The Archer's Paradox - The Travis Fletcher Chronicles (6 page)

“I believe you played no part in the situation that led to her death. May I try some of this?” she changed the subject abruptly, indicating the orange juice. “Tshreshan suggested I try. She said the fruit is named the same as the colour, curious.”

“Of course.” A clean glass appeared through the table. Cat poured a measure, sniffed and sipped.

“Pleasant, if a little bland for my taste, and faintly reminiscent of a fruit from my world.” she finished a little wistfully.

The subject had been changed, although not particularly tactfully, so The Journalist erred on the side of caution and did not press further. “Can I ask about your visor? You are the only crew member I have seen with one.”

“My home world was covered in never ending forests where the trees grew over a thousand metres tall and over one hundred metres in diameter, with branches wide enough to use as thoroughfares. My people lived in the forests and made homes in the trees. Light could be full sun to very low light and we hunted at night. My people evolved a
set of natural filters that would shield our eyes when we strayed into full sunlight and gave us almost perfect vision at night. My eyes were damaged and my filters no longer work. I wear this visor because even the light in this cabin would hurt my eyes, to look on your sun without protection would blind me instantly.”

“Ahh,” The Journalist was satisfied, “now I understand.” she felt as if the alien was not telling the full story, but she refrained from pressing the issue. “Trees a kilometre high! That must be a sight to see. I would like to visit your world.”

Cat put her glass down and appeared to contemplate it for some time. Eventually she looked up. “I am no longer welcome among my people.” Deep emotions made the words tremble slightly. The Journalist looked across the table, startled but afraid to ask why. “I will tell you some day, but not today.”

Cat ended The Journalist’s reverie by gracefully flowing to her feet, reminding her of a feline uncurling itself after resting by a fire. She felt like a new born foal or deer against this person; all gangly legs and no balance. Every movement she made was unhurried, perfect, and precise, with all the grace of a ballerina.
Could this be the product of living in kilometre high trees?
The Journalist mused.
One slip and you’re road kill.

Cat appeared to stare into space for a moment. “We must go.” she said suddenly. “We are expected on the bridge.” The Journalist grabbed her notebook and pencil from the desk area and followed her to the door, which slid open as they approached. Behind them the table, chairs and the remnants of breakfast melted into the floor.

The corridor stretched for hundreds of metres in each direction with no apparent points of reference and was wide enough to accommodate at least four or five people walking abreast. Instinctively The Journalist took a mental note of the symbols on the door of her cabin which were made up of two columns consisting of dots and horizontal lines. She assumed it was some sort of numbering system but had nothing to base it on. This was a big ship and she would hate to get lost trying to find her cabin again. She still had no recollection of getting there in the first place. She could feel the floor tugging at her feet each time she took a step. As they walked the floor gently pulled them forward. It was like a cross between skating and water skiing, only there was no wake or mark in the floor behind them. They were now moving at a fast run although they were only walking at a leisurely stroll. They passed the occasional crew member but the floor smoothly traced them a safe course without breaking speed. She held back an urge to cling onto Cat in fright and tried to imitate her nonchalant manner.

Their progress began to slow until they arrived at a bank of twenty doors, one of which slid open on their approach. Inside was a cubicle some two metres square with a column of buttons and symbols by the door. A lift! Finally, something The Journalist could understand. Quick, check the floor numbers. There was a sign opposite and she hurriedly wrote down the sequence of symbols so she could find her way back, if needs be. Cat pushed button ‘dot’. Deck number one? The Journalist jotted down the symbols from her door, then started noting the symbols on the lift’s panel. Underneath was deck ‘dot dot’ then three dots and four dots. Aha, a pattern was forming. Then there was a line, a line with a dot above, a line with two dots. Her concentration was interrupted by the doors opening; she did not even feel the lift move. She estimated that they had travelled about thirty decks in a few seconds. They stepped out into a long anteroom some thirty metres wide and at least fifty metres long. Each wall was lined with doors, and the ceiling appeared open to the void, showing a panorama of stars. The end wall had only one door, this is where they headed. The room was deserted and took seconds to cross as the floor assisted their progress. The door slid open as they approached.

Beyond the door was a parabolic room about another hundred metres long and the same at its base, built on two levels. They had entered on the top level which consisted of a platform, where they were now stood, and a mezzanine floor that followed the curve of the wall. The wall was lined with consoles that bristled with holographic displays and high backed chairs, some were occupied but many were not. The chairs, unlike those in the bar, were permanent pieces of furniture, but glided silently and effortlessly as the crew went about their business. Although the design of the bridge followed the sweeping curves and arcs that typified the rest of the ship, as far as she had seen so far, the whole room had a different feel; the floor was metallic rather than the substance that made up the living areas. The ceiling was domed and completely transparent down to the level of the consoles on the mezzanine floor. The Journalist was beginning to feel more than a little
agoraphobic
. The level below was also bristling with consoles and that is where most of the activity seemed to be, which struck The Journalist as a bit odd. She would have expected the upper level to be the main hub of the bridge, but then what did she know of star ship design? She made a mental note to ask questions later. The floor was dominated by a single circular plinth with a holographic display of stars
hovering above it. The Mercenary was stood inside, thoughtfully contemplating the display. He looked up at them and waved for them to join him, then went back to studying the hologram.

Cat indicated an area of the platform with no guard-rail and walked towards it; The Journalist followed. Without pausing, Cat walked straight off the edge. The Journalist gasped and rushed forward to see Cat, five metres below, walking towards The Mercenary with not a hair out of place. They both looked at The Journalist and waited. Cat may have the reflexes of, well, a cat, The Journalist thought to herself, but I am not going to risk my neck on a jump like that. She looked around for some stairs or a lift but found none. The other two stood waiting; The Mercenary with a look of amusement, while Cat’s stance indicated irritation. The Journalist could feel herself blushing furiously. The Mercenary touched Cat’s shoulder and nodded towards the stranded journalist. With a head movement that indicated a ‘tut’, she strode forward. At the foot of the platform she rose quickly into the air until she was on a level with the platform and strode off without breaking step. In a single fluid movement she turned round, put a hand into the small of the back of the wide-eyed journalist and propelled her off the edge. The Journalist closed her eyes and screamed until she realised she was now standing on the lower level and the eyes of everyone on both levels were on her. She flushed furiously with a mixture of embarrassment and anger.

“Don’t ever do that again!” she hissed furiously at Cat, who cocked her head to one side.

“To survive, you must learn trust. If we are to trust you, you must first trust us.”

“Next time, at least warn me before pushing me off a ledge.”

Cat smiled with her small pointed teeth and walked over to The Mercenary. The Journalist stomped behind still blushing.

“We have reached the outer edge of the solar system and it is now safe to begin the next stage of the journey.” The Mercenary said, without greeting or looking away from the holographic display. “I thought you might like a front row seat and we can continue our chat. How’s your head by the way?” The Journalist contemplated this: she had woken up floating above a bed that she had no idea how she got to, manoeuvred into a deadly confrontation with an alien with two centimetre claws, been offered a full English breakfast that seemed to have materialised out of thin air, and pushed off a five metre ledge. All that considered, her head was coping, just. The Mercenary’s mouth twitched in amusement. “I meant that Arcturan spirit can have some odd side effects on the unprepared, and the Arcturan you went off with had a huge smile on his face when I saw him in
Engineering
earlier.”

“WHAT!” The Journalist squeaked, her eyes bulging from their sockets in shock.

“As I said: ‘unexpected side effects.’” The Mercenary replied flippantly.

“But I never, I couldn’t have … did I? I still had my clothes on!” she protested.

“He said you were the best …”

“Stop it!” The Journalist protested frantically.

“…
storyteller
he had met for some time.”

“Storyteller?”

“Yes, the Arcturans have no concept of journalism and their history is stored in their songs, art and stories so ‘storytelling’ is the closest they can relate to. Apparently you were giving a vivid account of your life, from birth right up to the moment you passed out. He had some difficulty with your turn of phrase, and the translator had difficulty with
colloquialisms
, so I had to explain that the boy you met on holiday when you were sixteen did not actually steal any fruit from you.” There was that momentary twinkle that passed for mirth and then it was gone.

“Everyone seems to be having fun at my expense today.” The Journalist grumbled, a little petulantly.

“Come,” Cat butted in, “it is nearly time.” She headed for the upper level, with the others following.

They left the bridge and took a lift which opened up at the back of the bar; already more crowded than it had been for the departure and with more beings arriving every second. The three moved towards the front and the panoramic view of the void. The Mercenary indicated a suitable spot and a table and three chairs oozed from the floor. As they sat, a glass of vodka appeared for The Mercenary, along with a bottle of wine with a glass for The Journalist, and a glass of brown pungent liquid for Cat.

The Journalist’s mind was bursting with new questions but as she made to speak The Mercenary raised a hand to cut her off. The fusion engines had been shut down and the RAM scoop had been retrieved. The ship now rode the magnetic fields of the universe again, not dissimilar to a sailing ship using the tides and winds to propel itself.

“Now we are comfortable, I have news that will lighten your day.” His eyes had softened and a smile played over his lips as he spoke. This, for The Mercenary, was akin to jumping for joy. “Star has been revived!”

“What!” The Journalist was stunned. Emotions played over Cat’s features as she regarded The Mercenary silently.

“Her heart has been repaired and is now beating and she is breathing. However,” he cautioned, “there is still serious brain damage because it took us too long to get her out, but she has the best we have repairing her synapses. It will still be some weeks before we know for certain.” A single tear rolled down Cat’s cheek from under her visor. The Journalist wanted to throw her arms around her in comfort. The look Cat shot her and the set of her jaw put paid to that thought and she took a long swallow of wine. Ok, she had only just had breakfast but she really did not care at the moment.

“Hyperspace entry in one minute, drive is charged, all stations have reported ready.” a disembodied voice cut through the silence. “Hyperspace entry in thirty seconds, drive is discharging, entry point creation started.” Ahead a blood red tear appeared and began to grow rapidly. The tear lengthened and widened, the edge was now a jagged maelstrom of energy, with discharges flashing every colour of the rainbow as the universe fought with the ship to end this assault on its very fabric. The centre of the maelstrom was pure nothing, no stars, lights, or colours of any kind. The ship rushed on. “Hyperspace entry in four, three, two, one…” The assembled throng cheered and the band of energy holding the two universes apart flashed past mere metres from the ship’s hull. “Hyperspace drive shutdown, entry complete.” The voice concluded. The entry point had closed behind them. The absolute blackness outside seemed to ooze round the edges of the windows and encroach on the space inside the ship. Suddenly the bar seemed small and claustrophobic. Many of the crew looked uncomfortable, a few even on the verge of a panic attack. The Journalist was one of the latter, even Cat’s unflappable mask had slipped a little and her glass was suddenly empty. It was like a huge blind spot that you could not focus on, but was at the edge of your vision wherever you looked. She felt that the whole universe was compressing into this nothingness and she was having difficulty breathing. After a short delay the windows polarised and became opaque. All the ships external portholes would now remain opaque until it was time to re-enter normal space. The oppressive atmosphere ended and the crew returned to chatting. The ritual now complete, some got up and left. Their seats and tables melted back into the floor as they walked away, some more unsteadily than others.