A journey that begins where everything ends

Midnight Quatermass 23: A little music and a TO BE CONTINUED

Got less done that I liked this week. Kids are still enjoying the summer holidays and try as I might it continues to be tricky to fit everything I need into a day that also involves playgrounds, museums and playdates. Don’t think I’m complaining. Writing as a full-time job is a privilege I’m well aware of as I get to hang with the monsters and watch them grow up. Jess, who has a real job, is also lucky that she gets to do it from home, but the reality of that is she’s locked in her office four days a week while we play Cuphead and Super Mario.

The hours do catch up though when Connor occasionally gets up at 5.30am and I start my working day around 10pm. Still, that’s what they invented coffee for.

I did have a notion that I’d talk a little about the VORTEX books this week, but I’m parking that as I don’t have any of the files handy and wanted to talk to Dave a little about his process too. I think we’ll both have a little more time for that once the kids are back in school.

Tonight I’ve been listening to Captain Beefheart after a conversation I had with Steve this morning. When we were teenagers, back when the world was black n white and filled with stop-motion dinosaurs, we’d trek out from town to a small village I can’t remember the name of in search of treasure. I can’t remember the guy’s name whose house we’d visit, but we went there about once a month after Fletch - the only other kid in my year with long hair and a back-patched denim jacket - found his address in the back of Kerrang.

Rarities and Bootlegs for Sale. Or words to that effect. This dude had a fucking collection and was happy to source other stuff for us for a price. I still own some weirdness that the bands who released them had no idea existed. Single-sided acetates and pre-release vinyl quietly lifted from radio stations. Some moron over on Discogs once accused me of making stuff up when I had to create a bunch of entries from scratch despite having the fucking thing in my hand as I uploaded the images. We spent a lot of money on this stuff, saved from flipping burgers at rugby matches (grim), but decades later it seems to have been a pretty good investment.

Mostly the music was pretty straight-down-the-line metal, but on one occasion the dude asked me If I dug Frank Zappa.

I had no idea what was about to happen as I handed over the cash for a couple of bootleg videos. One was filled with live performances while the other compiled just about every Zappa and Captain Beefheart TV appearance. For a young northern idiot who had only been exposed to his dad’s country collection, the Friday Night Rock Show on Radio One and was terrified by most of the local hardcore gigs he’d stumbled into this was heavy stuff. As in Neil from The Young Ones heavy. I think it took me a few years to fully appreciate what I was listening to as I started to collect Zappa and Beefheart vinyl, but I knew something truly terrible had happened when Frank died.

I still have the newspaper clippings and remember threatening to punch the god-botherer next door in my university halls when he asked me to stop playing Thing Fish at three in the morning. Kumbaya motherfucker.

I’ve been a Zappa and Beefheart fan ever since. I understand the all-consuming passion of Grateful Dead fans although I’ve openly ever dipped into their catalogue, but I’ve luckily avoided the pitfalls of letting Zappa eat me alive. Still, Frank is the gift that kept on giving as his vault released new recordings over the years and I still consider Watermelon in Easter Hay one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever recorded.

Don Van Vliet, aka Captain Beefheart has always been entwined with Zappa because that how I discovered them. Like two snakes laughing as they tried to eat each other. Don was somehow even less palatable than Zappa to normal folk though and I cherish what he left us. Despite being happy enough to bang my head to Priest and Maiden as a kid, I’ve always been drawn to more complex music and I can’t help but envy someone like Steve who has a much deeper understanding of it and composes the stuff too. Me, I just like what I like. I don’t write much about music on the newsletter, but I think I’ll try and find more room for it even if it’s only to share whatever the hell it is I’m listening to as I write this nonsense.

Right now it’s Mike Watt’s band Il Sogno del Marinaio who had completely passed me by until Tim over on Threads mentioned them to me earlier today. I’m a huge fan of the Minutemen and Watt’s other projects. Jess and I hung around after one of his London gigs - supporting Fugazi I think - and Watt invited us backstage to hang for a few hours. He’s such a sweetheart that as we got up to leave he gave me his number in California and suggested we chew the fat on the phone once he got home after the tour. Our long rambling conversations eventually got trimmed down to an interview that I’ll dig out and throw up online somewhere. Talking with him lead to me sitting down with Japanese punk rock Balzac who mistook me for an actual music journalist a lifetime ago before they melted my face off with their Misfits style wall of noise.

I did enjoy that phase of my life where I believe I was what is known as a dabbler. I wouldn’t have cut it writing about music full time. I simply don’t have the vocabulary as I do with film, but I do know enough to say yes to John Carpenter when he invites me to tag along to the studio for a Lost Themes session. Which leads us back to VORTEX and a promise to unpack that sometime in the future.

For now though let’s go to space.

This is a slight departure for QM as it’s not truly a short story, but part of a bigger tale that I’ve been looking to redraft in a different format for a while. I’m experimenting with it here because a) that’s what the newsletter is for and b) I think the opening at least works as a short piece.

You may disagree as it’s a tad longer than the longest short story I’ve written here. I think. I’m too lazy to check. Maybe grab a drink and a bite for this one though.

I’m happy to continue it here in serialised form if that’s what you guys are happy with although I wouldn’t want it to overtake this thing we have… so maybe after this I’ll do anther three weeks of short stories and do the longer ones monthly.

Maybe. Let me know.

Anyway. Storytime.

RED DRIFT

Part One: The Getaway

PROLOGUE

Like all good stories we start on Mars.

Not that you can tell from this place. It’s corridors are old, rusty and filthy and if anything it looks like a Mexican prison circa 1800. The old heavy iron door has a number etched into it: 82. And for a moment it’s deathly quiet.

Then from outside comes the sound of a muffled explosion. Shouting follows but is quickly silenced by gunfire. Quiet again. Then a man’s voice. We can’t make out the details but the tone is obvious. He’s pleading for his life, but never makes it to the end of his final words as, this time, a single gunshot ends the conversation.

On the other side of 82 it’s pitch black and silent. Then the sound of old metal on metal as the viewing hatch is slid open. A single beam of light spills into the cell. Decrepit prisoners stir in their filth in the shadows, automatically moving from the light like nosferatu. But one seated figure does not flinch from the light. His eyes narrow against it.

Shep Miller is 25, but a few months here have put a decade on him. His full beard is wild, his hair unkempt and longer than he’d like. He wears the remains of a blue military jacket worn and torn and stained with blood. Some of it is his.

He doesn’t recognise the voice that fills the cell.

“You Miller?”

He waits a beat before answering.

“You mean to kill me?”

A short hard laugh from outside.

“I mean to free you.”

“I don’t know you.”

Outside two men stand either side of the door watching the corridor behind them. Their combat armour is plain and light, but beaten up. They both carry short stock rifles. The man between them, their leader, has no time for armour. He’s lean and tall enough that he has to stoop a little to speak through the hatch. His name is William Church and odds are if you’ve seen his face and are still breathing it was only on a wanted poster. He’s rugged, handsome and weathered by a lifetime - all 39 years of it - on the wrong side of the law.

“That we can fix. I’m Bill Church.”

A low murmuring fills the cell as the prisoners instinctively push themselves further back into the darkness.

Church’s face, however, caught in the light and framed in the centre of the door shows just the hint of a smile.

“I’ve heard of you.”

“I expect you have.”

His eyes, fully adjusted to the first light he’s seen in a week, are open wide now.

“You want something from me?”

In answer Church flips a coin into the cell. Miller instinctively plucks it from the air and then opens his fist. The light catches the silver and gold and illuminates his face. Miller’s expression is the same as if glimpsing an old friend that he hadn’t seen in many years.

He stands and walks towards the door that opens for him, the coin once again hidden in the darkness of his clenched fist.

ONE

The Libra Constellation is some twenty light years and change from home.

The Earth-like planet that is already such a draw, it’s surface glistening with the lights of colonisation, doesn’t even have a name yet. As of now it’s simply called 12. The huge beautiful bitch of a spacecraft orbiting it, however, is called the Astoria and none of the settlements far below can offer anything nearly as comfortable or decadent as what is found within her decks.

The pleasure craft’s skin is electric blue and sparkles as the surface captures the starlight and… BAM!

A sleek black spacesuit slams into the hull hard and fast. Maybe a little too fast as the figure tumbles across the surface. A second later glowing red magnetic clamps activate all over the suit allowing it to grab purchase for a moment only, enough to stop the man from bouncing back into space if not really slow his descent.

As his momentum sends him plummeting down the side of the ship he manages to lift one hand holding a stubby pistol.

It fires two projectiles ahead of him. As he falls they separate and tear into two fins projecting from the ship. A carbon-fibre net bursts into existence between them just in time to catch him.

He hangs there for a moment. Light catches his faceplate and we see that its Miller again. Clean shaven now and seemingly resigned to this kind of thing. Then his eyes go wide as a shadow falls across his faceplate.

A second, much larger figure is tumbling towards him.

The man slams right into him. One of the projectiles is popped out of the hull and both men are suddenly released back towards the void.

Miller twists the now useless net around one forearm and takes the weight of the larger man as both their suits’ magnetic clamps shimmer under the strain and finally take hold. The unsure red lights morph into a steady green as if the suits themselves are relieved to find purchase.

“Down. And safe.”

Both men rise slowly. The larger guy is Goose. 27, Constantly happy, instantly likeable and comprehensively Australian. The bear-hug he gives Miller triggers the same sensors in the suit that hitting the hull of the ship did.

“Thanks, dude.”

Church’s voice comes over their comms.

“On target?”

Miller looks down at their feet. The hull under them is now dark red. If you were to float out and away from them the crimson would eventually resolve itself into gigantic lettering with two black specks stood upon it. A fifty-foot description of what they were aiming for: CARGO BAY 14.

“Bulls-eye.”

Somewhere high above them Church, also suited and helmeted, is reflected in a low lit blue console.

“Mir, every alarm on the bridge is about to go off...”

Within the Astoria a helpful floor plan is marked with an authoritative font declaring YOU ARE HERE right next to a small yellow crate logo that reads CARGO BAY 14.

Standing opposite it, but observing the blank interior hull, is Miranda. 28 and gorgeous. Stunning even. She’s wearing a sheer light blue evening dress and a much more practical small flashlight strapped to her forehead that projects a shallow frame of light against the wall. A single tap and a second light appears to form a projected holographic interface. The complex series of relays and terminals inside the wall are suddenly visible.

“Severing this bay’s connection to the bridge... now.”

She moves her fingers in a cutting motion and a single holographic wire is cut. The circuit goes from green to orange.

She relaxes. We see a glimpse of a tattoo across the back of her neck. A Japanese-style koi that suddenly blinks and swims out of sight beneath her dress. As she  takes a step back we catch a glimpse of the the fish as it swirls under her arm and out of sight.

A low hum fills the air as she removes the flashlight and holds her hand against the skin of the ship.

“Jump coils just came online.”

Church moves from the screen and through a dark walkway. Two more suited figures, Bull and Winters, hard men, stand either side of the ship’s already open exterior door much as they did with Miller’s prison cell weeks earlier.

Their ship, the Greta, has no airlock. Once the doors open, as they did when Miller and Goose exited, the ship’s air is vented and its interior is totally exposed to vacuum. One of many reasons they had balked at Miller’s insistence they use it. But they’d returned all the way to Sol to retrieve the man because of his expertise so the Greta it was.

The much grander Astoria, littered with airlocks bigger than the Greta, is framed in the doorway far below as the men prep to jump. Even from this distance they can see the giant coils atop her hull spark to life and begin to spit blue phosphorus that slowly bleeds out into vacuum as the ship slowly turns into it’s jump position. The Greta slowly moves in time to keep her framed.

From outside we can hardly see the smaller ship, but that’s the point. There are no visible signs of power and she’s painted with a substance smart enough to reflect the stars but ignore the glow of the Astoria. She’s oval and looks fast because she is. No airlocks, no crew quarters to speak of, she’s a racer. Not designed at all for the task at hand, but maybe for what comes later. Her classification is hawk.

Goose can’t see her, but waves anyway as he pulls out a six-pack of thermal charges and secures them to the bay door. Miller doing the same gives him a thumbs-up.

“Knock knock.”

Miranda stands in front of a glass case displaying a pressure suit.

“I’m dressing. Two minutes.”

She opens the case and a warning appears across the surface of the glass: FOR EMERGENCY USE ONLY. DO NOT ATTEMPT EVA.

She takes a moment to check the suit, but isn’t happy.

“Damn thing’s an antique.”

Sighing she undresses anyway. Her ink dances in the low light.

Outside Miller activates the charges. He and Goose move to get clear.

“Here we go. 90 seconds.”

Miranda pulls the hood of her suit over her head and down over her face where it forms into an airtight visor. With no external tanks to get in the way she slips one arm through a wall strap to secure herself in place.

“Get rich. Or die trying.”

The thermal charges glow molten orange as the almost fully powered coils above bathe Miller and Goose in blue neon.

WHUMP!

The bay door fails and is blown out from the ship.

Miranda is pulled violently against her restraints as the atmosphere escapes. She grits her teeth inside the faceplate.

The coils, less angry now, generate a constant steady pulse of energy that engulf the ship for a moment only to dissipate. With each subsequent pulse the bubble stays a little longer.

Miranda releases herself from the straps as Miller enters and cocks his head at her emergency space suit, perplexed.

“You couldn’t find an older suit?”

Miranda looks at a scuffed display on her wrist. It’s an oxygen gauge. It reads 90% and immediately drops to 89%.

“Retro sexy. Let’s do this.”

Goose and Miller quickly scan the stacked containers. One marked with a Red Cross and stamped MEDICAL SUPPLIES stands out. They release the straps and the stack separates and floats.

Church and Winters pull down a rig from above the Greta’s open doorway. A winch and harpoon coupled to a large spool. As it powers up a red laser sight comes online. Winters fires it without a pause.

“Line away.”

Below Goose turns and is immediately dazzled by red light filling his faceplate. Miller pushes him backwards and the light resolves into a single red dot on the interior wall between them. The harpoon and trailing line hit home an instant later with a satisfying thud.

“Secure.”

The spool on the Greta begins to run and the line rises, pulled taut between the two ships.

Bull attaches his suit to the line with a harness. More of them hang below him like spider legs as his suit discharges enough propellent to send him hurtling towards the larger ship.

Church is hooking his own harness when his hand begins to shake uncontrollably. Winters grabs it, holds it still and ensures the older man’s line is attached. We see his face for the first time. Lean and unfriendly with one old scar cutting across a milky sightless eye. Any concern he has isn’t for Church.

“You up to this?”

In reply Church knocks Winters hand away and fires his suit.

As Bull enters the bay Goose is on hand to catch him. Miller begins to unsnap the harnesses when Bull angrily pushes him away. He’s in his 60s, stocky, short in height and temper. He obviously has a problem. Maybe more than one.

“I got this, war hero.”

Miller steps back, hands raised and shrugs. He instead helps Miranda open the first large container revealing three unmarked boxes small enough to fit through the blown hatch.

“Jackpot.”

Goose catches Church as he enters the hold.

“This ship jumps back to Earth in five minutes. Let’s not be on it.”

Miranda grabs him, holds him. Their faceplates touch. He smiles then checks the readout on her wrist. The smile drops. The gage has dropped to 80%.

“Go now. We can manage.”

She brushes him off.

“I’ve plenty of time. We stick to the plan, Bill. One last time.”

Bull is almost done wrapping a harness around the first box when the second box hits him, propelling him back into the hull.

“You clumsy son of a bitch.”

“Sorry, man. I thought you had it.”

Bull rights himself and takes a step towards Goose. Church’s arm comes down and holds him in place.

“Do your job.”

Bull picks up the harness and begins again, scowling. He catches Miller smiling as he pulls down the next container.

“Glad you’re amused, Lieutenant.”

He spits out the rank as if it tastes bad. Miller ignores the old bastard and spies a bright blue custom-case amongst the cargo. Smiling he flips the catch and looks inside.

“Hello, beautiful.”

He closes the case and slips it over his shoulder.

Winters, still at the doorway of the Greta, watches the distant ship as the shield around it begins to intensify. Then the first case is visible as it moves towards him.

“Come to Papa...”

Bull hooks up case #2 and shoves it after the first. Goose then leaves with #3 ensuring they all stay on target in case the Astoria adjusts her position too fast for the Greta to compensate and the line snaps. Unlikely, but they’ve covered all the bases on this one.

Bull straps and flings the next two cases in an easy practiced movement. He spins Miranda around and hooks the next harness from the line to her suit and unceremoniously pushes her off the ship. He does it so fast he fails to see the deteriorated nature of the suit loop.

Church moves his eyes away from her to the upper corner of his faceplate.

“Two minutes. That’s it. Bail.”

Carrying a single case he steps out and follows Miranda.

Miller lets the remaining cases float free, grabs the one nearest to the doorway and puts a hand on Bull’s shoulder.

“Forget the rest. We’re out of time.”

Miller leaves the ship. Bull grabs two of the remaining cases and then struggles to attach his suit to the line.

“Shove your orders.”

He slowly exits the bay, loose cargo floating behind him.

Winters allows case #1 to SLAM into the Greta’s interior behind him. #2 swiftly follows then Goose high-fives him on the way in with case #3. Winters watches the next two cases and Miranda approach as the bubble pushing around the ship behind her strobes faster.

“Not a shot fired. She’s gonna jump away none the wiser. Perfect getaway. Boss was right… Miller’s a genius.”

Winters keeps his good eye fixed on Miranda.

“Nothing is ever this easy.”

Exactly halfway between the two ships Miranda’s suit loop breaks away. She fumbles for the line and misses. Church reaches for her and is a second too late. Their hands almost touch. They look at each other in disbelief as the small tear in her suit leaks and pushes her further away from him.

And then Miller’s voice fills their suits.

“I’ve got her.”

Miller abandons his case and with a burst of propellant passes Church and grabs the tumbling Miranda. Together they spin head over heel for a moment, locked in a tight embrace.

“Watch your hands, soldier.”

“Was either you or the money. Tough call.”

Miller realigns them with the Greta as Miranda looks down over his shoulder.

“Bull’s got that covered.”

Miller turns to see Bull struggling to secure the lost case.

“Bull, you greedy son of a bitch.”

Church turns. Sees Bull slowing, overloaded. Silhouetted against the blue brilliance of the coils that suddenly discharge.

The jump-bubble forms briefly, solidly, then instantly disappears taking the Astoria with it. Where a moment ago the huge ship dominated the starscape there is now nothing.

Nothing at all, but the last three cases.

And Bull.

Goose is leaning out of the hatch, grinning.

“Looks like we owe Miller a drink.”

Winters narrows his good eye at the unmoving shape of Bull.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Miller guides Miranda into the ship ahead of her cases. Church, halfway between the ship and Bull pushes his own load after them and turns back with a thrust towards Bull.

Miller squints as he grabs the incoming cases and passes them to Goose. Something is unfolding behind the stalled Bull.

Church grabs Bull by the shoulder and turns him around to reveal his body has been neatly cut in half by the Astoria’s jump-field. Of the missing part there is no sign.

“Crap.”

Moving the corpse sends one, also neatly severed case spinning. It spews its contents upwards and for a moment Bull’s body is lost in a hosanna of blood and silver and gold coins.

Church pulls at the remaining cases, but the body is secured to them. Sighing he pulls the whole sorry mess back with him.

“Miller, we need to...”

The Greta suddenly lights up from within. Red running lights cut into her matt-black surface.

“Never mind.”

Miller is racing through the interior. It’s narrow. Like a slim submarine. Practically pulling himself into each new compartment as the ship interior lights up to his presence all the way to the flight deck.

He settles into the pilot’s seat. A panel of red lights trips to green. A silent hum begins to vibrate the ship as her engines come online. Only one panel remains red.

“Ready to reinstate life support once you close her up, Church.”

Goose and Winters are securing the cases. Miranda looks tense as she watches Church reach the halfway point with his load.

“Come on, come on.”

Goose joins her.

“Problem?”

She holds her wrist up in reply. Her oxygen is down to 5%.

“One damn thing after another,” mutters Winter glancing their way.

Goose’s optimism is eternal as he turns to him.

“Plenty of time. Plus we just inherited Bull’s share and we’re home free. Smile.”

Winters doesn’t smile.

~

Some twenty lightyears behind them the Astoria pops back into existence - a sudden silhouette against the beauty of Jupiter. A pilot ship instantly moves out to intercept her. Its pilot yawns as the hull of the pleasure ship speeds past above her head.

“Welcome back, Astoria. You seem to be five-by-five. Please move to a heading of SWEET JESUS, JOSEPH AND MARY!”

Her ship has slammed into the remains of Bull. Her canopy has stained a dull red as she pulls away from the Astoria. Sparks ricochet as she flies through a cloud of silver and god coins.

“Jupiter Control we have a situation here.”

~

Miller is tense.

“What’s going on? We need to move.”

No reply. He signs and reaches for the blue custom-case still strapped to his back.

The men are grappling with the cases attached to Bull’s body. The jump-pulse has fused the line and Bull’s suit/body together.

“It's not happening,” says Winters

Church refuses to let the cases go.

“We have the time.”

Goose puts a hand on his arm.

“Boss… she doesn't.”

Miranda is sitting down in the hold. The display on her wrist is pulsating an angry red signal.

Church lets go of the body and moves towards her.

Goose wraps the tangled line around an exterior hand-hold securing the body to the ship and steps back aboard. The doors slams closed as Church kneels in front of Miranda.

“Pressurise, goddamnit!”

As he raises his voice he begins to cough and turns his head. The ship immediately fills with a whoosh of air. Gravity instantly pulls the cases and the crew to the deck. Miranda pulls her helmet off and gratefully pulls down a lungful of air.

“Glad to see you idiots still have your bloody priorities in order.”

Goose grins. She turns Church back towards her as he wipes a little blood from his lip. She sees the fine mist of blood covering his visor and pushes his helmet out of view.

She holds his head in both her hands and smiles sadly.

“We made it, babe. One last job. The one we retire on.”

He nods sadly as Winters and Goose begin to stack the haul.

Miller’s helmet is off and resting on the control panel. Church pulls up beside him. Cramped. The view rotates as the ship begins to turn planetwards.

“How we looking?”

“Five by five. So far.”

Church nods.

“Back into atmosphere. Now.”

Church frowns as he spots the blue custom-case now spilling a pile of wires into an exposed panel. There’s a faint red glow coming from it.

“What’s that?”

Miller looks grimly at the empty space between them and the planet.

“Insurance.”

Between the Greta and the planet Bull’s lost haul glistens. His blood has already boiled away so the coins are unsullied right up until the moment they are propelled into nothingness as huge gunmetal plates appear and push them away. A few are sucked the opposite way and ping and spin away again to follow their brethren after hitting the hull of the newly arrived Mortimer.

She's a military ship. A predator. Dwarfing the approaching Greta and blocking the entire planet from the smaller ship’s view.

Miller watches the huge ship’s jump-field fade.

“Did someone order a huge warship?”

Church strains to see and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

“Damn. She’s big. Dumb question: can we outrun her?”

Miller’s eyes are locked on the bulk of the Mortimer as noise from the Greta’s engines becomes audible. He reaches up and flips a bank of switches from green to red and the noise fades away.

“No. She's a shark. We don't move.”

Church breathes hard.

“Is this a good time to remind you that the ship you told me was perfect for this job, the one we’re currently trapped in, is unarmed?”

“The ship you’re looking at is the Mortimer. The fleet’s new flagship. Fighting is not an option.”

“You know her?”

“She's fresh off the production line. Just blueprints when I last saw her. Company suits right now are advising her commander which of his new toys to blow us apart with.”

~

The bridge of the Mortimer is sleek, expansive and relaxed. The officers at their post and especially the captain, Paul Giamatti with a slice of Michael Ironside, seem unconcerned with the image of the Greta before them. The only person not in uniform is a young woman in a smart suit holding a tablet out for the captain to study.

~

“The only reason we're still here is it’s a long list.”

Church doesn’t like what he’s hearing.

“So we’re dead?”

In answer Miller pulls the blue casing away from the exposed panel to reveal a red and black sphere jerry-rigged into the ship.

“Wake up, Lucy. Assessment.”

The sphere, Lucy, a sentient AI, pulses as she speaks. A young woman’s voice fills our ears. Like the computer from Star Trek got drunk and woke up as Christina Hendricks.

“You’ve aged about five years, Shep. You look like crap. What happened?”

“Focus. Look outside.”

Church is already waving questions away as Miranda pops her head into the flight deck.

“Strap in. Tell the others we got this.”

Miranda nods, obviously worried, but falls back out of sight.

“Have we got this?”

Miller nods towards the sphere.

“So far despite how this is going we’ve been very lucky. I lifted the AI module off the Astoria. The coins aren’t the only contraband she was carrying. This far out its a miracle my backups were still functioning at all. Mars should have wiped them. Without Lucy we’re toast for sure.”

They both look up as the Mortimer begins to move closer to them.

“Someone’s made a decision. Lucy, options?”

“Option. Singular. But if I tell you you’re not going to like it.”

There’s a whir of lights as the heavens revolve. The closing ship drops from sight as the Greta exposes her keel. The larger ships slows, but the gap between them still shrinks.

Church reaches for the sphere, angrily.

“Jesus, Miller, it’s putting us belly up. That's nothing but heat shield! It's the least armoured part of the ship!”

Miller stops his hand as data bleeds from his console.

“Whatever armour we do have is about as useful as tissue paper. Trust her. This is what she does.”

The sphere laughs.

“They’re bringing weapons online. Let’s show ‘em a little more ass.”

Church is unsettled. More so as Lucy begins to sing.

“With a face like this I won’t break any hearts.”

Strapped in their jump seats Winters and Miranda exchange looks of concern as Lucy’s voice fills the craft.

“And thinking like that I won’t make any friends.”

Strapped in opposite them Goose is grinning.

“Dude, I love this song!”

As Miller and Church watch a line of code pops up on the screen next to Lucy followed by EMERGENCY ESCAPE POD - REMOTE RELEASE.

Church opens his mouth. Gets it. Closes it again. Lucy sings.

“Screw that, forget about that, I don’t wanna hear about anything like that.”

Goose’s voice floats up from the hold.

“Screw that, forget about that, I don’t wanna hear about anything like that.”

“Jesus wept,” says Church and closes his eyes.

“I’ve got nothing to do ‘cept hang around and get screwed up on you,” Lucy sings as the screen now reads ESCAPE POD. JETTISON.

And then in her regular voice.

“Hang on. We’re running.”

The Greta's escape pod - almost invisible, partially sunk into the ship's infrastructure - suddenly roars away from the smaller ship covering the distance to the Mortimer almost instantly.

The pod disintegrates as it crashes directly into the bridge. Debris flies away revealing a horrific scar torn across the once pristine ship. But no hull breach. Tough bitch.

The Greta punches low and out of sight, but even as she disappears the larger ship begins its turn. More infrastructure is revealed as the damaged surface falls free.

Goose is whooping loudly as the Greta spirals in a crazily fast corkscrew manoeuvre beneath the Mortimer.

Church is laughing over the noise from Goose.

“I think your girlfriend just pissed them off.”

“We’re just good friends,” says Lucy. “She's turning. Fast. No way she’s gonna let us make atmosphere. Remember that later when you want to shout at me.”

The screen bursts into life again. ENTER JUMP COORDINATES.

Church shakes his head.

“They'll have all the jump points from here to Earth on high alert.”

Numbers, long numbers, begin to resolve on the screen.

“She knows,” says Miller.

“She has somewhere specific in mind?”

“Probably.”

Church raises an eyebrow. “Probably?”

The Greta shots out into view. A black and red bat-out-of-hell caught between the turning ship and the planet below.

A huge rail-gun moves independently along the hull of the Mortimer, tracking then taking position directly behind the fleeing ship. Without pause it opens up throwing a wide arc of tracers.

The bulk of the ordinance misses and carries on towards the planet. A small portion hits home and tears into the Greta.

Lucy’s sphere glows bright red as she rolls the ship away from the gunfire. Miller and Church hold on hard.

“Bastards. If you’d plugged me into a real ship I’d run rings around that fat ugly bitch. We’ve gotta jump.”

Miller looks up at Church.

“Your call. We can try and surrender. Jail for me. They’ll kill you and Winter. Doubt they’ll listen though after what we did to their paint-job.”

The screen shows a jumble of numbers and one word. READY.

Church is resigned.

“Punch it.”

Lucy replies in a different sing-song voice.

“Farewell and adieu to you, cowardly bastards...”

Another burst of fire zeroes in on them.

“Farewell and adieu to you, motherfu--”

The rounds hit empty space as the Greta pops out of existence in a red haze.

~

A totally different starscape. This one is more colourful, vibrant and very alien.

We're a long long way from home.

The Greta appears and immediately goes dark. Drifting silently in the new void.

For a moment we can see a single blue light moving within the damaged portion of the ship then it too goes dark.

Miller and Church are tense. Ambient light throws ominous shadows around the darkened interior.

“How we looking?”

The red light pulses from deep within the sphere.

“We're in one piece. Ish. Powered down as a precaution while I assess.”

Church frowns in the dark.

“So we’re adrift? For how long?”

“I can crunch the coordinates back once I figure out where we are.”

Church turns to Miller, his face revealing he already knows the answer to the question he’s about to ask.

“She doesn’t know where we are?”

“I know where we’re not,” says Lucy. “We’re not floating in our own debris field and we’re not inside a sun. Do you know how risky a blind jump is? Shep... who is this bozo? Why are we running from our own side? What the fuck have you got us into?”

Miller pats the sphere affectionately.

“You did good, Luce. We’re running from them because the war is long over and I spent the last three years in the stockade. The bozo is the guy who broke me out. But I know where we are so there’s no need to panic.”

Church leans in, the red light from the sphere illuminating him, demon like.

“So just where are we?”

Miller is looking up at the starscape that is completely oblivious to their existence.

“Somewhere new.”

TO BE CONTINUED

Phew. Still with us? Thanks for reading.

September is already looking to fuck me sideways, but we’ll back here next week with something shorter I think.

As we approach 250 subscribers please do share if you think you know anyone who would dig this kind of stuff. Much appreciated!

Stay safe!