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Ficlet Archive Sptember 2015 part two
- 04 Oct 2026
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On a drab, backwater planet, in a city destroyed by numbers, a line of people shuffled slowly through the gloom of a cold early dawn. Men, women and children in ranks of four, feet slipping on the icy ground, slid and stumbled towards a goal still out of sight, whilst behind them the line disappeared into the mists hiding the numbers still waiting to emerge. There were no guards, not here, not yet, but they all knew that would change when they got closer: then the guards would be very visible indeed, and very necessary for everyone’s sake.
Towards the front of the line there was a woman, someone whose bearing and demeanour marked her out as one used to command even if there was nothing for her to lead any longer. She was slim, and not with the gaunt lack of mass that came with the ever-present hunger, straight and with a hint of steel, of strength about her, that marked her out from many of the others in this line. The people around her kept a respectful distance held back by something in her face, the look in her eyes, maybe even her self possession in the face of current reality. While others betrayed a desperation that exposed how their lives depended upon reaching their destination she seemed to stroll, even as her skirts became wet and the mist layered her hair to her face. They were aware of her as they moved forward towards the food station, even though they did not look at her, yet she seemed unaware of them.
She was unaware of them.
Servalan had followed this path for the last three planetary weeks, since the time she had realised that help was not coming and that the last supplies were probably best kept for when other sources were not available. That she had to join this line of refugees to provide for her needs was an unfortunate necessity but not one she was going to trouble herself about while she had more important things to worry about, such as who she was going to persuade to repair or replace her stricken ship, and how.
As she walked towards the only source of the necessities of life she mused on how quickly things could change. A year ago the Federation was expanding as result of its pacification drugs, now there were more antidotes than the drugs themselves. Six months ago she had been sure that Zukan would give her Orac, but Avon had turned the tables on her.
Avon. Three months ago there had been the debacle of Gauda Prime and Avon had vanished taking Orac, and the fall of her world had become inevitable. She hoped whoever sowed the seeds of that had choked on its fruit. Now Federation citizens who had commanded worlds walked in lines like this one, her ship was lost and she could see no way of tracing the one man who might avoid this bitter harvest.
ELLEN YORK -
Vila didn't know much about caring for plants, so it was fortunate that herbs were hard to kill. Gan had always said that they grew like weeds, whatever a weed was. After some trial and error (and the loss of the basil), Vila determined that eight hours a day under the grow lights and watering them every other day would keep the plants healthy. The herbs provided by the small garden were a welcome addition to meals prepared in the Liberator kitchen. But more importantly, caring for the garden was a way to keep alive the memory of his friend.
PURPLECLERIC -
Telma loved her job.
She bustled into the lab every morning, a wiry woman with a chaotic crown of grey curls. Her movements were as quick and brisk as her manner; life was just too full of potential to waste time on pleasantries. Her staff were accustomed to her ways and kept small talk to a minimum. Jayden presented her with the datapad and the briefest of nods. He got down to business.
“A fresh batch last night, ma’am. Looks promising...”
Telma didn’t bother to reply, she was already heading to the storage bay. She faltered briefly against the blast of icy air as the door opened and her eyes squinted against the harsh blue-tinged light. After donning a mask and pulling on gloves, she grabbed a probe and opened the first bio-container.
With disappointment Telma slammed the lid closed again. Just another trooper. She hoped Jayden hadn’t been misleading her. Troopers were good stock material but couldn’t be described as ‘promising’. Her irritation grew as the next container revealed another generic grunt. Gritting her teeth, she moved onto to the third. Ah! Now this was much more like it...
She scrutinised the body, ignoring the strong musculature, heavy features and dark curly hair but noting the fresh destruction of the abdominal area and the old facial injuries. In times past, that would have been a tragedy: precious organs rendered useless. Still, the butchers would have some material to work with. She, however, was interested in things more subtle than gross anatomy. She inserted the probe, incised a small amount of tissue and fed it into the analyser. While the machine hummed and data scrolled across its screen she moved onto the next container.
Promising, indeed! Another male with a body that appeared intact but she was aware of the internal damage that blasters wreaked. The features were fine and sculptured and Telma raised an eyebrow in appreciation. Looks could be deceiving but if the genetic material proved useless for her project, at least the finished result could present a pleasing appearance. She thrust in the probe and drew out a further sample.
The day progressed quickly. Jayden had been correct. Four males and two females, one even with rare dark skin. The butchers would be pleased – it was difficult to find matches for that genetic combination. Telma was pleased as well. She reviewed the analysis, for once still as she contemplated the results, her eyes alighting on the key findings. There was a wealth of genetic variance here, free from the influences of drug suppression and indoctrination. Her predecessors had perfected the ability to create offspring with tailored physical appearance and attributes but her life’s work had been in identifying the chromosome combinations that led to personality.
With today’s bountiful harvest, oh what children she could create!
@thepurplecleric
BRADPAULA
Cally frowned and rubbed her temples. There was that sound again but a quick glance around the flight deck at her crew mates revealed she was the only one who could hear it.
Jenna stood at the helm of Liberator, a study in deep concentration, piloting the huge ship with ease. Blake sat on the flight deck couch, gazing at the star map Zen had provided on the front screen. They seemed not to have heard the noise which assaulted Cally's ears. Avon was off duty and probably in his cabin trying to sleep. She doubted it was him making the pesky noise! And Vila- he sat awkwardly in the flight chair at his console snoring softly. No, it wasn't Vila or his snoring. This was a higher-pitched sort of sing-song sound. It seemed to be originating from somewhere on the ship, but where? She excused herself from the flight deck and went on a search.
She wound up in the corridor where the crew cabins were situated. The sound seemed to be issuing from around there. A few steps more and she was standing at the door of her cabin. My cabin? she wondered, a bit surprised. She entered and the sound suddenly crescendoed as if a song was ending: then all was silent. Having lived in that cabin for what seemed like years now, she knew there could only be one source of the sound. Her Moon Disc. She had taken a small Disc up to the Liberator with her after they had been on the Shadow planet, but she'd never heard it 'sing' before. She walked over to the tank she kept the thing in and gasped with wonder. It had reproduced itself five fold. Where once there had been a fist-sized Disc on its own, there were now six, albeit it one larger one and five tiny ones - but unmistakable - they were exact replica's of the 'mother', if she dared use the term. She got the mental impression that the larger Disc somehow wanted to be called Dorothy. That was strange.
She knew that while in a trance on the Shadow planet, the Discs had kept her sane by talking to her and making her not feel alone, but what passed for a language was only a series of tones to her ears. This was different. She was sure she had heard actual articulated words in the 'song'. Absentmindedly, she put some fresh greenery into the tank for their food. They seemed to like the fresh greens the best. She smiled to herself; at least she would never be alone again with her little 'pets'. She exited the cabin and returned to the flight deck.
In the last corridor before the flight deck she 'heard' the sound again, only this time it seemed, in three-part harmony! It was an alien song to her ears, but pleasant none the less. She guessed she'd have to get used to the sound that only she could hear and try and compartmentalize it in a seldom used part of her mind. She climbed the steps to her console and everything again was as it should be- save for Cally's enigmatic smile, listening to the 'song' in her head- for her alone to enjoy.
Ever so softly she followed the music and words... 'We represent the Lollipop guild, the Lollipop guild, the Lollipop guild. We represent the Lollipop guild, and we'd like to welcome you to Munchkinland'...... over and over and over.....
ANNIE -
The right material for the job. That's what he looked out for. Some of them barely lasted a week. Lacking fortitude they quickly descended into melancholia. Others endured but without any sparkle, dour and bereft of understanding or imagination. It was a fine balance and difficult to predict and he was sometimes surprised. A veteran had cracked within a fortnight while an inexperienced girl had hung on for several months, cursing him as robustly on the day she died as she had on her arrival.
It amused him to think of himself as a farmer of souls, a gatherer of life energy that he then fed to his monstrous alter ego. Did the energies taste different , he wondered? Did the flavour taint horribly as the will decayed?
He turned away from his computer screen and the sullen, rather beautiful, dark-eyed face that filled it.
Yes that one and his companions looked suitable. They were survivors and it was reasonable to expect them to last a long time.
It was time to go harvesting.
ANNIE -
Cally frowned and rubbed her temples. There was that sound again but a quick glance around the flight deck at her crew mates revealed she was the only one who could hear it. Tarrant absorbed in Zen's controls, Dayna polishing a weapon and Vila nose- deep in a cocktail seemed undisturbed, even relaxed. Avon was missing, of course, recovering in his room. Five days of torture at the hands of Federation thugs were not to be taken lightly by anybody and, although she would not have dared to make a point of it, Avon was not getting any younger. Nor, she reflected ruefully, was she.
The noise fluttered at her temples again like a maddening fly. She debated whether to mention anything to the others but she knew what their reaction would be. They would suspect another alien possession and react accordingly, with distrust and panic. She couldn't face their hostility. Anyway this was nothing like possession. It was familiar, almost known, a repetitive whisper mingled with a rhythmic rustle, like the soft clatter of scales on a lizard as they rubbed together or the shuffle of dead leaves on gravel disturbed on a breath of wind. It went on and on, troubling her thoughts and depressing her spirits.
It was only on the way to sick bay to seek out a prescription dose of Soma to help her block out the sound: she realised that what she was hearing was a telepathic ghost. Someone was sending, inexpertly and uncontrolled, and she was catching a shadow of the communication. No - not someone: Avon was sending and as she neared his room the rustle in her mind intensified. The sound, mere noise before, now sharpened into recognisable words. Over and over, the same words, hoarsely uttered, 'Domine, miserere mei, quoniam peccavi.' And after each utterance that soft rhythmic swishing clatter- a hissing intake of breath. The words meant nothing to her- she did not even understand the language they were in - but the emotion accompanying them was easy to identify. A mixture of guilt and despair. And the way they were spoken gave a ritual aspect to them. Avon seemed almost to be petitioning someone. Asking for forgiveness. Absolving himself through pain.
Like a ringing bell, Avon's words created a resonance in her own feelings and guilt vibrated through her as she recalled again her last sight of Zelda, registered again that her clone siblings had all died, that almost everyone she knew on Auron had died. That she was alone.
Five days of torture. Five days before Avon's robust rationality began to function again and his sending stopped. Five days before the knock disturbed her self-imposed isolation as she struggled to control the avalanche of despair that had overwhelmed her.
"What is it?"
" Well it looks like a door. And it's closed."
ANNIE -
(I see this story as a harvest/complete the dialogue amalgam.)
Cally frowned and rubbed her temples. There was that sound again but a quick glance around the flight deck at her crew mates revealed she was the only one who could hear it. It made her shiver.
She rubbed her temples again. She could hear words now. 'Blood, blood, blood,' reverberated in her mind. She shivered again. Something brutal was abroad, something that fed on others in order to survive. Alien. Different. The realisation made her scalp creep.
A scream broke into her mesmerised horror and she looked towards its source, alarmed to see that Jenna had been possessed and was contorting her body frantically, raking her long hair with her finger nails. Blake and Vila seemed similarly affected. Avon was clearly using every inch of his formidable self-control to resist, his hands clenching and unclenching spasmodically. Her own reason deserted her as she too was inflicted, the chorus of 'Blood, blood, blood rising in crescendo: raw, irritating pain erupting in her head, maddening her. Whatever these aliens were they were pitiless, voracious.
Dimly, she saw Avon bury his head in his hands and then begin, voluptuously, to scratch.
"What is it," Jenna cried out, clawing at her head, her face contorted with frustration, "Why won't it stop? "
"I'm going mad," whined Vila.
"Blame Blake," bellowed Avon. He was dragging a probe through through his hair, sighing with relief as it scraped along his scalp.
" Avon," Blake pleaded, vigorously scratching, "How can this possibly be my fault? "
" Because you can't just meet a philosophical flea, can you, you idiot? Oh no. Our Fearless Leader has to liberate her children."
" What do you mean? For God's sake, Avon, for once in you life stop trying to get one over on me and explain."
Enlightenment dawned on Cally and she stepped in to calm the maddened man before he inflicted damage.
" I'm afraid," she said, laying a soothing hand on Blake's clenched fist, " He means that since your trip to the Host, Liberator is no longer a parasite- free zone."
"Unless you count Vila," Avon interjected. Quelling him with one of her frowns, Cally persisted,
"But don't worry, my people have a saying..." Ignoring the groans that erupted from her companions in affliction she continued serenely, "He who hosts another will never die alone."
"I imagine baldness is cherished on your planet," Avon remarked dryly, "Now if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment with some nit spray."
LURENA - >
Cally frowned and rubbed her temples. There was that sound again but a quick glance around the flight deck at her crewmates revealed she was the only one who could hear it.
Blake, Gan and Jenna were busy with their tasks and controls at their flight consoles, while Avon was busy developing his new idea for some kind of protection shield.
Vila was missing.
He had insisted that he needed to have a rest in his cabin.
There was that sound again, a vibration that cut to the bone.
Cally bit her lip. Did she have to warn the others?
Hesitantly, she stepped down from her station and walked to the forward couches.
The sound suddenly stopped.
She concentrated, but that sound was definitely gone.
Only the humming of Liberator’s engines was audible.
Jenna looked up for a moment, but then continued with her work.
Now that the sound was gone, there was no reason to bother her crewmates, so Cally decided to continue the work at her console. However, once seated, the sound reached her again. It seemed to come from one of the hexagonal holes to her left.
‘No’, Cally thought with relief, ‘This is not telepathy, it is resonance!’
Now she decided to ask the others.
“Come over here, and listen. Do you hear that?”
From the hole a soft, but horrible screech and squeal was clearly audible to everyone.
“Vila”, Avon muttered, “…where’s Vila?”
Together they made their way into the corridor towards Vila’s cabin.
The sound grew louder now and the horrendous noise was coming right through Vila’s cabin door. Without knocking they barged inside.
“What!!!” A somewhat startled Vila looked up from the strange instrument he clutched under his chin. In his right hand he held a long, stringed stick.
i903.photobucket.com/albums/ac236/neoantares/drawings%20and%20things/Vilaviolin.jpg
“We … we thought that you were in distress,” Cally explained, “But it seems that you defended yourself nicely.”
All their horrified eyes were focused on the strange implement.
“Huh...Defend? I’m trying to get some ancient music out of this instrument from Sarkoff's collection ... I ... well, everyone should have a hobby.” ...’
“What is it?” Gan asked, perplexed.
“It’s called a violin,” Vila helpfully informed him.
“A table, a chair, a glass of soma and a violin. What else does a man need to be happy?” Avon smiled, remembering the words of a famous scientist from long ago in the old calendar.
“From President Sarkoff’s collection? How?” Jenna asked.
“Well, Cally had told me so much about the interesting and valuable items. And I am still a thief, you know…so I decided to go and see his old place. Orac, well he did the honours, seeing as you were all sleeping.”
“Hmm….well, that’s all right,” Blake acceded, “Look, I’m sorry we disturbed you, Vila, but may I suggest that you find a nice, quiet place to practice…in the hold, for instance?”
“How did you know it was Vila?” Blake asked Avon, as they walked back to the flight deck.
“Hobbies,” Avon sighed, “Apparently, I have a few hobbies too.”
***
HUGBOT -
Cally frowned and rubbed her temples. There was that sound again but a quick glance around the flight deck at her crew mates revealed she was the only one who could hear it.
'Not again!' she thought, but then she realised that it was not the forerunner of another psychic attack but actually a physical sound – audible only to her Auronar ears. She tried to locate the source of the sound. It came from ... the entrance to the flight deck on the left-hand side? Yes, that was the direction.
Since Blake’s departure, discipline aboard the Liberator was on the downslide. With no more than a casual remark to Tarrant, Cally left her station and the flight deck. In the corridor, she listened again. Here, the sound was much more distinctive. It came from the right, from the dead end of the corridor. There was no reason why the corridor should lead several yards forward without any other entrance, but they had never really thought about this peculiar piece of architecture. After all, the Liberator was ‘conceptually alien’.
Now Cally could see that the corridor was not a dead end at all. There was a regular crack along the right edge of the hexagonal front wall. Bright light emerged through the crevice – and the strange high-pitched sound that no human ear could hear.
It would have been wiser to go back and inform the others, but for some reason Cally was convinced that she had to investigate this mystery for herself. Quietly she tiptoed to the front wall. Now she could see that it was actually a huge door. Something must have unlocked it, maybe one of the hits that the Liberator had received during the last battle. Cally tried to move the door sideways. It slid smoothly to the left.
Behind the door lay a hexagonal room crammed with strange machinery. Computer racks towered along the walls, and crystal devices hung from the ceiling, buzzing with inaudible noise. In the middle of the room, six long containers stood on a dais, arranged in a star-shaped pattern. A web of glass fibre cables connected them to the ceiling. Cally shuddered. The containers reminded her of coffins.
When she drew nearer she realised that they were coffins.
The lids of the containers were transparent so that she could see the occupants. Two children, two adults in their prime, two old-aged people, one female and one male each. Probes penetrated their skulls and connected to the cables that went up to the ceiling.
The old woman was definitely dead, her body mummified. The others – ? The containers were obviously no cryogenic units. There was no sign of any life support. The bodies were not kept alive but only preserved. Nonetheless Cally could sense ... something. She could feel souls breathing.
Four of the five unscathed specimens looked as if they were sleeping peacefully. The fifth one however, the adult male, seemed to smirk, and his eyes were open, staring into infinity. Cally leaned over his coffin, examining him carefully, when suddenly the expression in his eyes changed. For a split second he looked at her, directly and consciously.
Cally startled and backed away. Now she knew.
Of course he was not Zen. They all were Zen. The computers and data banks allowed Zen to calculate, to reason, to deduce and to infer. The six were sleeping, perchance dreaming, and in these dreams they lent him the memories of their souls and their emotions. They gave him the innocence and curiosity of youth, the cunning and experience of adults and the composure and wisdom of the elderly.
The ultimate death of the old woman had unsettled the balance. The memories of the dominant male had gained influence. While they had been alive, the others had firmly believed in the laws of the System. They still only served. But this man had been a rebel. The part of Zen that was him had used the self-defense mechanism to drive off the legitimate crew. He had freed himself and given the ship to people of his liking: rebels like him.
Back in the corridor, Cally slid the door to the right until it locked in place. The crack was gone. No light emerged from the hidden room, and no sound either. She never told the others what she had seen. At least they should have the chance to rest peacefully at night instead of wondering who was watching their sleep.
PURPLECLERIC -
Cally frowned and rubbed her temples. There was that sound again but a quick glance around the flight deck at her crew mates revealed she was the only one who could hear it. Tiredness, it was just tiredness. They’d been at their stations for hours trying to navigate their way through the combined danger of an asteroid field and frequent Federation patrols.
The humming continued.
At first she’d barely been aware of it. She’d banged the console a couple of times, thinking that a loose connection was vibrating. It prompted a snarky remark from Avon about percussive maintenance being the common approach of the ignorant.
Now that she’d noticed the humming, it was proving difficult to ignore.
Cally adjusted the headphones and fiddled with the settings. She was monitoring the communications between pursuit ships, trying to glean any information that would help the Liberator crew find a safe route. In the background, behind the call signs and coded exchanges, she could hear the hum.
"Zen, scan these channels. Look for interference, maybe from a large metallic mass or an energy field."
"Problem, Cally?"
Blake moved over to her station and studied the instruments. Cally switched the channel from headphones to the speakers and various crackly voices could now be heard.
"There. Do you hear it?"
Blake listened for a moment then shook his head.
"‘Maybe you've got a defective headset."
Zen provided confirmation.
++ No interference detected. ++
The proximity alarm sounded, drowning out the humming temporarily but it didn't hide Jenna’s muttered comment,
“Defective head, more like.”
Her words lingered in Cally’s mind as she flopped onto her bunk, exhausted but too distracted by the humming to sleep. It would be easier to ignore if it was just a monotonous tone but there were patterns of pitch and volume that were almost...speech? Song? Like skittish insects, the harder Cally tried to pin down the content the more elusive it became.
Cally lay in the dark, listening. Hoping it was a mind companion to share the loneliness of exile. Fearing an unscrupulous manipulator who would prey on her needs. Dreaming of communion. Dreading madness.
All the while, the humming provided a soundtrack to her thoughts.
The morning sounds of the usual light-hearted debate into what constituted a proper breakfast greeted Cally. She reeled against the onslaught of noise and decided to give the meal a miss. Instead she grabbed Orac and headed for the medical bay. She needed answers.
Orac made the usual protests about trivial matters but finally relented. It ran various scans, interrogated her extensively on the phenomenon and then fell silent, apart from its usual soft buzzing noise, as it analysed the data. As she waited, Cally’s fingers tapped out a rhythm on the counter. She had just realised that her fingers were moving in time to the humming when Orac delivered its diagnosis.
"Tinnitus."
"Tinnitus?"
"‘The term given to hearing sounds from within the body rather than from an outside source. It is rarely a sign of-"
Cally removed Orac’s key, cutting him off mid-explanation. Her face took on a thoughtful expression as she turned the key over in her hands.
"Hmm, tinnitus. So the noise is mine." Her hands stilled and a smile slowly spread across her face, "Then it can be anything I want it to be."
@thepurplecleric
HUGBOT -
Cally frowned and rubbed her temples. There was that sound again but a quick glance around the flight deck at her crew mates revealed she was the only one who could hear it. When the sound appeared again, she was finally able to pinpoint the source: It came from the headset that she had carelessly placed on her console. Curiously, she donned the headset again. Now she realised that what she was hearing was not a uniform noise but a complex, rhythmic structure of well modulated sounds. She fiddled with the controls to improve the reception quality. When the sound got clearer, she could even hear voices – a choir of children singing. But the words were not those of a song for children:
‘... we don’t need no thought control ...’
"Avon?" she asked. A second later he was at her station, looking inquiringly,
"What is it?"
"What do make of this?" She handed him the headset.
Avon put on he headset and listened. There was no longer a children’s choir, but a coarse voice:
‘... we’re on the eve of destruction ...’
For a moment he was puzzled. This was definitely not the stupefying background noise that passed for music in the Federation. Then he suddenly began to smile.
"Pirates", he explained, "You’ve picked up the transmission of a pirate radio station. They are probably somewhere on a spaceship, hacking into the Federation’s communication satellites."
He pressed a button to put out the sound via the tannoy. A wave of engaging music swept through the flight deck:
‘... oh dear prime minister, it’s all such a mess ...’
"I’ve never heard something like this before", Cally said.
"Of course not. The Federation has forbidden all sorts of critical music. These pirates have to resort to very old recordings. They are revolutionaries. Maybe their way of fighting the system is better than Blake’s zealous antics."
"Turn up the volume," he requested, smiling encouragingly at Cally, "We have friends out there."
TRAVISINA -
Across the land the citizens came, from their farms and workshops, from their breweries, bakeries and vineyards. Some carried baskets overflowing with fruit and vegetables, eggs and cheese, loaves of bread and sweet cakes. Others pulled wagons laden with barrels of cider and casks of wine; bolts of shimmering cloth, stacks of painted pottery and and intricately carved furniture. Dressed in their finest clothes, the farmers and townspeople made their way to the market square where land vehicles and flyers waited to transport their goods to the capital. Today was Tithing Day, when the citizens of Obsidian brought the best of their harvest to pay tribute to the man who kept them safe. At noon, the smiling face of their First Citizen would appear on tall vis-screens set up around the square. He would thank his people for their generous gifts and remind them of their good fortune – as if they needed reminding. They knew how lucky they were, safe from the maelstrom of war and oppression that swirled through the galaxy, leaving them untouched.
The weather was fair, the sun high in the clear blue sky. The only clouds on the horizon were those that constantly shrouded the distant mountain. Sometimes these were lit from underneath in shades of red and gold, but the farmers paid them less attention than the clouds that brought the rain. The mountain simmers, but never boils over, the saying went. The volcano was no threat; on the contrary, it shielded them from harm, and some of the older farmers paid it a silent homage while praising aloud the protection they received from their First Citizen.
The market square was crowded as Dori and Shalva arrived with their baskets of lavender. Their neighbour Mira was already there, stacking boxes of roses on to the nearest truck. They exchanged greetings and Mira admired their wares. Both farms specialised in flowers, but there was no rivalry between them. No fences separated neighbour from neighbour; there was no conflict or competition on this peaceful world.
"Citizens of Obsidian!"
Silence fell, as the people turned expectantly to face the vis-screens. Today the First Citizen was not smiling. His expression was sombre.
"Citizens of Obsidian!" he repeated, "We are under attack. We do not intend to give in. We will honor our Sacred Vow."
The people turned to each other with expressions of bewilderment. They knew the Sacred Vow; they had learned it as children, it was recited every day at school. But many things were recited at school, and the words of the Sacred Vow were less relevant to their lives than the alphabet and multiplication tables. They had learned the words by rote, but never truly believed their meaning. The silence in the square was broken by a small child wailing,
"No! I don't want to die! Mummy, Daddy, I don't want to die!" He was hushed by his mother.
"It is better to die than to live as slaves," she said, but she too was weeping.
There was a distant rumble, then a roar that shook and cracked the ground. Dori and Shalva clutched each other in tight embrace. She turned her face into his shoulder and closed her eyes, but he kept his fixed on the distant mountain. He saw great jets of liquid fire spew into the air, then dark clouds rolling towards them, blotting out the sun. The air was burning, the acrid smell of sulfur mingling incongruously with the scent of scorched lavender and roses. Dori and Shalva sank to their knees, surrounded by spilled flowers. The sky grew red, then a blinding white blast incinerated the surface of the planet, turning the once-peaceful world to fire and ash.
***
LITTLESUE -
His decision to join in the game had prompted much surprise; least of all from him. But Avon felt that he needed something to take his mind off their last foray in search of Blake.
And so, he found himself seated on one of the forward couches about to play another game of Galactic Monopoly.
It was a simple enough game, by anyone’s standards, but as it progressed Avon found his thoughts returning to past events in his life; his negotiations with the visa man; his seemingly innocuous relationship with Anna…
…The dangerous game he had played then and the one he was playing now.
All about wealth…and the acquisition of it.
This sudden awareness somehow made him reach into his mind; his memories. Each destination on the board seemed to revive those memories; ones that he had tried so hard to lock away.
“Concentrate, Avon, or you could lose everything…”
Was that Anna speaking or Blake?
He tried to clear his mind…
…but it returned to that moment when he was alone on board the Liberator and he had almost given in to his deepest, dearest desire…to take the Liberator for himself and leave the others behind.
The Liberator…
A powerful ship with unimaginable wealth; everything could have been his for the taking. But Blake had stepped into the equation.
Another ‘throw’ of the dice.
Another memory…
…If only he had been more persuasive with Jenna.
He could have left Blake on Cygnus Alpha and had no regrets. At least he would have been free of HIM; free of the impact that the man had had upon his life.
Blake who had the unerring talent for putting all the crew in danger; Blake, the idealist, who had introduced so many new enemies into Avon’s life.
‘You really do hate me, don’t you?’ Blake’s unanswered question echoed in his mind.
Avon smiled inwardly. Had he really never been involved with Blake’s dream? And as for caring?
Well, he had never really understood the need to show that…no need at all.
“Your move, Avon,” Dayna said.
Damn this game.
Why had he agreed to join in when all it did was harvest his mind for painful memories and throw them back at him?
“Avon, if you’re not careful, you’ll lose it all…”
Cally.
Her voice reaching into his rambling thoughts.
That pulled him back from the abyss; from a dark place where he had felt an overwhelming need to put an end to this torment and shoot…
“I don’t think so,” Avon heard himself say.
The ‘dice’ were ‘thrown’…
“I win, I believe,” he declared.
“What?” Vila said staring at the board in disbelief, “How? You were miles away.”
“But obviously not far enough,” Dayna countered.
“This reverie, Avon, did it include us?” Tarrant asked.
“Unfortunately…”
“This daydream...did it yield anything?” Cally was staring at him.
“It yielded a harvest of memories…”
“Any that you would like to share?”
“Of course not,” Tarrant said, “Anyway, none that he would like us to be party to. Besides, he wouldn’t go far, he has too much to lose. Don’t you, Avon?”
“Perhaps,” Avon replied, casually counting his winnings, “But don’t bank on it.”
i425.photobucket.com/albums/pp337/smallwondersue/dont%20bank%20on%20it_zps86cwr0oq.jpg
TREVOR TRAVIS -
“Orac, what are these?” Avon pointed to contents of the box they had found on the planet.
“I believe they contain music, Avon. They are vinyl records.”
“Vinyl records?”
“A gramophone record or vinyl record, commonly known as a record, is an analog sound storage medium in the form of a flat polyvinyl chloride (previously shellac) disc with an inscribed, modulated spiral groove. The groove usually starts near the periphery and ends near the center of the disc. Phonograph records are generally described by their diameter in inches - twelve, ten or seven, the rotational speed in revolutions per minute - rpm - at which they are played, sixteen and and two thirds; thirty-three and one third; forty-five; seventy-eight, and their time capacity resulting from a combination of those parameters, 'LP' denoting 'long playing, at thirty-three and one third rpm, 'SP' short playing, at seventy-eight rpm, 'EP' meaning the twelve-inch single or extended play, at thirty-three or forty-five rpm, their reproductive quality or level of fidelity such as high-fidelity, orthophonic, full-range, and so on, and the number of audio channels provided: mono, stereo, quadrophonic and so on. Furthermore…”
“OK, Orac that’s enough detail. Sometimes I wonder if you just nick all your information from Space Wikipedia. My question is: can you obtain the sounds from them? Start with this one – I’m intrigued by the prism design on its front.”
“Of course I can, but it’s a gross misuse of my considerable capabilities…”
“Just do it, Orac.”
Avon sat back as the music started to play through Orac. He had never heard anything like it. It wasn’t like the jazz stuff that Cally sometimes listened to. This was something entirely different. Avon closed his eyes as he lay down on his bunk, and he was transported somewhere else for around forty minutes. It was wonderful – it had a sonic quality to it. Plus lyrics which touched his very soul.
Finally, the record stopped playing through Orac.
“I hope I can go back to my researches now”, said the supercomputer grumpily.
“No, you can’t, I want to hear to what’s on this one – the one with the burning man on the front.”
“Very well,” Orac sighed.
“And then the one with all the bricks on the cover. And why has that one got a cow on it? That looks intriguing too.”
Orac suspected it was going to be a long evening.
****
Avon would often use Orac to listen to this box of records, during late evenings in his cabin on the Liberator. Harvest Records. The record label for the legendary sounds of Avon’s favourite group of musical composers.
He was sure he would lose his sanity if ever he was parted from this precious music...
TRAVISINA -
Cally frowned and rubbed her temples. There was that sound again, but a quick glance at her crew mates revealed she was the only one who could hear it.
Oh no, she thought. Not again. Not now.
This was the way it always started; with a sound that only she could hear. Sometimes it was a low tone, sometimes a sustained musical note. Most often, it was a whispering voice; a sussuration of indistinct words in basic Terran or the formal language of Auron. And then, quite suddenly, Cally would be somewhere else with no recollection of how she got there. Sometimes she found herself alone, other times confronted by her companions, their expressions a mixture of pity, irritation and curiousity – even suspicion. Later, she would have to fill the blanks in her memory with their reports of what she had said and done, and some of her deeds horrified her. It was at these times that she felt most alone: the alien among her human crew mates.
After one such incident, Vila had once made a clumsy attempt at sympathy, telling her he understood what it felt like to wake up in an unknown location with no knowledge of how he got there. Cally brushed him off,
"There's a difference, Vila. Your memory loss on Space City was self-inflicted. And by the way, you still owe me a necklace of your teeth." Vila had turned pale, and fled.
Cally's blackouts had never happened before she came on board the Liberator. Something on the ship must have triggered them, and the incidents became more frequent after the Liberator was damaged in the Galactic War. But although the ship was gone and they were now stranded on Terminal, there was that sound again; the whispers that presaged another incident. Once again, she might unintentionally endanger herself and her crew mates. Cally shook her head. This mustn't happen, their survival was at stake and, as Tarrant put it, there was much to do.
It had snowed overnight. When the skies cleared, Avon and Dayna had gone out to investigate the ship that Servalan had left for them. Tarrant was sulking after another bitter row in which he first blamed Avon for their predicament and then complained when Avon chose Dayna to accompany him outside.
"A ship's no good without a pilot," Tarrant had grumbled, but agreed that it probably wasn't wise for him and Avon to be alone together at the moment.
The whispers in her head growing stronger: time was short. Cally had to decide quickly whether to stay in the central chamber with Tarrant and Vila, or to isolate herself. She edged closer to the door and glanced back at the two men. Tarrant was working on a communications array, while Vila was assembling items he could adapt to use as tools.
"I feel naked without my toolkit," he'd said earlier. Dayna had shuddered theatrically,
"Please! That's not an image I want inside my head."
An image inside my head...
Cally suddenly understood what she was hearing, and nearly laughed out loud as the whispers resolved into a familiar voice - Blake's voice. From her position near the door, she was picking up soft echoes carried along the corridor, inaudible to her crewmates on the other side of the chamber. The sound must be emanating from the voice simulator in the lab where Avon had been given his drug-induced vision of Blake. All she had to do was switch it off.
"Where are you going, Cally?" Vila looked up as she headed out of the door.
"I just want to check on something in the lab."
"Well, if you find anything to drink, you'll let me know, won't you?"
***