was randomly pushing buttons and hitting switches. Eventually the door slid open and he stepped into the corridor.

  As the door shut behind him he stood still and listened, gagging from the powerful alien smell of the old ship. It felt alive, throbbing like the inside of some giant unclean beast. All directions looked the same - three narrow dark stinking tunnels, too many options. His ancestor would know.

  "He's docked," Whetu advised the intercom. But there was no reply from the bridge. He switched surveillance vision to load/bay #2. "And there seems to be someone with him."

  "Von Wittering?" suggested Celine. "Or Jean-Pierre?"

  "Someone else, bigger. Can't see him clearly." A rear view of Abou'ed was displayed on the screen. He was standing in the passage outside the load/bay. As he turned to look back over his shoulder Whetu zoomed in on his face. Mariana instinctively took a step back.

  "Holy shit," whispered Celine. "Who is that?"

  “That is a worry,” Mariana replied. "Those eyes don’t look friendly."

  Abou'ed raised his snake sword gripping it in both hands and sliced down through the air in slow motion. He closed his eyes and stretching out his arms he slowly rotated the sword in a circle like a divining rod. The sword trembled and settled pointing straight ahead of him. He opened his eyes and suddenly like a magician he was gone.

  "Where'd he go?" Whetu was punching buttons trying to find him on the network. He scanned all the passages leading from the load/bay but there was no sign of the intruder.

  "We should warn George and Steve." Celine’s voice sounded unusually grave. "Are Kurt and Liam back yet?"

  "They're still outside."

  "Shit."

  "Hello Whetu? Anyone?" Steve's voice on the intercom sounded plaintive and lost.

  "Steve, where are you?"

  "Whetu, that you? I'm in the armoury."

  "We've got trouble Steve."

  "I know. I've seen him."

  "Where?"

  "He locked me in the armoury."

  “When?”

  “Just now. I ran into him.”

  “Really? That was fast.”

  “Who let him out?”

  “What?”

  And so they went on at cross-purposes while the situation moved further out of control.

  "Can
you hear him?"

  "No."

  "He is coming for you." François drew breath slowly through his nose. “I can smell him.”

  "Can I remind you it is your duty to protect me?” George could feel it in his bones. The fiend of his dreams was somehow inside the ship and getting closer. If I cannot have you then no man shall! The thunderous voice echoed through his terrified memory. But this time it was no dream. The nightmare was alive and coming to redeem its dreadful promise.

  “I am your superior officer. You must let me go.”

  François replied by shoving George onto the floor. He bound his hands with electric cable and dragged him back to his feet. With one meaty arm around his hostage throat he pressed the cold blade of his sword flat against George’s cheek.

  “Do you hear me?” George persisted.

  No reply. François turned him towards the open doorway in readiness for the arrival of his adversary. George felt numb. His limbs ached with panic. “That’s an order!” he croaked.

  "I can’t let you go," François hissed. "He wants you and I want him so we stay together until he comes.” He chuckled quietly. “We will stay together until death do us part."

  George could hear heavy footfalls booming like drum beats relentlessly closing on them. He realised this was how the nightmare would end. There could be no other way.

  François pushed him towards the door. “But this is not the place,” he said. “We must move.”

  Abou'ed stopped at the base of the red stairway. His heart was pounding and his body throbbed. He knew the stairway would lead to his prize but he needed to compose himself for the next stage. So far his progress had been unopposed but he knew it would not remain that way.

  "Fool," he chided himself. It was a trap and he could tell it had been laid by a worthy adversary. He must calm himself and concentrate his powers. Layla the prize was there to be taken but she would not be taken easily. His ancestor blade had led him to her and now it made him pause to consider.

  "There is only one way and that is forward." There was no circling this adversary. The man had made his ground and left the door open for him to enter. The next stage would unfold according to the way he stepped through that door, as a lion or as a snake. Once again his ancestor gave guidance. He should cause his adversary to bring the prize to him. He felt wind rush in his ears and saw walls fold and move past him.

  The corner at the top of the stairs approached and wrapped around him to reveal a space beyond opening into a narrow passage. The end was dark and distant, shrouded in mist. It rushed towards him with a serpentine hiss and opened like the jaws of a dragon. Stinking fog poured from the mouth and Abou'ed felt the air around him grow cooler, colder even than a mountaintop in winter. This must be the place. There could be no mistaking it. He had never seen a place so extreme, so perfectly right. The snake could delay no more. It was time to make his move.

  "Jesus, it's François and he's got the Captain with him."

  "What are they doing in the cooler?" Mariana and Celine were peering over Whetu’s shoulder.

  "What's with all the shit on his face?"

  "Some kind of tribal markings maybe."

  “Does François even have a tribe?”

  “Who knows?”

  The cooler was dark and filled with fog from the draft of warm air flowing in from the open door but they could see on the scanner that George was lashed by his hands to a pole in the middle of the cool store under the lights where the boys usually played cards. François was standing still as a statue beside her, facing the door. He held a long samurai sword at the ready in front of him.

  “Christ,” Whetu leaned close to the screen. “He looks like he might be going to behead her.”

  "We've got to do something," said Mariana. "She's going to freeze to death in there if we don't get her out."

  "Yeah but what can we do against François?" Whetu sounded a realistic note of caution. "If I went in there I'd come out in pieces."

  "Brains over brawn," Celine suggested. “He’s not that bright.”

  "Kurt. He's bigger than François and brighter."

  "Poor bugger always gets the shit jobs."

  "Main thing is to keep Steve away from the cooler.” Celine was moving towards the door. “If he sees George like that, who knows what'll happen."

  Whetu was buzzing the armoury to advise Steve Celine was on her way when the situation moved up a level.

  "It's that weird guy again," said Mariana.

  Abou'ed had arrived at the cooler. Shrouded in mist and backlit by the lights of the corridor his frame seemed to fill the doorway. His long hair flowed in the breeze but otherwise he didn't move. George appeared to see him. He cringed and promptly fainted. He went limp, hanging from the pole by tethered hands.

  François felt a thrill surge through his body. Finally it had come. The moment he had waited for his entire life had arrived except his adversary was bigger than he had imagined, much bigger than himself. He cast aside his fear. He stood pumped and poised ready for the man to make the first move. He held his breath and waited. Nothing happened. The giant in the doorway didn’t move. Elation deflated. François experienced confusion and disappointment. If this was his moment of destiny why had it had arrived and passed without result? Why didn't his adversary attack as he was supposed to, run screaming at him with his blade upraised? That is how it was in rehearsals not a timid stand off like this.

  As the seconds ticked by the security/officer grew restive. Should he taunt the giant with words? He couldn't think of anything appropriate to say. He could threaten the woman but that seemed cowardly and unbecoming. What then? Should he make the first move, take the initiative?

  He took a step forward, his limbs heavy and unsure. He drew level with the collapsed woman and raised his sword above his head in a gesture of threat. Still the stranger remained impassive. He did not move or make a sound. Perhaps he is afraid, François thought, petrified and unable to move. François’ breath began to quicken, sucking air to fan the fire his warrior spirit. As he gathered himself to attack a thought crossed his mind. Perhaps his opponent's immobility was a ploy to force a blunder. But it was too late. He was on his way committed, his blade already dipping and aiming for the man's throat. And still the stranger didn't move. He stood his ground, frozen like an animal caught in a spotlight his weapon hanging loosely at his side while François raced across the icy floor like a missile.

  Abou'ed waited with the patience of a rock. Do not move, let him come to you his ancestor said and the advice was good. The running man's blade was only inches from his throat when finally the rock moved. He rolled his wrist upwards to parry the drive with his own blade. At the same time he stepped to the side leaving one foot grounded in the path of the running man. The rock felt nothing, heard nothing as the missile flew by into the corridor to collide headfirst with the wall outside.

  Abou'ed did not look back. His eyes were on the prize, Layla hanging pitifully from the pole in the centre of the cold room. He slashed at her bonds, catching her as she fell. She settled gently across his shoulder. Behind him there was a sound. He turned to see his attacker return stumbling inside, closing the door behind him. His movements were unsteady, his face streaked with blood streaming from a wound on his head. He muttered darkly and lurched forward a few paces before stopping.

  "I know your game," François yelled. "But if you want out of here you got to come past me.”

  This time the rock didn't hesitate. Now he had his prize he was intent on getting away from this cold evil place, intent on escape. Abou'ed halved the distance to the door and paused.

  "Come to me nut sack!" François taunted.

  Ed didn't understand the insult. His knowledge of English was limited and didn’t include the intricacies of insult. He understood the gesture however, the upraised finger and lewd thrust of the groin. Enflamed, he unleashed a torrent of abuse in his own language reducing François' lineage to the momen
tary passage of a pellet of guano through a rooster's rectum. He thrust his index finger in the air and blew a raspberry.

  The security officer exploded with rage and hurled himself at Abou'ed. The latter was inconvenienced by the burden on his shoulder but as François lunged he managed to parry with a stinging reposte at François’ shoulder. François dodged and failed to avoid contact. He staggered back gripping his bleeding shoulder, recovered his footing and dived back in a desperate flèche attack. Ed stepped effortlessly aside and stabbed at his attacker's back as he crashed by.

  The fight raged on, the bleeding s/o doggedly attacking and sustaining wound after grievous wound. Yet still he regathered and attacked again only to suffer more damage. In more than a dozen passes François had managed to land barely two grazes on the other man's forearm. Nonetheless Abou'ed was acquiring a grudging respect for the man's resilience and tenacity even if his sword skills were somewhat lacking. He couldn't manage to kill him and he couldn't get away from him.

  Finally François could sustain the onslaught no longer. He faltered in a lunge, missed his target and could not recover. Abou'ed stepped back while thrusting forward into his adversary's gut and it was all over. François' strength departed and he sank face first onto the icy floor. Abou'ed bent over his victim. He raised his sword and prepared to remove the fallen man’s head. Warrior etiquette required such tribute to a worthy opponent but the burden on his shoulder was beginning to tell. Instinct told him to get out before more warriors arrived to reinforce their fallen champion.

  “Honour to you and your ancestors,” he respectfully intoned and departed.

  “Wow.” Mariana had been glued to the screen without moving throughout the entire performance. "That was unbelievable," she said with respect. "It was so magnificently ridiculous that I can't quite believe it. Do you have it recorded?"

  Whetu said nothing. Secretly he had been barracking for François. He wanted him to win not because he liked him or because the security of the Captain was at stake. He supported François because in a very basic way they were on the same side for better or worse. Love him or hate him he wanted the home team to win.

  "It's like some lurid comic book has come to life. Is this normal male behaviour?"

  "Can't say I've ever done it," said Whetu. “But yeah I suppose it could be quite normal.” He had witnessed brutal sporting contests before. The details might be different but the ritual was the same. "Some play and others watch." He felt disappointed in François' losing performance. He'd given his best but it hadn't been good enough.

  "I better go and see to him."

  "Are you serious?"

  "When Celine gets back, send her down. He might still be alive."

  Abou'ed retraced his steps to the load/bay without encountering further opposition. Buzz and the drunk navigator were gone but he didn't want to wait around or risk going to look for them. Having observed Buzz learning to operate the craft he believed he could manage it now by himself. He would find his way home or die in the attempt. Either way was preferable to perishing in this alien place. At least he had his Layla back.

  George was still unconscious. He offered no resistance as he was stuffed into Buzz's discarded flight suit. Abou'ed clamped a helmet on his captive’s head and strapped her into the place previously occupied by von Wittering. The controls of the machine were quite basic so he had little trouble firing it up. The major problem was opening the load/bay door so they could get out. That he did not know about. As he sat punching at buttons and pulling levers to no avail he became dispirited. The door had been open when they arrived but how had it closed? He had no idea. Just when he had given up hope and was about to do something rash, lights started to flash and the door began to grind open.

  Moments later he saw why. There was another craft approaching from outside. He could see its lights shining in the distance. He pushed the stick down. The micro lurched forward graunching across the floor of the load/bay in a shuddering shower of sparks and fell out of the hatch into the void.

  49

  “Looks like one of ours except different.” Kurt and Liam were returning to the ship having completed their work. The asteroid was mined and ready for detonation. They had left the ship before Buzz’s craft had confirmed its identity so they had no knowledge of what or who was now unexpectedly departing. Subsequent radio contact with KOTUKU II had failed.

  “But we only have one,” Liam observed correctly. “Didn’t we toss the other one before we left Khadees?”

  “We gave it to Buzz. I helped him cart it away.”

  “Surely it couldn’t be.”

  “Who else?”

  "Looks like something or someone’s up on the roof."

  At last the radio in the cockpit crackled. It was Mariana. “Kurt, do you read me?”

  “Yeah, what’s going on? Who’s in micro?”

  “It’s complicated. Long story short, the Captain’s been abducted.”

  “Abducted, by who?”

  “We don’t know except that he’s in the vehicle that just went past you.”

  “Buzz abducted the Captain?”

  “Not Buzz, someone who was with him.”

  “Who’s on the roof?”

  “It’s probably François.”

  “But isn’t he in the brig?”

  “He got out.” In Whetu's absence Mariana had monitored events from the radio shack. She had followed all of it by remote control including her lover's unfortunate mercy dash to the aid of their damaged security officer.

  “But, how did he?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Just see if you can stop them or something. Get the Captain back.”

  “Right.”

  “And best be careful. He’s big and he has a sword.”

  “OK.” Kurt could not help sounding tentative.

 

  Whetu had found the cooler exactly as he had last seen it on the scanner. The door was open and François lay where he had fallen face down on the icy floor, his cheek buried in a pool of frozen blood.

  "François, mate can you hear me?" Whetu approached cautiously. He knew better than to make quick moves in the presence of men like François. But the s/o was not moving and as far as he could tell not even breathing. He bent down on one knee and gripped the man's shoulder.

  "François, mate are you OK?" He shook the s/o’s shoulder carefully. "François, can you hear me?" The next moment he had his reply. The security officer's body bunched and flexed in an explosive convulsion of movement. In one move he rolled onto his back and struck out with feet and arms. Whetu was lifted off the floor and propelled high into the misty air. He landed with a numbing thud, shattering the card table. Then François was upon him towering above, sword in hand. He seemed set to drive it through Whetu’s throat when mercifully he paused. He peered down at him through bruised eyes caked in blood and ice.

  "Fet?" he lisped uncertainly through smashed teeth. “Thhat you?”

  “Yeah.” Whetu’s eyes remained clamped shut.

  "Ya thhee where he went?"

  "Load/bay two," Whetu stuttered through clenched teeth.

  “Cheer’th.” François departed limping with all the speed he could muster, sword gripped doggedly in his shaking hand.

  Whetu gagged. His body shuddered and as he dragged himself upright he vomited on the floor. The reason for his nausea wasn’t shock or physical damage. It was François himself. In his sudden eruption from the floor he'd left most of the right side of his face frozen to the deck. His jawbone was exposed from ear to chin.

  In the corridor outside load/bay 2 François saw the warning light flashing. He pulled on a helmet from the rack beside the door and breeched the airlock. Inside the load/bay the external door was open and the modified micro was starting to move. He dived and caught hold of a tail lug as it lurched outwards in a shower of sparks.

  Already he could feel his body expanding. Sinews and veins all over his body were throbbing and s
tretching as it reacted to the change of pressure. He knew that if he didn't get inside the vehicle quickly he would explode. Desperately, painfully he began to drag himself along the roof towards the round bulge of the cockpit.

  The craft had not yet gathered speed because Abou'ed was struggling with the complexities of electro/magnetic propulsion. In his observations of Buzz he had failed to grasp that the thrust unit required a navigational objective. It could go nowhere unless it had somewhere to go. He poked and pulled and beat on every switch, toggle and lever in the cockpit but all he succeeded in doing was overload the machine’s already delicate circuitry. Smoke began to seep from the control panels as the craft's electrics began to cook. Abou'ed cursed the machine. He cursed the vindictive fate that had led him to this manifestation of hell. He cursed Layla for enslaving him in the thrall of love and he cursed his mother for giving him life. For the first time in his life he felt truly powerless. Then a final insult. The pitiful fool who had dared stand in his way had risen from defeat to taunt him anew.

  François' obscenely disfigured face leered at him upside down through the windscreen. He lifted his free hand, now swollen and bulging with veins the size of bicycle tyres and gave Ed the finger. He poked his tongue out through what remained of his lips. Abou'ed saw red. Frustration on every level of his existence boiled and fused in a single towering rage. The rock crumbled. He stood up and began to head-butt his way out of the cockpit.

 

  "Kurt do you hear me?" Mariana continued on the intercom. "You must recover the Captain." Her voice was calm and authoritative.

  "Fuck that," Liam chimed in. "Let François do it."

  Kurt ignored him. He turned the craft in a circle and began to approach the disabled micro from behind.

  "What are you doin?" Liam's voice screeched in Stark panic.

  "She’s in danger, mate. We’ve got to save her."

  "No way. Leave it to those who know." His words dried in his throat. They stared in awful fascination as Adou'ed emerged from the cockpit brandishing his snake blade.

  François was ready for him this time. With one foot hooked under a guardrail on the foredeck he braced himself and slashed down at the shoulder of the emerging warrior. Abou'ed was unused to combat in zero gravity. He tried to parry the blow but instead of his sword his entire body moved. François' blow cut through the metal fabric of his suit clean to the collarbone. Ed hit the deck and grabbed at the security/officer's leg in an attempt to topple him. François landed another powerful blow on the top of his opponent's helmet. The blow stunned Ed momentarily and cracked his helmet's protective visor. Light headed but recovering some of his composure Abou’ed rose up gripping his adversary in a fierce bear hug.

  "Who's the other rooster?"

  "Dunno. Must be the one who's abducted the Captain."

  "Holy Mother of Jesus," said Liam. "Look at them go. We should never've been so rude to François."

  "Mohammed always said he could have killed all of us any time he wanted. Fortunately it wasn't his destiny to do it."

  "He told Moe that?"

  "Apparently. Wish he’d told me." Kurt seemed disappointed at missing out on a potentially pithy philosophical debate.

  "OK, we've seen enough. Let's go."

  "We’ve got to get the Captain.”

  "We shouldn't hang about, mate." Liam was looking beyond them to the asteroid. "We should get out of here before the fucker blows." The asteroid seemed to have drifted closer to the ship.

  "How come? You said it wouldn’t be more than a fart in a sandstorm."

  "We should get the fuck out of here. Trust me."

  "Not until we rescue the Captain. We can't just leave her there."

  "Why not? What'd she ever do for you and me except humiliate us?"

  "Who's fault was that?"

  "You're beginning to sound like that fuckin head shrinker. Fuck her, fuck 'em all. Let's get the feck out've here."

  "I’m not going without the Captain."

  "Well make it quick. Go!"

  George had awakened at the sound of splintering Perspex. His body was shaken by a sudden change of pressure in the cockpit. He gazed vaguely at the absurd slow-motion pantomime unfolding before his eyes through the shattered windscreen. None of it seemed real so he couldn't take it seriously. There seemed no point. Like a drowning man he had ceased resistance, given up hope and succumbed the inevitability to his situation. Layla felt otherwise.

  "He has gone George. Now is our opportunity to escape."

  "Escape where?"

  "Out from this coffin before he returns."

  "But why?"

  "To live."

  "I don't want to live, it's easier to die. No more turmoil and confusion. Nothing, just relief from this hell."

  "You don't believe that."

  "I want peace."

  Then there were hands clutching at him, loosening the straps on his seat harness. He looked up cringing, expecting to see Abou’ed, but instead it was Kurt.

  "Come on sir, let's go." Kurt’s voice crackled inside his helmet and he felt himself dragged out of the shattered cockpit into the void.

  The gladiators were too preoccupied with their battle to notice another vehicle pull alongside. They became detached from the drifting micro, locked together in a tumbling thrashing slow-motion wrestling match, unaware they were being drawn by the superior gravity of the asteroid.

  “Was that our Security Officer?”

  “Yes sir.”

  George quickly recovered his senses in the sanctuary of his liberators' vehicle.

  “We must rescue him.”

  “Too dangerous sir,” Liam was quick to advise.

  “We can’t leave a crew member behind.”

  “The demolition is in progress sir. We have limited time to get out of the blast zone.”

  “He was trying to rescue me.”

  “Probably not sir.”

  “I order you to turn this craft around.”

  “With respect, sir.” The load bay hatch was opening and Kurt was manoeuvring the vehicle towards it. “Not a chance.”

  "He's a sick murderous bastard sir," Liam continued. "He already tried to kill us."

  “It’s true sir.”

  “As your superior officer, I…”

  "Can we discuss this at the court martial sir?” Liam suggested. "Believe me we have no time to lose."

  It was Layla who finally persuaded him. "If you try to save your crewman, Abou'ed will capture us again. We will perish at his hand."

  "Perhaps you're right," George agreed, shuddering at the memory. "Of course you're right.”

  Kurt assumed their captain was addressing him.

  "Right you are sir," he said and they sped on without deviation into the waiting mother ship.

  50

  "Hallelujah! Hallelujah!" Elation spread through François' entire being. The warriors were chanting thousand-fold and he could sense the approach of victory. This was the way it was meant to be, a consummation more magnificent than mortal imagining. Weightlessness, eternity, immortality. He was suffused with glory and a new strength fired his aching limbs.

  Abou'ed was no match for him now. Effortlessly François ripped the tribesman's helmet from his head. The metal fabric round the neck of the suit tore like paper. The desperate man gasped for air, clutching at his mouth. The triumphant s/o raised his flashing sword. He paused to watch his adversary's eyes inflate, exploding like red balloons. Then with his last burst of waning energy he brought the blade down clean through his adversary's neck.

  At the very moment that the brigand's head separated from his body the sky around them turned a bright dazzling white. Time stood still. The thousand warriors rejoiced and a choir of fearsome angels bore witness to his triumph. François was bathed in the shimmering heat of ultimate glory. He felt himself absorbed by the universe, returned to its essence. His destiny was fulfilled. He could go in peace. As his face burned
to ash there was a smile on his ravaged lips and his scream was one of victory.

  "I am here!" The sound of his voice echoed through the firmament long after his shattered body was reduced to atoms.

  It was as if polarity was suddenly reversed. The dense black of infinite night became for a moment a dazzling desert midday white. Liam grinned speechless with pride as the intense white flash from the blast burned his face with a tan he would never lose. His eyes were protected by welding goggles borrowed from Kurt. The rest of the crew had gathered on the flight deck to watch the blast on scanners but Liam had to see it with his own eyes from an observation post in the tail of the departing ship. KOTUKU II was by now more than two hundred miles away from the asteroid but still they were shaken by shock waves from the blast. Moments later a shower of debris kicked their rear end for a final hurry along home.

  "Jesus," George observed as the ship settled back to normal. "He was meant to just give it a shove." Nonetheless he was feeling a sense of relief that his ardent admirer was permanently out of play. Whatever else had happened out there between Abou’ed and the hapless s/o, Liam’s blast would have cleaned up any residual threat.

  "You think I come all this way for nuthin’?" Liam was grinning with pride as he rejoined them to a round of spontaneous applause. "Might never get another chance like it." He was thinking that in the end maybe the voyage had been worth it even with all the grief.

  A short time later Whetu called the Captain to draw his attention to an unusual signal his equipment had recorded. After recent events George was taking even the slightest irregularity seriously.

  “Sound only sir. It comes and goes. As yet I can’t pinpoint a location for it.”

  He amplified the sound and amidst the roar of radio static an alien sound emerged. It was high pitched and monotonous, repetitive but discontinuous.

  “Is it electronic, a message of some sort?” George turned his ear to the sound. “A signal from another craft or planet perhaps?”

  “It’s very weak.” Whetu continued working at filtering the wave forms trying to separate the central signal from background static. Eventually what sounded like a voice emerged, a faint shrill shriek. “Language of some sort, maybe.”

  “Sounds like an animal, a goat perhaps.”

  “I think it’s human sir. Some sort of dialect.” One final adjustment and the background noise faded enough to expose intelligible words.

  “Nothing’s gonna change my world,” a voice tunelessly intoned repeating the phrase over and over. “Nothing’s gonna change my world.”

  “Sounds mechanical, some sort of electronic loop.”

  Then something happened. There was a deafening roar of static overloading all frequencies. As the noise abated a voice could be heard shouting. “Far out man! Freakin’ awesome!”

  Whetu consulted the time signature. “That last bit coincides with the asteroid explosion.”

  “Did it sound like Julian?” George turned to Whetu with a frown. “Could it be him?”

  Whetu shrugged. “Doesn’t seem possible.”

  “Where is Julian?” George was thoughtful. “I haven’t seen him since I woke up, have I?”

  “No sir.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He’s no longer on board sir. We ah, lost him shortly after you were injured.

  “Lost him, how?”

  “He was lost while conducting a damage survey of the ship. Sucked out through a breach in the lower fuselage. We were unable to deploy a micro to get him back. We lost contact with him after five days.”

  “He was still alive?”

  “His suit was still intact, pressure stable.”

  The recorded voice began to croon tunelessly. “Images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyes.”

  “What’s he saying? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I think he might be singing sir.” Whetu was working at his computer.

  “They call me on and on across the universe.”

  “It does sound a lot like Julian, don’t you think?”

  “It is him, sir. I have confirmation of voice recognition.”

  “Can you get in touch with him?”

  “I can try, although he’d need to stop singing.”

  “Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letterbox, they tumble blindly as they make their way across the universe.”

  “How could he still be alive after all this time? Might it be some sort of relic radiation or delayed signal do you think?”

  “I’m getting a physical now, sir. It’s reading as a beacon from K2-SSSS152.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Kotuku Two Self Sustaining Survival Suit inventory number one-five-two. That’s the one the Ship’s Engineer was wearing when he disappeared. His location is posted as five hundred celestial miles direct ahead of our current position.”

  “Jai Guru Deva, Ommmmmm.” The voice of Julian went on.

  “What’s he singing?”

  “According to the archive it’s a song composed by a mid-Twentieth century composer called G. Harrison.”

  “Make preparations for retrieval.”

  Forty-five minutes later Cargo Door 2 opened once again. Kurt guided the little MMC micro out into space towards the motionlessly floating white survival suit supposedly containing the ship’s engineer. A red beacon light flashed on the helmet, signifying that the occupant still had a pulse. Liam hauled Julian, still singing into the micro with a long-handled hook. The engineer feebly resisted rescue claiming that he was happy where he was.

  “The view is wonderful. It’s quiet and I have everything I need. Please leave me alone.”

  But orders were orders. The Captain had issued a directive that the engineer would be recovered alive or dead. His painfully wasted body was unplugged and extracted from the survival suit and carried to the infirmary. Having survived solely on recycled body waste for almost a year he was in very poor condition, although feisty. He reiterated his desire to be left floating in space. He had been happy drifting in a cosmic dream until a bright flash had awakened him. He was singing himself back into the long sleep when they rescued him. But George would have none of it. Standing orders required that all equipment lost overboard be retrieved wherever possible.

  51

  Buzz was ecstatic to be on his way to Planet Earth. His companions in the sick bay were not so thrilled. Neither of them was happy about being rescued. While the ship’s engineer lay recovering in sullen silence the old navigator gave strident voice to his frustration.

  "You don't want to believe everything you read in books," von Wittering warned. "The place is not all it's cracked up to be. In my estimation it's a dump."

  But there was nothing he could say to dampen the archæologist’s enthusiasm. Buzz had learned enough from the Abridged Encyclopaedia Britannica to realise there was a lifetime of research to be done and so many places to see. The Acropolis, Mount Everest, La Tour Eiffel, Wrigley Field, not to mention the Forbidden City and the great pyramid of Cheops. Where would he begin?

  "But at least there are a few decent bars," von Wittering wistfully conceded. "If they’re still there." Bars and drinking were painful memory for him. He felt cheated at being so unfairly plucked from his oasis saloon and re-consigned to hell. Added to which his body felt oddly unstable without the familiar burn of alcohol. For the first time in more than forty years he was genuinely sober. He had discovered a fierce appetite for food and couldn't stop eating. But although his belly was full he felt terribly empty. His brain was crystal clear. Reality, so long held at bay was now vibrantly, horrifyingly present. He knew what it meant to be going home and he didn’t like it.

  Celine had taken delivery of him in very bad shape. He was exhausted dehydrated malnourished and in advanced delirium tremens. Since blasting off from the Mountains of Mahaadi he had been on a terminal bender. He was certain he would die if he set foot inside another spacecraft so since this
would be his last voyage he wanted to know nothing about it. Celine had pumped him out and replaced his blood. She had fed him through an intravenous drip until he stabilised. His normally pallid cheeks had begun to develop a little colour. He was horrified when he finally awoke and saw himself in a mirror looking almost healthy. He was now well enough to leave her care but Celine refused to release him. It was her aim to keep the old man sober and in reasonable condition until they reached home. Then he could do what he liked.

  After seven days they made landfall on Mars. This would be their only port of call before the long swing home. Whetu radioed ahead and Interplanetary Mining sent out a hulk to take off their surviving cargo - the meatheads and the few items of excavation and refining equipment that had survived the clear-out at E'Kandah.

  Buzz was the only one of their number to go ashore. He took the opportunity to visit the red planet while a team of IM engineers conducted a survey of the old Troika V to assess the feasibility of it surviving terrestrial re-entry. The ship passed with a push. Mars didn’t appeal to Buzz. The place was quite literally a dump. The air was unbreathable, heavy vehicles ceaselessly rumbled around the base stirring up clouds of red dust and everywhere the barren featureless landscape was ravaged by the mining operations. There was no architecture to admire, only drab functional barracks and towering skeletal refineries belching smoke and lurid vapour. Abandoned vehicles and excavation equipment sat disintegrating wherever they had broken down and piles of domestic garbage rose in heaps around the living quarters. He found the population of roughnecks, convict miners, hookers and administrators dull and unappealing. It confused him to reflect that this place had been created by a human race he so admired for their civilisation, their arts and sciences. That they could allow their own people to live and work in such awful conditions seemed unthinkable. The only items of any grace and beauty albeit unintentional were the multi-coloured mountains of ore and refined by-products that surrounded the base in every direction as far as the eye could see. But even these seemed artificially false and unnatural.

  Before boarding KOTUKU II his expectations of what he might find on Planet Earth might have been unrealistically naïve. He felt uneasy, hoping that Mars was not a reflection of his ultimate destination. In a matter of weeks he hoped to be standing on the sparkling shores of the fabled Mediterranean or bathing in the pure blue waters of the wide Pacific Ocean. But even as he writhed with impatience to be there the experience of Mars had stained his dreams with a dread premonition. Could it be that his quest might be in vain.

  "What will you do when you return to your home?" The inevitable question could no longer be avoided. "Do you plan to restore your former body?" George did not want to discuss it but Layla persisted. "You are thinking you can have your remains rejuvenated by replacing damaged parts with cultured organs. Then you would have your brain removed from my head and put back inside your own.” George remained silent, but - “I know what you are thinking."

  "It may never happen,” he eventually offered. “It probably wouldn’t work anyway."

  “It’s what you want.”

  George said nothing, tried to think nothing.

  "What will become of me? Will you discard me like a garment you have no further use of?”

  “I would never do that.”

  “Then what?” No reply. “Without you I will die.”

  George had tried not to give voice to his thoughts but Layla had found him out. He didn't know how to answer honestly without precipitating civil war. He suspected her motive was self-preservation, an attempt to subvert his brain and reshape his thinking in favour of her welfare. It was emotional manipulation and yet he recognised a viable instinct even though it might be at odds with his own needs. But how could he remain the way he was after he returned to Earth? What would his mother say?

  "What does it matter what your mother thinks?”

  He didn’t, couldn’t reply. Their relationship had grown so close but now conflict was driving them apart. He felt conflicted and sad.

  “Why won’t you talk to me?” she pleaded.

  In the radio shack Whetu tore a sheet from the printer and handed it to Mariana.

  “I know what you are thinking,” she began to read aloud. “It may never happen. It probably wouldn’t work anyway. It’s what you want. What will become of me? Will you discard me like a garment you have no further use of? I would never do that. Then what? Without you I will die.”

  “Sounds like trouble.” Whetu dryly observed.

  “You realise what this means?” Mariana was still processing her discovery.

  “They’re arguing about their future.”

  “No, this is going to blow the lid off modern psychology as we know it. This is proof that the body had a mind of its own.”

  “How come?”

  “We have recorded two distinct sides of a silent conversation between mind and body within one living organism, aka our captain.”

  Whetu nodded. The subtleties where clearly beyond him.

  “It could be the answer to schizophrenia, dissociative identity disorder.”

  "What about Layla? She's got a point.” Whetu was re-reading the transcript pages. "What happens to her if he reboots his former body?"

  "I suppose." Mariana replied vaguely.

  "I mean," Whetu continued. “She's trapped. She has no power. It's not fair."

  "Well we can't intervene, we have no right to. Besides it's difficult enough for them without us butting in and taking sides."

  "That's just justification for avoiding responsibility."

  "What are you saying?"

  "For Christ's sake we can't just let him kill her! It’s murder! I can't believe you're being so fucking callous. All for your precious experiment."

  Mariana was stunned. Whetu had never spoken to her like this before.

  "And what’s the point of it? Do we really need to know?"

  As Planet Earth hove into view and they came in range of home base Mohammed asked Whetu to put a personal call through on the radio. Turangi tracked down Mohammed's elder brother Hakim and connected them via phone booth at the docks in Mumbai. Once the greetings were complete Mohammed asked his brother if the dhow they wanted was still for sale.

  "It is still here, little brother."

  "For the price we agreed?"

  "We can get it for less."

  "Then do it. I have the cash."

  "When will you return?"

  "I will be with you in two weeks. And she will have a new name."

  "I will arrange the ceremony and a feast."

  The rest of Mohammed's family were gathered outside the phone booth listening to Hakim's side of the conversation.

  "What will her name be, they want to know?" he asked his distant brother. He had never heard such a name before and had trouble pronouncing it until Mohammed spelled for him. Hakim nodded as he wrote down the letters.

  "Saalo," he said, and Mohammed's mother and his sisters repeated the name laughing at the sound of it. They sent him their kisses and began planning a welcome celebration.