The Archer's Paradox - The Travis Fletcher Chronicles Page 3

  Without warning, a jolt ran through her body, startling her out of her reverie, not a physical discomfort, more like the feeling you get when you have suddenly remembered something important when it was too late. She winced as her stomach momentarily tightened and turned to lead, her heart seemed to stop for a long second. All the stars turned shades of blue then streaked back on all sides of the ship, like millions of copper meteor trails of varying brightness and thickness. As each trail came level with the ship, the blue faded through the colours of the rainbow to red as it passed behind.

  “Wow, that’s incredible!” her momentary discomfort passed and forgotten, The Journalist jumped up and ran to the window to watch the streaks disappear to red behind the ship like a small child watching the passing scenery on a speeding train. The assembled crew toasted the void, as was the custom, and returned their attention inside. Some groups got up and joined other groups and table and chair configurations changed to accommodate the movement. There would be no further developments for some hours, so the assembled crew got down to some serious partying. In one corner, musical instruments were produced and songs were raised in strange tongues. Some danced, some clapped to the rhythm, some just leaned back to enjoy the spectacle, either inside or outside the ship. The Mercenary smiled and turned his attention back to his vodka.

  After a while The Journalist returned to the table, a puzzled look on her face. “I thought you said that we cannot travel faster than light.” she said accusingly.

  “We are not travelling faster than light.” The Mercenary replied flippantly. The wine had dulled her senses a little and quickened her temper; she did not like being fobbed off, so her journalistic training took over. He raised a finger in remonstration as a rebuke was forming on her lips, the Doppler Effect she had read about in a magazine somewhere was clearly visible outside. She saw his face turn to stone and felt the icy blast of his stare as he caught her intent. She pulled herself up short. She had witnessed the result of The Mercenary being called a liar before. She swallowed hard, sweat beading over her top lip. What she would normally use as a throwaway line or as a challenge to have something explained to her was tantamount to calling The Mercenary a liar and could, in her new life, have more serious and lasting consequences. Star, lying somewhere in the bowels of this huge craft with a hole through her chest and heart was testimony to that. She felt sick and turned away. The Mercenary remained silent and impassive as she gathered her shattered wits and thoughts together.

  “How can it look like we are travelling faster than light,” she nodded outside, “but you say that it is impossible? You did say you would explain later.” she finished lightly but still shaking. Good recovery, she congratulated herself, just be more careful next time.

  “Yes you should.” said The Mercenary quietly. The Journalist looked at him, startled. “The Compression Drive,” he continued without apology or explanation, “as the name suggests, compresses a corridor of space for us to travel through. Rather like all the atmosphere in this room being compressed into a gas cylinder: same volume of gas but less space to move through.”

  She nodded her understanding but clearly did not.

  “Inside the cylinder, we are travelling at less than light speed,” he continued, “but outside, it looks like we are going faster than light.” he paused for a moment to think. “Imagine a very long, speeding train and you riding a motor cycle very fast through it.” he began. “You are only doing one hundred kilometres per hour but the train is going at two hundred.” he continued, moving his hands in explanation. “The net result is that you are travelling at three hundred kilometres an hour.”

  Light dawned; she remembered a similar conversation with an old boyfriend at three in the morning after drinking far too much wine. The boyfriend did not last much after the wine was finished, but somehow the conversation reared up from her sub conscious. “Just like Warp Drive on Star Trek!” she interjected. The Mercenary winced visibly.

  “However, compressing or warping space, if you insist,” he corrected himself acidly, “is all straight forward, but you still need forward motion so we still need to have the fusion drive lit to push us through.” The Journalist looked puzzled, he indicated his vodka glass. “How can I move this glass from one end of the table to another?” she shrugged and pushed at the glass tentatively with one finger. “Just so, now no matter what I do here,” he waved his hands in front of the glass, “it will not move unless you push it. The Compression Drive just manipulates space, it does not cause motion. Now do you understand?”

  The Journalist nodded. Not quite like Star Trek then.

  “No.” said The Mercenary.

  “I thought you said that was rude and unforgivable.” she shot back accusingly.

  “The wine is making you lose some control and you’re starting to babble.”

  “What are they singing about.” she hastily changed the subject to shift the focus away from herself to a group of around twenty people, male and female in equal numbers. They were all tall, nearly two and a half metres, with elongated heads, huge eyes and had well-tanned skin indicating a predominance of outdoor living. The song sounded mournful but with an underlying feeling of hope.

  “In remembrance of happier times:” he replied, “lost loves, dancing naked in the moonlight, swimming in bottomless azure lakes, making love under a cloudless sky, remembering friends, family. Simple pleasures they can no longer enjoy.”

  “Happier times, are they not happy?”

  “They are the last of the Arcturans, their planet was devastated by a war they never asked for or played any part in.”

  The Journalist had seen a couple of Arcturans before but had never had a chance to speak to any of them. She indicated that The Mercenary should tell her more.

  He nodded and began, as if he had told the tale a number of times before. “They come from Arcturus 2, a beautiful planet with an abundance of natural resources and perfect climate. I suppose you could call it Paradise.” he paused a moment to reflect, then continued. “Although they had a complex civilisation, their culture was to live with the land rather than from it. They had developed highly efficient forms of energy production including orbiting solar panels and had no need to burn their world to fuel their industry, so there was very little pollution. Unfortunately, they had two neighbouring planets in the same system, Arcturus 1 and Arcturus 3. Arcturus 1 was closer to the sun and therefore much hotter and arid, Arcturus 3 was further out and colder. Both Arcturus 1 and Arcturus 3 were rapidly running out of their natural fuels and polluting their atmospheres. They regarded their neighbour with a high degree of jealousy. Both planets attempted to annex their neighbour for their own consumption. There was a long and bloody war using some weapons that should never have been invented. The peaceful Arcturans had no means of self-defence and just got caught in the crossfire. Eventually the atmosphere became so poisoned and the water so polluted by the by-products of war and biological agents that the whole planet became useless as a commodity, but the warring factions still carried on.” His voice became tinged with futile anger. “We picked up a desperate plea for help but arrived too late to make a difference. By the time we made orbit, there were only a few small communities high in the mountains, with no more than a few tens of thousands left, and a lot of those were in a terminal condition.”

  The Journalist was aghast. “What did you do?”

  “The only thing we could: we evaluated the situation to assess which of the warring parties was the aggressor, then blew the crap out of anything that flew and carried a weapon, both in orbit and in the atmosphere. We ended that war in less than ten rotations of that planet. The ground troops would die off eventually without food, clean water, breathable air and protection from all the poisons they had inflicted on the world.”

  “Revenge?” The Journalist was startled, “That does not sit well on you.”

  “No, we were furious at the stupidity of it all, but revenge is not our way, not even on behalf of another.
We were there to protect the true inhabitants against aggression; even though it was a futile gesture, on our part it did feel good. For good measure we visited both Arcturus 1 and Arcturus 3 and took out any orbiting military ships or space docks we found and left warnings of dire consequences if any vessel were to find its way to Arcturus 2 in the future. An empty threat, but satisfying none the less.”

  She got the impression that he was being flippant and oversimplifying the situation for the sake of a quick explanation and that there were some deeper and more painful memories that he had no intention of sharing with her.

  “There was nothing that we could do for the survivors.” he looked down at the floor for a moment. “They were beyond even the resources of this ship. We managed to get two hundred and fifty out before it was too late. They live with us and work on the ship’s systems. It was their payment for our help.” The Journalist looked puzzled. “We are mercenaries when all is said and done. Their planet was dying and will be uninhabitable for over a hundred years, but they want to be able to return home eventually and they are probably the best engineers in the galaxy. They have made some modifications to this ship that even the original designers never thought of. The arrangement works well for both of us.” he shrugged slightly. “After a while, if we find a planet they can live on undisturbed until they can go home again, they will be free to leave, if that’s what they want, but I would be sorry to see them go.”

  An unbidden tear streaked The Journalist’s cheek, how could a whole race be destroyed because of another’s greed? Then she remembered Earth’s less than exemplary history: the Aztecs, the American Indians, the African pygmies, all decimated because of greed, stupidity and arrogance. She turned her attention back to The Mercenary who had just had his vodka refreshed.

  “So, the train crashed. What happened next?”

  **********

  “He’s awake.”

  “Hello, can you tell me your name?”

  “No reaction.”

  “Hello, can you hear me? What is your name?”

  “Still nothing.”

  His head felt stuffed with cotton wool and his vision revealed nothing more than indistinct blurs moving against a blurred background, like trying to watch television through frosted glass. He tried to form words but nothing came out, the effort tired him and he lapsed back into unconsciousness.

  He awoke again, feeling disorientated and momentarily unsure of where he was; as if he had just come out of a long deep sleep. He brushed the cobwebs from his mind; his sight cleared enough to see a nurse in a clean, starched uniform passing by the end of his bed.

  “Ah, you’re awake,” she spoke in a very matter-of-fact manner that only nurses use; “I’ll fetch the doctor.” Travis was in a small clean room, alone. He could see a door at the extreme left of his field of view.

  A few minutes later the doctor appeared. He was a short, stocky Sikh with a sparse black beard and was wearing a grey turban. He smiled, his white teeth contrasting his swarthy complexion. Travis thought idly that he looked like an urban guerrilla and should be wearing camouflage and carrying an Uzi, rather than a white coat and stethoscope.

  “Hello, I am Doctor Lota. Do you know where you are?” His English was impeccable, just a hint of an accent.

  I’m guessing by your attire and my surroundings that I am in hospital, something to do with a train crash probably. Travis replied sarcastically, attempting to mimic his off-hand style.

  “Can you tell me your name?” A light shone in each eye momentarily.

  You can call me Mr …

  “Still no reaction.” the doctor shook his head and muttered to himself as he scribbled on his clipboard.

  Oi, I’m talking here!

  “Can you hear me? Blink if you can hear me.” Lights flashed in his eyes again.

  He tried furiously to comply. Yes I can hear you and I’ll poke you in the fucking ear if you ignore me again. The doctor shook his head and tutted to himself as he left the room. The nurse bustled round the bed tucking in the corners. Where’s he going? I haven’t finished talking with him. Where’s everyone else? Where’s the rest of my family? The nurse looked at him, a slight pitying look in her eyes and headed for the door. Bewildered by everyone’s attitude he called out, Nurse! He made to get out of bed and follow the nurse but nothing happened. He tried again, nothing moved. A lock of hair had fallen over his eyes and he tried to push it out of the way. No hand appeared in front of his face. Bewilderment gave way to concern as he cast about the room to find a bell to call a nurse. His view remained unchanged, his head did not move on command, not even his eyes would swivel. Concern now gave way to panic. He felt as though he was being held immobile by unseen forces. The more he struggled against his unseen bonds with no result, the more panic stricken he became. His heart began to race and his breathing came in short sharp pants as he began to lose all sense of reason. He screamed, long and loud. An alarm sounded in the distance.

  “He’s hyperventilating, going into shock! Get the doctor!”

  “Ease off on the oxygen, he’s getting too much.”

  “Dopamine, ten mcg!”

  “Pulse is slowing, breathing normal, ok I think he’s stable again.”

  “Nurse, introduce PHP into his IV, that should help to keep him stable”

  “Yes doctor.”

  Extreme fatigue washed over his body and he slipped into troubled sleep. He was flying over the train again as it careered out of control. His vision zoomed in and he saw his sister with a piece of metal the size of an arm through her chest, his father, flung through the carriage window as it then toppled on to him. His grandmother, already dead of heart failure, never felt the table that ripped from its moorings and crushed her frail body. Big cousin Pat desperately dragged the injured out of harm’s way until the girder ripped open the carriage and cut Pat in half. The vision took Travis from one end of the carriage to the other, showing all his family lying dead in the mangled wreckage. The vision zoomed back outside where he hung upside down for a long moment before plummeting head first towards the ground.

  He awoke with a start. The room was empty but he could see movement beyond the door.

  Hello? No answer. Can anyone hear me? No answer. He tried to get a better view of the door but nothing moved. He waited, troubled by his dream. Was it a dream? It was too vivid, he remembered every detail. His brain recoiled in shock as he unwittingly brought up the carnage that had been laid before him.

  Two men entered with Dr Lota. One wore a cheap suit that was crumpled and shiny from too much wear, the other the uniform of a police officer.

  “You say he had no identification on him when he was brought in?” The one in the cheap suit was saying.

  “No,” replied Dr Lota, “We know nothing about him except that he was in the toilet when the train crashed.”

  “How did you determine that? I gather he was thrown clear of the train.”

  “His trousers were round his ankles.” said the doctor, matter-of-factly. The officer sniggered.

  Oi, do you mind? Interjected Travis, I am here you know.

  “Can he talk?”

  Of course I can, shit for brains.

  “He has been totally unresponsive since he regained consciousness.”

  No I haven’t, you’re just not listening! Travis was getting annoyed.

  “What are his injuries?”

  “We have surmised that he struck a telegraph pole after being flung from the crashing train and has multiple fractures in his arms, legs and chest, his spleen is ruptured, he has one collapsed lung, a pierced kidney and his spine is broken in a number of places. He is completely reliant on life support machines.” Travis was stunned; his brain locked on the conversation and replayed it again and again.

  “The Railway Inspectorate are crawling over the wreckage now,” the detective in the cheap suit said in an offhand manner, “we should know more about your mystery patient soon, but it looks like he was the only survivor from the front ca
rriages.”

  The men left, he was alone to relive his nightmare and contemplate this disturbing conversation.

  **********

  Time passed. A routine was struck. He knew it was morning when the nurse came in to check his charts and said “Good morning”, he would reply but the nurse would ignore him. The same thing happened in the afternoon and the evening. He had no other visitors save the occasional doctor. He got to know the shift patterns and gave each nurse a name based on their looks and voice. Three times a week a doctor, usually Dr Lota, would come in and test his reflexes. They always asked his name and always ignored the answer. He was waiting for ‘Nurse Marylyn’ to come in; she was blonde and had that husky voice you only get from smoking forty cigarettes a day.

  “Good morning, Mr Fletcher.” Right on queue but this morning was different. Accompanying Nurse ‘Marylyn’ were Dr Lota and four colleagues. Dr Lota conversed in hushed whispers and compared notes with two, while the other two, a man and a woman, stood at the end of the bed regarding him with curiosity while Nurse ‘Marylyn’ busied herself checking his IV drip.

  “They’re discussing whether or not to switch off these machines that are keeping you alive.” the male waved an elegant arm at the array of devices surrounding Travis’ bed.

  What? Travis was alarmed, firstly by what the man had said, secondly because no one had spoken directly to him for weeks without asking his name and ignoring the answer.

  “They’re going to end your life, but then to them you are already dead.” Nurse ‘Marylyn’ continued checking drips and needles, oblivious to the conversation taking place. “Your whole family died in that accident, you have no one left and they cannot cure you, so they are going to turn off these machines and let you die.” the man continued.