Nebula Express DarkSF novel by John Argo

= NEBULA EXPRESS =

a DarkSF novel

by John Argo

Page 22.

"Poor kid," Lantz said. "What memories of ours are real?"

Tomson said: "If the hull was punctured, which is my bet since we saw all that slag and charcoal and all those missing decks that simply burned away, then the ship has done a great deal to repair itself. Or it's been repaired a lot. By whom?"

"People like us," Ridge said. "WorkPods. You saw how old Caulfield was. He must have been the last one out of WorkPod09 in many years."

"You saw incubators in WorkPod01?" Tomson asked.

"Yes." Ridge pictured once more the calm, secure, shadowy interior he'd glimpsed. He pictured again the orderly array of incubators. "I think the ship grows generations of us. For generations we've been repairing the ship. Generations of us." He trailed off. Lantz cried again. Brenna sniffled. Ridge continued: "Venable, that son of a bitch, if he's real. He and a few people, working behind the scenes, out of reach of these damned baseball-heads, have been growing generations of us to slowly get the ship back into shape. For some reason, nobody has come to rescue us, so it all just keeps going like this." He walked among the scattered bones and dried-up scraps of skin of the ship's humans. As he stepped over it all, laughing madly, he saw their clothing disintegrate into puffs of dust. "There is no question now," he said, "we can't deny it. This is a generational ship of some kind, purpose unknown. Colonization? Maybe. It's anyone's guess. I want to know the answer!" He shouted at the rows and rows of dead people. "I want an answer, you bastards!" He shook their incubators, and kicked one. It was heavy and barely moved. "Serves you right, you heartless bastards!"

"Look down here," Tomson said. He pointed down a long central aisle wider than the rest. His three companions followed him into a wide central area crammed with dead machines. Stillness, shadows, emptiness hung eerily over the machines that were choked with dust and had not run in many years. "If I can fire some of these up," Tomson said, "we might be able to figure out what year it is and where we are. We might be able to figure a lot of information out."

Lantz held up her hand. They all fell silent and listened to a distant medley of flute sounds. It was like the noise made by wind pushing gently through drainpipes on a rainy night, Ridge thought. He had no idea where the image came from, but it felt eerie and creepy. Chills traveled up and down his back. Lantz ran a wrist over her forehead and leaned against the metal skins of the computer cabinets. "I don't know how much longer I can take this." She slumped down in one of a dozen or more chairs that stood randomly about. She rested her arms on the armrests and lay back tiredly for a few moments. Tomson did the same in another chair, and looked longingly at Ridge. Tomson said: "Ridge, don't you ever get tired?" He looked at Brenna: "You okay?"

Brenna hugged herself and nodded uncertainly. Her lips trembled, and her eyes flicked sideways as if she were glancing back into her wonderful memories. "I'll be okay once I get over it," she said faintly.

Lantz spoke for her. "I wish I knew if any of it was true. Do I really remember smelling the moss on foggy morning? Or is that just bullshit, like the memory of a butterfly wing beating in stillness so profound you could almost hear the wing flutter as the little guy moves from one big purple flower to the next. Or are the purple flowers bullshit too?"

"None of it is bullshit," Brenna declared in a small, firm voice. "All of it is real and sacred because those are our memories. We are people, and that is our soul. Our memories are our souls, and it doesn't matter how the memories got there." She suddenly burst into tears. "I had two beautiful babies and they were not bullshit." She threw herself against a tall computer cabinet and hugged it, crying. She hauled back and planted a resounding punch on the cabinet surface, which echoed like a flat cracked gong down the corridors. The flute music paused a second, then grew louder.

"They are getting closer," Tomson said. He moved weary eyeballs right and left as if wondering—should he run again? Was it worth it? Ridge had the same feeling, but wouldn't let it get the best of him...not yet, anyway. "Come on," Ridge said, "we need to find our way into the CP. We need to interview Captain Venable."

"I'd like to strangle him," Lantz said, jumping to her feet. "Come on," she said, offering Tomson a hand. "Let's go."

"Yeah," Tomson said with a sigh as he pushed himself erect. "Ridge, lead the way. Where's that man with the answers? Where is that handsome captain of ours? I'd like to have a few words with him before I wring his neck."

Ridge grinned. He listened carefully and heard the flute sound getting closer from several directions. He could have sworn he heard running feet. If the mudmen could run that fast, then there was little hope of escaping them. Sooner rather than later, they would catch up with the four remaining team members. Until then, Ridge thought, we'll give them a run for their money. "I think I see more elevators down there." Ridge pointed down a main artery to its end against the curving hull. "We're close to the nose area. Maybe we can get into the CP and barricade ourselves in. It's a small area and we can defend ourselves."

"If there is food and water," Lantz said.

Brenna shouldered her rifle and stepped forward. "I'd rather die of thirst than have those things tear me apart."

Once again, Ridge found himself a step closer to falling in love with Brenna—or was it awe? Her demand for dignity made Ridge feel quiet and content inside, even if they were about to be killed.

Brenna said: "Everyone, stop looking so glum. We have each other, we are still alive, and we have a CP to find. Let's go!" She started briskly off in the direction of the elevators by the hull, and Lantz was the first to scramble to try and keep up with Brenna. Ridge and Tomson followed, Ridge feeling glad for once he did not have to lead.

Behind him, the dull brush of mudmen vocal chords on rounded mouthfuls of air grew louder.

Thank you for reading. If you love it, tell your friends. Please post a favorable review at Amazon, Good Reads, and other online resources. If you want to thank the author, you may also buy a copy for the low price of a cup of coffee. It's called Read-a-Latte: similar (or lower) price as a latte at your favorite coffeeshop, but the book lasts forever while the beverage is quickly gone. Thank you (JTC).

TOP | MAIN