Paws and Planets (9 page)

The convoy
consisted of six transport ships and contained over fifty-thousand
people, all wishing to leave a troubled Earth whose ecology was
disintegrating year by year.

In the
twenty-first and twenty-second centuries, great strides had been
made to repair the ecological damage made by nineteenth and
twentieth century industrialisation and by increasing population
demands. By the end of the twenty-second century, a precarious
ecological balance had been achieved, hampered somewhat by the
continuing inter-continental rivalries but even this had been
largely solved by the creation of a coalition of the most powerful
countries whose leaders realised that the human race was doomed
unless mankind worked together for the common good.

The World
Coalition of Nations, set up in 2239AD, had forced through measures
designed to keep the world at peace and to curtail further
ecological damage, using force when necessary.

Then the sea
levels which had been steadily rising during the twenty-first
century had risen higher. The tidal triggering, which had begun
when the orbit of the moon had skewed made the situation worse,
especially for those who lived near to the coasts.

What remained
of the McCallum farm, like many others, had become a waterlogged
morass of mud-filled fields.

When Alastair
McCallum had originally signed up for the colony, it had been
intended that his wife’s parents should go too (his own parents had
died some years before), but Elspeth’s mother had failed the
fitness test that all potential colonists were required to pass and
her father had refused to leave his ailing wife.

During their
farewell meeting at the spaceport in north-east Scotland, he had
placed in his daughter’s hands his most cherished possession, his
silver trumpet. Elspeth played the keyboard but her talents lay
with vocalised music, but she had a son, named Duguld after his
grandfather and it was to him that the elder Duguld consigned his
final gift. He placed it beside the baby in the carry-cot.

“Keep it safe,”
he implored, “I’ll not be playing it again. Keep it safe for my
grandson,” and Elspeth McCallum had understood the meaning behind
her father’s words. The elder Duguld would not long outlive his
wife and he knew it.

“Remember how
you used to listen to me playing it when you were a little girl?”
he asked

“Yes I do,”
Elspeth’s voice wobbled with the emotion of parting.

“Perhaps when
wee Duguld is older, you’ll be listening to him play. That’s a
grand thought for me to be returning to your mother with. Don’t let
that husband of yours stop you from reaching for your dreams girl.
Why you married him Elspeth, I just don’t know. If the situation
wasn’t so dire here on Earth I’d have said let him go to Riga on
his own and good riddance.”

“Alastair is a
good man underneath all the bravado.”

Her father did
not look convinced but contented himself with saying, “keep up with
your singing. There’s bound to be someone on board who can take on
Duguld when he’s old enough to blow a tune.”

He planted a
last farewell kiss on his daughter’s forehead then bent down to
gaze at his sleeping grandson. One knurled finger stroked his cheek
but the baby didn’t stir.

“Time for you
to go,” he murmured.

When he raised
himself from gazing at Duguld his eyes were bright with unshed
tears.

The old man
watched as his daughter lifted up the carry-cot in which his
beloved grandson slept and followed her husband up the gangplank
and on to the shuttle that would take them to the orbiting
space-station where the World Coalition Colony Ship
Argyll
lay at berth, ready to leave for her twenty year journey to
Riga.

The elder
Duguld never learnt about the true fate of his family, nor of how
his grandson would survive the disaster that would overtake the
convoy.

The silver
trumpet and the young man who would play it would become
famous.

The baby boy
who slept in his cot as planet Earth disappeared from view would
learn how to play his grandfather’s trumpet and would carry it to a
war the like of which was beyond his grandfather’s wildest
imaginings.

For the war
would be fought not on planet Riga but on an as yet un-named planet
light years away at the other side of the galaxy where on a
beleaguered hilltop the trumpet would call out to all who could
listen of both joy and deliverance when all hope was dying.

* * * * *

POEM 1
-TRUMPET’S CALL

Written by Tara
Sullivan-Crawford (AL -12 to circa AL 55) after the deaths of
Duguld McCallum and his Lind, Ganya. Duguld and Ganya were friends
of Tara and Kolyei. He married Tara’s adopted sister Violet, the
eldest daughter of Janice and Winston Randall.

I was silver
once, pristine, new, my tone so sweet, no matter who blew. Now my
gilding is tarnished, my valves all worn, I sit on a shelf,
forgotten, forlorn. I came from a world light-years away, where for
time uncounted my owners did play. In orchestras, bands, groups and
quintets, in these times I played marches and minuets.

My tone was
true, my descant sound, my low notes reverberated, my highs truly
round. On Rybak I belonged to a boy, Duguld was his name, and
diligently he practised, my voice to tame. Even when he became one
of the vadeln-pairs, he managed to play some quite credible airs. I
became dented in places as we travelled to and fro, I sounded in
the mountains, amongst lands high and low.

It came to
pass that war came to the north, the call went out that the Vada go
forth.

We rode fast
to where the Larg would invade, ashore through the sandy wallows
they would wade. The ryzcks were encircled at a hill called David’s
Keep, where against the walls Larg kohorts did leap. All hope was
dying and death seemed near, when Duguld placed me to his lips to
help overcome fear.

The Lindars
heard me as they ran south and west, as he blew me loud with both
vim and zest. That night before battle, he played long and slow, as
our rescuers rested by their red campfire glow. The Larg they too
listened through that long night, and wondered greatly as dark
turned to light. The battle commenced and brave did the north
fight, to defeat their enemy come what might.

All through
that long day of pain and death, I sounded out each moment Duguld
had breath. Then the battle was won, the north victorious, the war
was over, Larg defeat inglorious. Tails between legs they fled back
to the south, the taste of defeat in each mealy-nosed mouth. I then
sounded out with much joy and sadness too as Holad and medics
counted the cost of the madness.

And those who
fought that blood-filled day, remembered my sound loud over
battle’s bray. The victory was named after me whom Duguld blew,
when all courage was dying to give hope anew. These days are long
past now, my Duguld gone, to the blue pastures where celestial
song. Rings out for the dead, who battle no more, but I may not go
there, my voice not to soar.

For I am an
object of silver and brass, I must stay here and watch my Duguld
pass,

My gilding is
tarnished, my valves all worn, so I sit on a shelf, forgotten,
forlorn.

Although there
have been a considerable number of Tara Sullivan-Crawford’s poems
and rhymes published, Tara always described her ‘poetry’ as of ‘no
account’. The Professors at the University of Stewarton in Argyll
appear to agree and her poems are never studied by any of their
students. Her songs and rhymes are however very popular amongst the
general population, in Vadath especially but also in Argyll, the
Islands and even amongst those of the Kingdom of Murdoch.

* * * * *

EPISODE 2 -
STORM

There was a
thunderous crash as the space-cold rock smashed into the outer
skin.

The shock of
the impact resounded in everyone’s ears and reverberated through
the deck plates. The giant wave of space debris was moving so fast
that there had been no time for the proximity sensors to react.

On the command
bridge of the WCCS
Argyll
, the Senior Duty Officer,
Commander MacIntosh, shut off the warning klaxon. As he slammed his
fist down on the override switch, there was a resounding bang,
louder than that of the initial impact. He glanced at his console,
it was a sea of flashing, warning lights.

“Damn,” he
swore. “Must have hit something. What was it?”

The status
reports came in loud and fast.

“Airlocks
shut.”

“Livestock
section pressure falling.”

“Hull breach in
sections five and nine.”

Commander
MacIntosh grimaced. Sections five and nine were colony sections,
packed full of families.

“Sensors are
picking up more incoming sir, approaching us at four klicks per
second.”

A voice from
the signals rating at the communications console piped up, “WCCS
Oklahoma
has gone, sir.”

He raised a
disbelieving face towards the speaker. Surely he couldn’t have
heard that right? “Gone?”

“Yes sir. She’s
just blown up.” The rating’s voice sounded as if she couldn’t
believe what was happening either but now Commander MacIntosh
realised the full extent of their danger. This was a major
catastrophe.

“Where is the
Captain?” he asked in a voice heavy with tension.

“Don’t know
sir,” answered white-faced Kath Andrews, responsible for life
support this shift. She was desperately trying to ascertain the
damage to their vital oxygen supplies.

“Now the
Latvia
has disappeared off the scope sir, and the sensors
are not picking up the
Electra
either. The
Melbourne
is reporting damage.” The signal rating’s voice was shrill.

There was a
moment of stunned silence.

Stuart
MacIntosh paused for an instant before turning to his control
board. His thoughts were racing. The WCCS
Latvia
and the
WCPS
Electra
?
What is happening to us?
The
Latvia
was the flagship of the convoy, there were old
friends on board, but right now the Commander had far more urgent
things on his mind, such as his own ship’s survival and that of his
shipmates.

He felt the
crunch as the WCCS
Argyll
impacted with more space-flotsam
churned up by the storm. She juddered for a moment then turned
turtle before starting to spin, slowly at first then faster and
faster. The bridge crew lost consciousness as the emergency lights
blinked out.

The maelstrom,
if that’s what it was, picked up the ship and carried her off as a
wind might pick up a stray leaf. Carried by its vortex, the WCCS
Argyll
progressed through the vastness of space at a speed
faster than could be imagined and for an unaccountable distance.
Then, as a cat might bat away an annoying fly, the capricious
maelstrom flicked the WCCS
Argyll
away. Separated from the
whirlpool of fast moving debris, the ship began to lose speed. In
the great darkness of space she drifted, silent and alone.

* * * * *

There was a
chime as the emergency computers kicked in. As designed, they
performed the automatic start up and emergency diagnostic programs,
then checks completed, restored power to the operational areas.

Kath Andrews
was the first on the bridge to regain consciousness. She winced at
the excruciating stab of pain in her wrist as she pushed her body
upright. “Broken,” she muttered and managed to pull herself into
her chair. She realised that there must be power coming from
somewhere, the gravity was working and the lights were on.

She took a deep
breath to steady her nerves and gazed at the scene before her.
Under the muted red glow of the emergency lights she did not see
the devastation she had expected to see. Admittedly, the bridge
crew were scattered (unconscious or dead – she wasn’t sure which)
around the deck, but there did not seem to be any structural
damage. Lights flashed, consoles bleeped and there was a smell of
burning electrics. The automatic foam dispensers had extinguished
incipient fires.

“Anyone else
awake?” she called out in a hopeful voice.

There was no
answer but her blue intercom light was flashing. Slowly and
deliberately she pressed the toggle with her good hand. A thin,
reedy voice crackled over.

“Is that the
bridge? Aft Crew Deck here, Chief Petty Officer Lutterell.”

The voice was
calm, assured.

The relief in
Kath’s voice was palpable as she quavered the regulatory answer,
“Andrews here sir.”

“What is our
status?” asked Robert Lutterell.

His question
was uttered as if nothing untoward had happened. The senior
non-commissioned officer on the ship, recognising the stark terror
in her voice for what it was, knew this was the approach Kath
needed. One didn’t become the CPO of a World Coalition Space Vessel
without knowing how to handle crew in all manner of difficult
situations.

Her voice
became stronger as she answered, responding to his tone.

“There’s only
me sir. What am I to do?”

“Check the
bridge crew then start on the damage report.”

“Damage
report?”

“Yes Andrews.
The Damage Report. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

The knowledge
that there were others alive elsewhere on the ship gave Kath the
determination to do her duty so she replied, “Aye Chief,” and cut
the connection. She turned towards Commander MacIntosh and knelt
down by his side.