Personal and Confidential Note:
My friends. We have known each other
since diapers. You know, I am not going to take this. He avoids my
sword, and harangues me with his viper's tongue behind my back. I am
threatened by this, and I am well advised to take down his entire
house.
As usual, the attempt is sideways and
undermining to my position. I have been challenged again, entirely
because of my advanced skills certainly, to once more prove the truth
of my claims in the historical realm.
It began, when I was naturally minding
my own business -- being a professional as I am -- and attending to
the procedures and affairs of my duties, as I am always want to do
so, whenever these refits occur.
I was therefore, going about my lawful
and civilized duties when this challenge was forced upon me, by the
representative of his Lordship Macho Bombosso (whose real name shall
not disgrace this telling) to whom which I refer to in contempt, not
for the first time -- rather than the ogre himself.
I was standing dockside, starboard as a
matter of fact, in full uniform alongside my flagship the 'Death
Grip'; being attended to by a group of lieutenants who were my
couriers and messengers, of course; when this braggart and pompous
ass presents himself, quite without entourage or introduction, and
has the gall to ask if I have heard the latest news about the
aforementioned Little Lord's marvelous symposium on the History of
Turner{§m}. Needles about the Little Lord, I do not need under the
best of circumstances; let alone while I am supervising the refit of
a Battle Carrier of the Fleet in drydock.
Knowing my temperament, and being
athletes all, my lieutenants had the oaf by the collarbones and
heels, and were about to chuck him over the side, which would have
been fatal as the drydock was dry -- when I intervened. After he was
deposited on the cement, I leaned over his ruffled self, and asked
him to tell me his orders -- from Lord Macho Bombosso no less!
It seems, quite unworthy of
verification, that the Little Lord has again gone about presuming to
be scholarly about anything, other than his own beard and ingrown
toenails -- with the usual pomp and ceremony and advertisements. This
always attracts a temporary crowd of the unbelievably bored, and the
inexplicably curious, amongst the citizens of the Fleet Community
here at Stationem Uno.
Which, on its own merits -- lacks any
entirely. Being pure sophistry at best, such 'events' are about as
worthwhile and note worthy, to a man of my position, as last week's
safe-cracking recipes in the back pages of the Police Gazette.
There is a genuine problem with it,
nonetheless, and towards a proficient remedy I am sending this report
to your Lordships of the Fleet Admiralty. All nine, of your wonderful
selves.
That unknighted wharf rat, has again
garnered for himself a quantity of undeserved and ill-placed
attention, by the 'dumb-as-a-box-of-anchors' press -- and as
'rear-sniffing' will always have it -- also several Senators of this
sector. Whom (it saddens me to say) sit on the Military
Appropriations Committee. The same committee that asks your nine
blessed souls -- whether the Little Lord is truly so magnificent as
he seems.
This is blatant self-promotional
rhetoric, and falsehood for the sake of the budgetary advancement of
his Fleet, over my own.
I will not even deign to examine the
documents and speeches of the Little Lord, concerning the subject
matter of this report. Said Indignity, already knows fully well that
I am a scholar concerning these matters -- and indeed about the
histories of our entire sector -- and perpetrates these atrocious
behaviors as much to aggravate myself, as to gain monies for the
expansion of his own Fleet.
It is with the expressed intention of
offering Your Lordships the true account of this topic, that Your
Excellencies can, by the light of your own learned wisdom, examine
the glaring differences between anything that has been presented
falsely thus far -- and this truthful and insightful rendering of the
facts.
All the better to speak the Truth to
Senators with.
Attached: My Spares, Repairs, and
Renumerations list for the Seventh Fleet.
Do not forget. I am a Planet Owner in
this sector, and I can buy the planet you are sitting on.
Aminjir Navarian
*************************
*************************
*************************
*************************
A Most Public Exposition:
Being: The pursuit of the accurate
dispensation of the facts and statistics concerning the activities of
the Seeker Star II and crew -- Southwestern Frontiers visa Stationem
Decem -- latter half of the Thirty-Ninth Century A.D.
By: Admiral Aminjir Navarian --
Plantagenet of Navarian's Station.
Fleet Admiral -- Seventh Star Fleet
Sector NCIC
Headquarters, Stationem Uno. May 3,
8991 A.D.
*************************
*************************
As I intend for this popular history to
put to rest, once and for all, the many conjecturous and rapscallion
efforts of less worthy scholars and the unscholarly as well; and to
allow our civilization to move onwards into further realms occupied
by exotic star clusters -- without needless fear and anxiety ...
whereby this telling must reach the
densest dawning of as many citizens of the Collective as it may reach
...
I shall choose the Type 6 (subparagraph
4) presentation format; rather than the Types 1 or 2 (October, 8986
A.D. release) as prescribed by Court Inquiry procedures -- which I
myself authored to begin with.
Grazie
*************************
*************************
There was really no fairness to it, out
here, he decided. Just a few hours ago he was so much enjoying
himself, lounging in the rec-room, all alone, playing a few
selections of his favorite Saint Louis waterfront club jazz, on his
almost new alto saxophone. He was practicing, of course, for the next
set that he and his jazz group, on board the Seeker Star II, were
scheduled to play at Stationem Decem Orion when they arrived in four
days hence.
Now, after stepping over the body of
his synthesizer man from the same jazz group, he was smashed up
against a medical basin in the sick bay, looking desperately into the
mirror and slowly pulling an eight inch piece of stainless steel
tubing out of his throat. His suit was still on, the jetpack and
helmet cast across the floor of the sick bay. Somewhere up forwards,
all kinds of hell was still breaking loose. He could hear the
aftershock explosions and the various alarms sounding up in the
bridge; but his section was still secure (according to the displays)
and he had three pieces of shrapnel in his body to be removed.
Starting, with the tube of steel that had shot into his throat
without reaching his vertebrae; or else he would be floating amongst
the debris outside the ship right now.
There was no way around it, he pulled
outwards violently and the tube gave way. More shocks of pain seized
him, and he almost lost consciousness.
He did lose his vision, as blood began
to stream out of his throat. He grabbed at the front of his throat
with a gloved hand, and slapped a form dressing over the wound with
the other glove.
He was going down fast, and he knew it.
There was no possibility of his saving the ship, or fighting the
damage. He knew that too. He was minus a pint of blood by now, and
losing more. He could feel the wetness of a bloody suit interior on
his chest, upper left arm and upper right leg. If the automatic
systems or the survivors of the crew did not save the ship -- all
that he was doing here was worthless, like his chances for survival
right now.
He unlocked the gloves, and twisted
them off from his hands, as the dressing on his throat began to fill
with blood and overflow down his chest.
He needed the RapiSuture wand. This, he
found several bays away in a top drawer. He staggered back to the
basin, and the large mirror over it. With his EVA suit still on, he
began the very painful process of stitching up his larynx, or what
was left of it. He let the machine do its work on automatic mode set
for 'larynx'. Then, set for 'Subcutaneous', he began to stitch
together the thin layers of skin that had covered the front of his
throat. The tube had hit him exactly edge on, as he looked up over
the edge of the parabolic antenna into a blinding curtain of
electrostatic energy, inside of which was the exploding escape
module; blasting apart along with a hefty portion of the bulkhead
just above and behind the portside wing.
He had no thoughts of what might have
caused all of this to happen. He only thought of closing the hole in
his throat, which mercifully was just the shape of the tube's
diameter. His problem was removing scraps of the suit, that had been
forced into the wound by the impact.
Finally, he got to the outer dermal
layer. He changed the settings on the RapiSuture wand, and watched
with fuzzy vision as the skin came together and was melded into a
blend with the liquid sutures of the wand. An onboard laser smoothed
the mixture into a wrap of original skin and new plasmic flesh, coded
for his DNA by the hand grip reader.
Now he searched for, and found, a vial
of time-released general anesthesia. He loaded it into a syringe and
set it aside. This done, he reached for a sharp scalpel and began to
cut off the left arm of his suit, and a large patch from the front of
his upper right leg. Both were impact areas. A jagged piece of
escape module shrapnel stuck out from both places. Sharp, raw,
bleeding.
He had followed the rule, he had not
panicked nor pulled out the foreign objects that had ripped into his
suit. The suit's reactive layering had quickly seized the pieces of
metal and surrounded them, sealing off the airsuit again. That is
how, bleeding nonetheless, he had lasted long enough to pull himself
down the side of the ship to the starboard aft cargo hatch, not
wanting anything to do with the port side.
The pieces of metal came out with an
attendant yelp in each case, followed by the RapiSuture wand and its
magic treatment. He worked fast each time, the sudden pain clearing
his vision briefly. After these tasks were completed, he injected the
anesthesia into his naked left arm.
By now, he was sitting on his ass on
the sick bay floor. He felt around the outer layers of the suit for
more wounds; but he could not and there were not, he hoped, as he
fell back onto the floor and passed out.
----------
The lights of the sick bay had gone
out, only the emergency lights still shown. He awoke many hours
later, in the darkness, still warm inside the suit. His left arm was
bare however, and yet it was warm also. The environmental system for
this section must still be working. His suit was sticking to his
body, because of dried blood, and that hurt. He got to his feet
slowly, not to pull out any new sutures, and went to the sick bay
communications console. For an hour he tried every station, but no
one responded. The ship cameras were quite functional, and they
showed the gruesome Truth.
He made sure that this section was
sealed, according to the indicators. Then, he manually checked the
sick bay entrances to make sure that they were closed tightly.
The ship was rolling, about five
degrees to port and then starboard; ten degrees in all; slowly,
taking about two minutes to complete a roll. This was stable enough
for him to take a much needed shower in the stalls at the back of the
sick bay, slowly peeling his suit off in the process.
In the shower, under the warmth of the
sparse waterfall that fell over him, he tried to remember what he had
already endured.
It was not his turn to fix anything
outside the ship. He was off duty and enjoying his saxophone playing.
That caused him a ripple of mental anguish, and he instinctively
reached for his throat under the shower; but held off from touching
it because of the new repairs. He thought miserably that his
saxophone days were over. But, hope springs eternal as they say --
and instead of worrying about the ship, he thought about how he could
still breathe. He weakly made several attempts to blow air out of his
mouth. The results were marginal and accompanied by some real pain,
but the air did flow out of his mouth.
"Get repaired! Get back together
Man!" he thought under the shower. Then, maybe in a year, he
will be able to really get out some pressure and play that saxophone
again.
That was the extent of his thought
processes for the rest of the day. After the shower, he toweled off
and then found the most comfortable of the med bay beds. He stripped
the blankets off two other beds, and under three of them he lay down
and promised himself that he would play the saxophone again as soon
as he could; and then fell to sleep again.
His last thought was -- "Frank is
still dead outside the door. Have to clean that up tomorrow."
----------
It was the antenna, that had really
saved his life. This was his chief ray of happiness over the next
four days. The tube had hit him because his head and throat were not
shielded by the antenna. He had instinctively looked up and over the
outer rim of the antenna at the explosion. Now, four days later, he
was looking at that same antenna through the camera eyes of a repair
droid on EVA (Extra Vehicular Activity) for the purpose of inspecting
it. That part of the dish which he had been behind, was smashed
heavily and riddled with shrapnel, two of which had gotten through
and hit him hard. But, there were hundreds more that had not reached
him, otherwise his suit would have exploded.
Malcom Jackson was making himself be
busy. He could, by now, maintain for about six hours a day; before
having to trudge back to his comfortable bed in the sick bay. Today's
point-of-it-all was to inspect the antenna, having already made clean
up attempts on the bridge. The more he stayed busy, the less he
thought about things.
There was a thought, wandering around
in the back of his mind, that they were supposed to be at Stationem
Decem by now; but instead they were plugging along at one-eighth
speed on a course that was 170 degrees by 150 degrees away from that
destination; and there was nothing that he could do about it.
Apparently the engines had avoided damage because of their buffer
zones, but he was in no way prepared to take the ship off of its
emergency settings yet.
The last three days, had been an
experience in what to do with the Dead. All of the nice and prosy
literatures about how to properly dispose of bodies on board a
starship, were just someone elses trash now. Malcom, simply took off
of them whatever tools and weapons he needed; photographed their dead
bodies from five different angles, including full facial (cleaning
them up first); and then shoved them all out of a cargo hatch using
an EVA module. As there were 216 of them, he had to tie the entire
assembly together first. In a long and winding and frozen string,
they all drifted off into deep space.
"Say Hello to Waste Away I!"
was his only thought as he watched them fade away.
Nineteen of the ship's 88 service
droids still functioned, and of these he had eighteen working
determinedly at the damages to the ship's main hull structure,
portside. He still did not know what had happened, but the rebreather
plant and auxiliary power stations on the port side, just above and
behind the wing, were missing. Gone. Not accounted for.
Instead, that section was exposed to
outer space and the ship survived due to the integrity of the walls
and hatches of that section, which had held.
The concussion waves, however, had
shaken the ship so heavily that instruments and systems were ruptured
all over the ship. Fires had broken out in many places. The officers
and crew died from either direct death, the shock waves,
asphyxiation, smoke inhalation, exposure, freezing or electrocution.
Five had committed suicide, rather than turn into trapped icicles in
areas that had lost heating.
Malcom, gave the EVA droid an order to
make a systems check of the antenna's transmitter, and then return on
board with the results. The antenna was a mess, but the transmission
arm was still intact and so was three quarters of the dish. He might
find a use for it as is, or he might even have it repaired if that
could be arranged. For now, however, he wandered back to his cozy bed
in the sick bay. The lights were working again, but he turned them
off and lay under the blankets thinking to himself.
His voice was gone now. Forever. The
damage was irreparable. Even a hospital equipped with surgeons could
not save what was no longer there to save. His larynx was simply
turned into a mass of jumbled flesh, which he hoped would reduce
itself naturally because it formed a lump in the front of his throat
now. Later, much later, he could just laser away the flesh until it
was flush with his neck again. He gingerly fingered the dressing that
covered the front of his neck, while he thought about his voice. He
had had a pleasant voice, crisp and clear when talking. He had not
laughed enough in his life, he decided.
He puffed air out of his mouth at this.
He would repair. Throat and lungs, he would regain his breath and its
strength. He would play jazz again.
----------
As he slept, the medicines,
anti-biotics and nutritions that he had fed himself intravenously
kept rebuilding his strength and mental equilibrium; enough so that
he began to dream; real dreams instead of fitful worries and jumbled
visions.
This is when Mr. Vaga Bond first
reappeared. Mr. Vaga Bond materialized in the center of the sick bay
facility, or at least he tried to. For about six minutes, he kept
flashing in and out silently, without a sound. Many data displays
appeared all over his body and forehead, most declaring systems
malfunctions. Then, he blanked out completely for twenty seconds, and
reappeared to stay.
Dressed in dark black and shiny new
black boots, with flashings up to his knees ...
scarlet trousers above those, girded by
a wide patten-leather belt fastened with an ornate and large square
buckle, of solid gold ...
all of which was matched above the belt
line by an elegant and very carefully made coachman's coat of blue
velvet (lined in gold trim and equally heavily made, as was the
entire affair) ...
across which there spanned, in a
diagonal course from his right shoulder to his left hip, a cartridge
belt and revolver holster of brown leather (filled with cartridges)
...
beneath which protruded a white silk
shirt of the highest manufacture, open in a swaggering way to reveal
a hairy chest that was considering its continuity with the short, but
full, silver beard that rounded his jaws ...
which were attached to a very handsome
face (on the sharp side) sporting just the beard without a mustache
...
into which was set dark blue eyes (not
the aquamarine types) ...
over which sat wide eyebrows just on
the heavy side, which flashed up and down as he looked around the
sick bay ...
over all of which was nothing less than
a genuine Highway Outlaw's Hat (a variation of the standard Pirate
Captain's apparel) of deep scarlet lined with dark purple ...
into which was fastened a shock of bird
feathers along the port side stretching upwards and backwards, a
mixture of seagull, puffin, booby and hawk feathers ...
he cast about with his sensors for any
life forms saying -- "Malcom? Commander Jackson? I know you are
here! Come forwards and present, Man!"
Malcom Jackson was oblivious to this,
naturally, as a deep and meditative stupor was setting in upon him --
almost comatose, but reparative.
Mr. Vaga Bond's image stood six foot
and four inches in his boots, which were tipped with silver plating.
On his left hip, slung low and set for a cross-draw style, was a very
modern 45 colt revolver of polished stainless steel, stag horn grips,
eight inch barrel and front iron sights -- hanging in a somewhat
drafty holster, that had so many gaps in it that just about every
feature of the weapon could be seen from a front view of the Man.
Except, he was not a Man. He was a
projection of artificial intelligence. The image of Mr. Vaga Bond
caught sight of the prone figure and floated over to the medical bed
into which Malcom Jackson was sinking; held up his right hand and
waved his palm over the length of the Man. His eyes flashed with
sensor readings, thermographs, and diagnostic reports.
Not liking the results, he stepped over
to the control console of that bed, drew up from it an optical
receiver module and placed it into the recess of his left eye.
Complex parameters and orders flowed from his artificial intelligence
into the sick bay computers in this way. Immediately, everything in
the chamber began to change; temperature increased, humidity
increased, lighting decreased, floor and wall vibrations increased,
electrostatic consistency in the atmosphere went more positive, and
sprays of mild anesthetic mists filled the room, along with natural
scents of citrus fruits.
Mr. Vaga Bond now drew from the console
a syringe apparatus which he injected into Malcom's right inner elbow
vein. By his orders, with the eye scanner still attached to his head
as he surveyed Malcom with his right eye, a special nutritional
mixture of saline solutions and electrolytics and vitamin serums
began to slowly drip into Malcom's blood stream. He fastened the
tubes to Malcom's inert right arm, unattached the eye scanner, and
stepped back.
With both eyes now, he stood and
surveyed Malcom's physical status; passing his right hand (palm-down)
over Jackson's sleeping form every hour, on the hour.
Mr. Vaga Bond was someone whose very
kind was so seldom seen or heard of in History, that he always
presented somewhat of a shock and discomfort upon being viewed for
the first time by the uninformed, or the uneducated, or simply the
Non-Irish.
Mr. Vaga Bond was an Irish Traveller; a
Man of Journeys, technically a Man without a Home, legally a Vagrant.
In those days of ever-increasing technological complexity, and its
accompanying breakdowns and malfunctions -- along with the
dehumanization of society caused by so many millions of
Techno-Addicts that literally worshiped cell phones, hand-held gizmos
and anything computerized (over anything Human, or anyone Human) --
there was a concerted effort by many people to return to the land and
to the way things were, before the Robotic Age began.
The Age of Vagabonds attained legendary
status therefore, and the study of the lives of the original Irish
Vagabonds became pronounced, and much published. All of which,
affected Malcom Jackson to no end.
Let me give you the 'grab bag' version
of who and what Malcom Jackson was.
Having a first name of Malcom was quite
natural for this Black Man, even though he was raised in, and lived
in, Ireland for most of his life. His father was black and his mother
was white -- there were no female children, just Malcom; who was
named after Malcom X, of course. His father was a mason and a
carpenter, and very good at both trades -- each of which put him and
his talents into demand in his section of Ireland; that being the
countryside areas southwest of Dublin. The house in which Malcom was
raised, sat on the border of the counties of Wicklow and Kildare,
almost exactly 28 miles southwest of the center of Dublin. This gave
Malcom access to a large city and its ways, but up to the age of 20
he had little inclination to have anything to do with Dublin; even
though his school grades were always exemplary.
Being part of a 2% population minority,
meant almost nothing to Malcom. He was one of those people who just
see people as people -- not particularly attractive, or
praise-worthy, but comfortable to be with as long as they were not
trying to kill each other off -- which in Ireland was an ongoing
Historical Fact. Then again, it was always the 'Whites' that were
killing each other off -- with his 2% left out of the mixture,
usually.
Malcom's mixture of nomenclature,
though significant to his black american father (an immigrant to
Ireland), was of only mild interest to his mother (whose own country
was filled with its own legends); and meant less than buttkiss to the
rest of Ireland. Consequently -- a simple formula arose for Malcom's
first twenty years of life in Ireland. Live and learn Irish History
and Lore, hear about and read books about Black American History;
share it with no one, because no one outside the family could give a
rip; and keep up with your general education, which for Malcom split
out in two directions, Computer Programming, and Jazz Music. Both of
which, he was well into (and much more than a novice about) by the
time he left home for the silicon fields of Electro-Industrial
Dublin, at the wee age of twenty.
Fifteen years later, Malcom was one of
the four Life Surveillance Specialists on board the Seeker Star II
(second in the production line of Striver Class Exploration
Starships), as she set sail on her maiden voyage for Turner{§m}
-- the Turner sector (section 'm') star cluster -- which can also be
read as, the star cluster that is (section 'm') of the Turner sector.
Her mission, as with all of her class,
was to analyze planets that had not been destroyed by the Waste Away
Class of Destructor Ships, which had passed through that sector
decades before -- annihilating any planets and/or stars that were
unstable and thus posed an unacceptable threat level to the
burgeoning Human Pioneers.
Pioneers, who were already building
their pioneering crafts (of all shapes and sizes) in anticipation of
the 'Oklahoma Land Rush' into Turner{§m}, that was planned for ten
years hence.
The Striver Class of Exploration Ships
was commissioned to determine which planets, in the various sectors
of the Orion Spur of the Galaxy, were worth the time and efforts of
the Human Pioneers -- furnishing them with complete exploratory
details of what to expect from each planet.
For this job, you had to be at least
six feet tall if you were male. Malcom was six foot and one inch,
just squeezing over the bar; but his talents at surveying planets for
lifeforms were great. Malcom was just thinner than 'heavy set', not
exactly thin, but not exactly bulky either; not a large muscle type,
so he was larger than an Ectomorph and yet slighter than a Mesomorph.
From his mother's influence came his
artistic talents, expressed as a Musician and Dreamer. When coupled
with the father's influence of Logical Thinking and Instinctive
Reasoning; what you got was a computer programmer who could really
play a saxophone, and create amazing artificial intelligences ... one
of which was a ship's SuperComputer -- Mr. Vaga Bond.
It was not the only SuperComputer on
board, of course; but it was usually not doing anything between jobs
-- which was the in-depth analysis of whichever planet the Seeker
Star II was orbiting. However, before that could happen, there had to
be a planet to orbit around; and those were sparse, as the Waste Away
Squadron had done their jobs quite thoroughly; perhaps too much so.
Finding a suitable match of Star and Planet therefore, was difficult.
The Waste Away Squadron had gone through the sector like hungry
wolves in a field of rabbits. Five Star Systems of the Turner{§m}
cluster just did not exist any longer. Of course, there were always
the charts left behind by them; that indicated suitable matches of
planets and stars; but none had been investigated more than remotely,
with instrumentation.
Mr. Vaga Bond was a cartographer,
amongst his many other talents; which included being a dead shot with
that 45 (colt replica) Plasma Pellet Revolver. A 'Bye Bye' Marble (as
it was called) did not shoot through you; instead it hit and absorbed
you, instantly dematerializing great gobs of flesh and bone. To be
shot by Mr. Vaga Bond, in any arm or leg, meant the immediate
disappearance of that extremity. Well, usually the fingers and toes
were left for convenient identification, which was a nice touch. Man
had learned how to use energy, to create more energy. Man was getting
better at controlling energy, but the energy to matter problem still
eluded him.
Gastronomically, Malcom was better off
than a Mesomorph and not as lucky as an Ectomorph. A double layered
chocolate cake -- which an Ectomorph could eat in one sitting, and
perhaps belch but never gain an ounce from; and a Mesomorph which
would turn and run at the sight of, for fear of gaining five pounds
on the spot -- merely added a pound to Malcom's density. Nonetheless,
he avoided sweets and confectioneries religiously.
Malcom had a waist size of 38, shoe
size of 11, shirt size of 17 1/2 (35) which is standard; so he had a large
upper torso (not extra large) and a pants size of 38x42, and large
hands (glove size large), and hat size 7 1/2 English. Facially,
Malcom seemed to have some Roman Ancestors of the past (perhaps
Greeks further back), because his nose was slightly curved in the
classic Roman style. Not in the pronounced curvature of a true Roman
nose, but enough to get the message across that someone had a
Mediterranean ancestor that he or she did not know about.
This, did not produce an ugliness or a
thugish appearance; even though the streamline-nosed Scandinavians
may consider anyone with a Mediterranean rounded nose as deformed or
disabled or unfortunate. Which, I am sure that they do. They, being
so fortunate in that perspective, themselves. You have to be a
student of noses, to nose these things.
Malcom was on the good side of what is
called 'Symmetrical'. Human Beings see symmetry as 'Beauty'. If they
see a Fir Tree that is perfectly conical they will say -- "That
is a Beautiful Tree." Or, even a tree that is almost conical but
has a few variations; as long as the variations happen symmetrically
on each side of the 'view' -- Human Beings will say -- "That is
a Beautiful Tree." One of the exceptions to that, is deciduous
trees. For some reason, Human Beings have learned that a tree (like
an Oak or Maple Tree) that branches out in all directions and is not
symmetrical at all; but is generally in a good shape and is not
lopsided to one side or the other; or it is not deformed; or half of
it has not fallen off; then that tree can be called 'Beautiful' by
Humans. It is one of the exceptions that we have to the symmetry rule
that says -- 'Anything that is natural, and has symmetry, is
beautiful.'
This, does not really extend to
inanimate objects. You can make a piece of metal in any shape that
you want, that is symmetrical so that it has the same appearance on
each side, and we will not necessarily say that it is 'beautiful'.
Well, Malcom Jackson was on the good
side of symmetrical. He was almost handsome, approaching being
handsome; but his features were a little more rugged than that, and
at the same time a little more fine than that; because his face was
taller than it was wider. Human Beings that see a tall face, that is
symmetrical (as in really symmetrical) will call that a 'fine-looking
face'. Or, in the case of Women, they will call that an 'Exquisite
Face'.
Well, Malcom was not quite to the point
of being 'fine faced'. He was more symmetrical than average, but he
was not handsome. However, he did have the distinguishing attribute
of having 'character'. Malcom Jackson had character all over the
place. He had quite a varied background (in and out of Ireland), and
his background and his living experiences had given him a lot of
character. It had drawn out of him a basket load of character, and
this is what happens with people who are very good inside, but they
are just not beautiful, or they are just not handsome. What happens
is, 'character' compensates for the lack of 'beauty' and 'symmetry';
and out of those people are produced sets of characteristics which
can be very complex. It makes them very good to know. Even pleasing
to look at; what would be called acceptable for reasons of character,
because we always like to read the thoughts and emotions and hopes
and dreams in the faces of each other.
Those people, who can use their
'character sets' to please and entertain and educate and help others
-- get along especially well, and are viewed as 'Beyond Symmetry'.
When other Men looked at Malcom Jackson
they saw a black man, with an inch of curly hair all over his head
(not an 'afro'), curly sideburns down to the bottoms of his ears
(slightly flared out), clean-shaven (as Malcom always was); who was
not 'handsome', which would have been a threat to other Men who are
also handsome (competition); and they did not see an individual who
was 'ugly', so they felt that they had to compensate and be nice to
them anyway.
What they saw in Malcom Jackson was
someone who was good to look at, as in not unpleasing to look at,
and had character. To Men, that made them comfortable and they wanted
to talk to Malcom Jackson, and get along with him, and be of good
acquaintance.
To Women, that made Malcom Jackson more
interesting, and they wanted to know more about his character. Some
Women, actually thought that he was sexy that way. Don't ask me why,
but that happened -- often enough.
'Handsome' is not always sexy to Women
-- you will have to ask the Women about that.
So, Malcom was above average in
everything, not excellent in anything, had a lot of character, got
along with other Men quite well, and was attractive to most Women.
All of which meant, during his brief
blaze through History, that he got along fairly well with his Species
at the street level.
At this point, the History of Malcom
Jackson (destined to become a Galactic Legend) becomes even more
mysterious and fantastic -- because absolutely no one knows where he
came from, to begin with.
His 'parents', were what God and Nature
gave to him -- after he was found. No one knows where Malcom Jackson
came from, he being an orphan and an abandoned child. Malcom Jackson
was literally found on a road that ran around the circumference of
Lake Liffey, south of Dublin. That lake is situated just west of
Mount Sorrell, and the road which passes along the shores of the
lake, hard up against the mountain, is not so often traveled; but
apparently enough for someone to leave one little black baby, in a
big wicker basket, in the middle of the road; right where it passes
across the sharp valley that leads down to the lake from the
mountain; and to be found on the same day.
As Fate or Design would have it, a
procession of portly white women (all farmer's wives) were cycling
along Lake Drive that afternoon, in such a way and at such a time
that they were the first users of that section of the road, after
little Malcom was abandoned there.
Thus, Malcom's first view of his new
world was that of eight large White Women's faces, looking down into
his big crib (large enough for three babies they said) with
astonishment and great concern. They were all wearing brightly
colored bonnets at the time, but that may not be relevant to the
Legend.
It took months, before the usual
Bureaucratic Red Tape was sat upon (squashed with great anger) by
those same eight portly farm wives; whereupon the 'court' gave up the
child for adoption; and the eight of them, carrying Malcom in his big
wicker basket, went gleefully out the stone doors of the courthouse
raising him high over a waiting crowd of thousands of 'Neighbors of
Tiny Tot'. The procession paraded off with splendid songs, minstrel
music and a really large amount of chatter; until only the judge and
two clerks remained at the door, watching the spectacle and looking
dejected.
The search was on, as soon as everyone
had a suitable drunk, for 'Suitable Parents' -- and people being
'simple and people' (as they are inclined to be at such time) --
quickly remembered, after the second tomato juice, that there was a
Black and White couple living southwest along the county borders,
named the Jacksons.
Simple Simon, said the Pie Man -- and
the child was offered to the Jacksons -- who, being childless, did
not refuse -- having been assured by the doctors, of both counties,
as to the child's health and shots (etc).
He was immediately christened 'Malcom
Jackson', by the totally Catholic population -- there was a church in
there somewhere -- and his incredible life as a Musician, Programmer,
and Astronaut was launched.
Soon, the entire incident became
another chapter in the Lore of the Land; and Malcom was allowed to
grow up in no special spotlight, that might have otherwise stunted
his developments.
Raising the baby to be their own was a
pure joy to the Jacksons, as he was quite a pleasant child,
inventive, smart beyond his years, and a virtual sponge for History.
With two parents of such different backgrounds, there was a plenitude
of History to be had in the Jackson house. However, as will always
happen in the upbringing of any intelligent Human child; there were
some topics and subjects that soared in the imagination and dwarfed
all other interests. One of those was his fascination for 'what had
been'. As he learned the foundations of technology, that would lead
to his status as a Great Programmer, he was simultaneously fascinated
with Irish Lore and the characters of the Irish Past.
It started with a school film about
Michael Collins, that Malcom found to be surprising and a bit
upsetting. It was his first introduction to the bloody past of
Ireland, parts of which were still happening, though as a child he
was quite protected from all of that.
As it worked out, as Malcom began to
study Revolutions he became side-tracked onto a somewhat different
tack. This included such topics as Independence, Freedom and
Individuality; but no warfare was attached to it.
He perused Revolutions and War with
mild interest; his primary passion otherwise being the fifteenth
century english concept of Freeman (a Franklin), and the Travelers
such as the Romani Gypsies and the Showman's Guild, and the Tinkers
(the Irish Travellers), and Wayfarers Worldwide, and finally the
Vagabonds of his own country.
In his heart, Malcom Jackson became an
Irish Traveller, also known as Tinkers and Gypsies. In physical
reality, he took to traveling across the country in wide searching
sweeps, looking for antiques and relics of a past that he wished he
had been born into. Due to the renewed interest of those times, he
often encountered other Irish Folk (and even Scots) who were
searching for the same things.
From a pre-Robotic Age population of
about 25,000, the ranks of the Irish Travellers had swelled to beyond
250,000 – a ten fold increase, and a pronounced change to the
overall (population-controlled) society of 9,000,000 Irish.
Particularly, when you consider that another three-quarter million
decided to live a new lifestyle, that represented a blend of the
Travellers and the Technologists. A lifestyle that was fond of the
former, and disapproving of the latter. Those Irish citizens, were
not as nomadic and as mobile as the Travellers were; they set up new
townships and trading centers to facilitate the arts and craft wares
of the Travellers, while making for themselves enclosed (fortified)
towns.
They also managed the worldwide trade
routes down which, and across which, the products of the true
Travellers traveled worldwide. Of course, in addition to Traveller's
wares, they also produced their own -- a special blend of
unorthodoxy, organic systemics, and keen innovations that became
known as 'Spunky Irish Technology'. It, became very popular in their
own hemisphere, from Shannon to Irkutsk. Spunky Irish, was a
methodology and an operational philosophy. It, applied to anything
from sewing machines to hand held computation devices. Spunky Irish
was a feeling, a design, a way of doing the ordinary mundane tasks in
a new and quite refreshing way (in that it was very non-Robotic, and
often baffled the Technocrats). On top of that, was the very
different appearances and displays of Spunky Irish devices, which
were deliberately crafted to appear non-European, and even
non-Societal for that matter -- and at the same time quite Earthly.
Hence, the overall population of
Ireland did not change so much as did the layout, the demographics,
the positioning. Entire towns were left abandoned, especially if they
approximated the centers of the Technologists. In their place,
situated further afield, the villages and town of the 'Carboners'
were created; often with appending facilities for manufacturing. The
accepted rule for Carboners and Travellers was to live 'Beyond 7 by
52'; which meant west of the seventh longitude, and north of the
fifty-second parallel. That neatly divided the country into the bulk,
owned and operated by the true Irish, and the eastern and southern
coastal regions owned and operated by the Technologists.
Which suited both sides, as this was
not a war; but rather a mutual revulsion and dislike. After all,
living on the same island they both needed each other to greater
extents than either side was willing to comprehend. The 'Beyond 7 and
52' supplied the foods, laborers, lower-level technologies and
construction materials for the entire island. The Technologists
managed the great seaports, allowing all to export their trades and
receive imports, tried to supply the higher-level technologies but
were often rebuffed by the Spunky Irish competition, and provided for
the overall defense of the island.
And then, there was always 'The North'
-- but we won't get into that.
The 'Carboners' were named after the
simple phrase -- 'Carbon-Based Lifeforms' -- and true to this
determination each Carboner settlement admitted Real Humans only. No
machines or robotic devices of the Technologists were allowed. This
was not a handicap, as the Spunky Irish machines were often more
advanced and better to use anyway.
Across this landscape of anti-Science
and anti-Robotic cultures, Malcom Jackson roamed, looking for his own
special targets of interest.
What he found was a swamp of Travellers
and Carboners of endless descriptions, most of which were an
off-center rendition of what was thought to be the Originals.
It was the Originals, that Malcom
Jackson was combing the island for.
Malcom had an idea.
Malcom was good with computers, and
artificial intelligence.
Malcom was going to create an Irish
Traveller -- artificial intelligence. But, it had to be the real
thing -- the Original article, complete with idioms and habits and
appearances and thought processes. A totally unique artificial
intelligence.
It's very thought processes had to defy
standard logical patterns and accepted practices of artificial
intelligence design -- while at the same time, being adamantly an
Irish Traveller in every respect.
That one-of-a-kind artificial
intelligence, was now standing next to him in the sick bay, patiently
monitoring his life signs.
----------
"There are no messages."
"There are ..." "There are a few messages we can ..."
"I have a message you should read."
Malcom came awake quickly. Not at a
start, because that would have ripped things apart again, but from
his present condition he rose from deep sleep rapidly, being guided
by the sounds of an artificial voice.
"Yow Man! You farr in the nepths
of it, and dere's no mistake!" "Lad, you ken what I say?
You moost about with ye! Ups!"
It hurt to shake his head, so Malcom
just confirmed that he heard with a grunt; and very slowly began to
rise from the bed. After a long shower, which Mr. Vaga Bond insisted
upon, he toweled and wrapped himself in a white bath robe. Mr. Vaga
Bond was already on the bridge, and Malcom trudged along the charred
corridors to join him.
Four consoles had been repaired so far,
on the bridge; and the central screen had never been damaged anyway.
Repeating itself on the central screen was a message from Stationem
Decem (Station Ten of the Orion Spur). It was not complete, however
the essentials of the message were there. An Admiral of the Fleet
(whom he did not recognize) was calling all ships in the Orion Spur
about the overdue arrival of the Seeker Star II, and its
disappearance. He was also mentioning the automatic emergency signals
that had reached the furthest southwestern receiving stations of
Stationem Decem that morning, and then had abruptly ceased. The
Admiral (that had to be Dennison, though he had never seen the man
before) was issuing orders for all ships to stand off from the last
known position of the SSII. That is all. Whatever else there was to
the message did not come through; and Mr. Vaga Bond informed him that
this was probably because they were now out of range to receive
Stationem Decem, without the aid of more relay stations; which the
SSII had yet to launch.
Malcom turned off the display, using
the controls of the console before him. Then, he reached for a mobile
keyboard and began to communicate with Mr. Vaga Bond via telemetry.
He typed his sentences, and Mr. Vaga Bond spoke his replies.
"What are there for relay
stations?" Malcom asked.
"All intact and functional per
specifications, Commander." was Mr. Vaga Bond's reply. That
meant there were forty of them, and they still worked. Did he want to
use them yet? What was everything about?
"Bond, give me a vocal briefing
about the ship's status, course, and destination."
Mr. Vaga Bond, always dressed like he
was about to rob your stagecoach, make off with the most beautiful
woman on board, and leave you sitting in the muddy tracks -- stood
upright to his fullest six foot and four inches, and read off the
response in his best analytical voice -- data displays and readouts
flashing all over his blue coat and inside his dark blue eyes, as he
spoke.
"I hope you realize Commander,
that I am the Planetary Analysis Unit. I am not the Main Systems
Unit, which no longer functions. I am merely the tertiary backup unit
in this situation."
"Do you have full access to the
ship, or not?" Malcom typed.
"If you authorize a 'Level Zero
Emergency Bypass' to my unit from the Main Nexus Hub, Commander ..."
Malcom turned away in his seat, shifted
sideways and began to work at a control console. This would take some
time, so he ordered a refreshment which was duly delivered by a droid
from the starboard side kitchen -- the portside kitchen no longer
existing.
When the beverage was placed next to
him, he tapped on the droid's control dome and pointed at his mobile
keyboard. Then he typed -- "Oid? How are repairs proceeding?"
The droid stopped in mid-motion, accessed data banks wirelessly, and
then spoke in a crisp terminal voice -- "Eighty-three percent
sealed. No more bodies found. Eleven droids EVA. Interior bulkheads
no longer needed being cannibalized for plating. Do you wish repairs
to main antenna?"
"How many droids will that
require?" Malcom asked.
"Nine."
"As soon as main hull damages are
finished, not before." Malcom typed.
"Mr. Bond, you now have full
access to the ship." -- he sent as he swung around towards the
artificial bandit. It was obviously quite unnecessary to inform his
companion of this; he was surrounded in data vortexes that swirled
all about him, as the information from the ship came pouring in upon
the Planetary Analysis Unit; which had now been reprogrammed to
emulate the Main Systems Unit; and for which Mr. Vaga Bond was the
three dimensional, and vocal, representation of.
"Presently." -- came his
voice as though he was speaking through a data waterfall. Then, he
went silent. Then, he flashed out and away.
Malcom sat looking at the spot for a
few minutes. Presently, Mr. Vaga Bond reappeared, without his hat
this time, and brandishing a Magic Wand.
"Attend ye heeer, says I. Harya
har har!" -- the highwayman swung his wand in the air and
sneered, as he began to call up a plethora of data screens which
hovered mid-deck over the bridge.
Reverting back to his analytical voice,
Mr. Vaga Bond continued; all the while using his wand to its best
star-shooting abilities. He would shoot stars, and at the end of the
stream of stars different data screens would appear. An interesting
effect, except Malcom himself had programmed it, so he was none too
impressed.
"All in all Commander, we are a
rum lot indeed! I mean ... ship's hull integrity is still compromised
by seventeen percent (data screen). There is a sixty-nine percent
capacity for transceiving via the main antenna (data screen). Our
engines and related control systems are intact; however navigation,
which has just been rerouted through me, is missing twenty-seven
percent of required sensors (data screen). Life support is nil along
the port side, with the exception of sick bay; as you know. Warehouse
stocks are unaffected by the blast, being behind the buffers with the
engines (large data screen). There is a large gash ripped out of the
forward nose cone section along the port side, caused by shrapnel I
suspect; at this time it poses no threat, but it will have to be
repaired and completely covered over (large view screen)."
"The main antenna first."
Malcom sent. "Then, we can attend to lesser repairs. Do I have
thruster and engine and navigation control?"
"Yes. Give me some time to realign
some routines first. I have to make programming adjustments, and test
responses."
"When, then?" Malcom asked.
"This time tomorrow should do
nicely." Mr. Vaga Bond replied. "We were enroute to
Stationem Decem, a four day's drive into the Orion Spur from
Turner{§m} (chart screen). Now, we are under minimal power and
edging back into the under section of the Turner{§m} open cluster,
going backwards and downwards from our previous trajectory (large
chart screen). That will give you the option, if you want it, of
continuing the previous mission; simply by analyzing the remaining
targets in Turner{§m}. We were assigned eight target planets, with
only two completed before we were called away (large cluster
diagram).
Star TmSC-4044, the southernmost waypoint, will be within a week's
flight at cruising speed, as I reckon our present course, from our
final readiness point. We must finish repairs first, naturally. But,
if we just continue our present drift we will not suffer much. We are
not drifting out into InterCluster Space. We are leaving InterCluster
Space, and returning to the open cluster -- Turner{§m} (forward view
screen). They will expect us to be somewhere in there anyway, if they
think we have survived."
"What do you give us for an ETA of
final readiness?" Malcom sent.
"Forty-eight days."
"Good, in a way. That will give me
time to heal up before we have to do anything strenuous ..."
"I should add, that there is the
matter of the Main Systems Unit. It has to be repaired, and by you
Commander. I cannot handle everything when we arrive at a target
planet. There must be at least two fully functional units on board
when that time arrives."
Malcom pounded his right first onto a
console table, then he picked up his keyboard again and sent -- "Not
now. I need sleep and more of it."
"I concur entirely, Commander. I
have repaired the damaged programming which was preventing the
starboard side entrances to the sick bay from functioning. You may
now move freely to and from the sick bay, without using the port
side."
"Thank You. What do you think of
my throat?" Malcom sent.
"You will never vocalize again.
You could try those new voice-synthesizers that have been developed
for the Space Marines on Navarian's Rock. They are expensive, of
course. Everything from that Rock is. However, if you decide to
resume the mission, we will not be free to do anything that we want
to do, for ourselves, for years. Perhaps, decades."
Malcom reclined in his seat, and stared
up at the ceiling of the bridge for long moments.
Then he typed -- "Keep the droids
fully occupied around the clock." At that, he rose to his feet
and walked somewhat haphazardly towards the sick bay, being certain
to take the starboard path.
Mr. Vaga Bond watched him leave. He
stored for later, a report that revealed the reason for their
dilemma, and the related fact that there would be no rescue ships
entering Turner{§m} to support them. To Humanity, they were as good
as dead and buried.
**********
Up to this point in the life of Malcom
Jackson, you could argue that there was enough material, of a
sufficiently vigorous and interesting nature, in his life to warrant
a mention in the various statistical journals and documents of the
time. Surely, a documentary (paperback and holographic) about his
survival on board the Seeker Star II, would be appropriate.
Such, was not to be however. Instead,
the name 'Malcom Jackson' was to skyrocket into the Collective
Consciousness; on fire with the Eternal Flames of Eternal Fame.
Malcom's, became a 'Household Name'
overnight in houses across the Inhabited Zones; otherwise known as
the 'Great Galactic Squash Court', or simply the 'Great Galactic
Squash'; as accommodations were a bit tight to say the least. Well,
figuratively, as it takes some time to blanket the entire Inhabited
Zones with any news. As soon as it was possible, the entire
Intelligent Galaxy was buzzing with his name, and his music.
Nothing was heard from the Seeker Star
II for years. The violent foil of dangerous energy, which the ship
had struck, was closing together at the moment of their passing. They
had careened off of it, like a bullet off the smooth surface of a
lake; back towards Turner{§m} it had sent them, heavily damaged.
Then it closed, sealing off the rest of the Orion Spur from
Turner{§m}.
To attempt a passage through it, in a
starship this massive, was out of the question. However, much smaller
objects seemed to be able to breach the foil if given enough
momentum. That, allowed for a short chain of relay stations to be
fashioned, with one station lodged in the foil itself and acting as a
portage for communications signals; none of which were known to the
Galaxy, until the first message from Malcom Jackson was received at
'Incident plus 4 years' exactly. On the dot as a matter of fact. Four
years to the minute, after the distress signals were sent by the
SSII, the first message from Malcom Jackson was received at Stationem
Decem Orion -- from a planet in orbit around the Star TmSC-2021. It
was this transmission that shocked and enthralled the imaginations of
the Galaxy.
You did not have to be a music lover,
or even know a jazz note from a love letter, to realize that there
was something totally unheard of happening in the Turner{§m}
cluster. The surprise of it, just added a little to the intensity of
the impact.
Never before, had any explorer (or
anyone of any description) sent an entire message across the reaches
of the Galaxy -- by Saxophone.
It was not just a message; it was an
immersion; it was a blast of feelings; it was a scintillating thrill
that the music brought to everyone who heard it. It was a song made
for a planet, and in its tones and notes were the impressions of the
planet itself -- the goodness and the hopes of its discovery.
Of course, it did not hurt that Malcom
Jackson (dressed in a white toga of ancient roman design) was
standing on a high precipice overlooking a vast turquoise-colored
ocean at the time. In the water below, thousands of marine creatures,
similar to plesiosaurs, were dancing and spinning; making a huge
splashing impression to the music; while overhead many kinds of
flying reptiles swirled and dove and pivoted in obvious relationships
to the tones of the song. Malcom, had an attentive audience of the
local fauna; all of which were obviously enjoying his song as he blew
it across the waves with his Alto Saxophone.
This spectacle was seen in scanning
panoramic sweeps of vision, by the audiences elsewhere in the Galaxy.
Of course, Mr. Vaga Bond was handling the camera and microphones; and
was not visible.
There was obviously a wind up there,
you could hear it mixed with the song of the saxophone; hundreds of
feet above the waves, where Malcom Jackson stood, his toga moving
with the currents. Tall grasses about him blew in this wind, and as
the view fell from the reptiles flying overhead, it panned outwards
across the ocean just as flocks of animals, the like of which had
never been imagined before, rose from the waves in great formations
and flew upwards as though catapulted into the heavens from the Gods
of the Ocean depths. These hundreds of beasts shown visibly as
illuminated bodies, wide and flat and streamlined, finned and winged,
reflecting blue and silver lights along their sleek and winged forms;
even their orange beaks shone brightly. They swooped upwards towards
Malcom, flashing in amazing numbers past his place on the edge of it
all; all emitting shrill streams of screams.
Against this, and surrounded by this,
he himself and his saxophone were illuminated; as the camera had now
swung back to his aspect. Then, it swung outwards again, across and
above the dancing marine audience, until it was looking straight
outwards to sea -- and there, at two kilometers distance, stood an
incredible archway of the planet; rising up out of the seas fully
twenty times as high as the precipice on which Malcom stood.
It was shaped like a leaping dolphin,
with its nose and tail reaching into the rock base upon which it
stood, and upon which the winds and the ocean were beating furiously.
From its back, there rose a single sleek fin at a slanting angle
backwards. In the archway it created, there existed an amazing
network of built structures; like a vast net with a central rotunda
and radiating spokes which reached outwards to the base and arch
around them. The net, appeared to be made of large stones; bright and
polished sea stones. In the thousands of frames which caught its
image, it was noticed to move and flex with the wind, but that is not
what everyone focused upon.
As Malcom's song was coming to an end,
from the archway flew a large formation of incredible looking winged
beasts that literally possessed two heads on two necks, one above the
other; the upper being shorter than the lower. Their frontal wings
were pivoting, not stroking in the air; and their propulsion came
from a set of lesser wings on the back sections of their long tailed
bodies; which were busy flapping, as wings are expected to. They were
scaled all over, with small dark yellow and orange plates, but their
wingtips and body lines were set apart in diamonds. Real diamonds,
deliberately imbedded into their skins.
With beaks that were shorter than you
would expect, they voiced strange and melodious calls, slightly on
the aggressive tone. They flew right past the camera, and Malcom
Jackson, just as the song ended; and the message stopped abruptly.
The last frame showed a blur of motion
all over it, being the aforementioned creatures, inside of which (on
the left side) was a single alien eye looking straight at the camera.
In its golden iris was reflected the image of Mr. Vaga Bond and his
camera.
----------
This, hit the Known Universe like an
earthquake.
Not only was Malcom Jackson immediately
known everywhere -- (and I mean everyone wanted a piece of this, from
prisoners to priests) -- but also, the entire Seeker Star Mission was
put into a blistering spotlight of interest and upheavals of support.
No one could learn enough about the mission, and there was no end of
volunteers and financial support.
Oddly enough, Jazz Music was
immediately hailed as universal -- and everyone knew about it
already. Everyone was clicked-with, and in the groove about, Jazz
Music. No one, commented on the enormous boom in Jazz Music sales,
galaxy-wide.
Then, the bad news had to be borne.
There was no way into Turner{§m}. It was surrounded by a most
dangerous barrier of energy fields; not dissimilar to the Van Allen
Ray Belt that surrounds our Old Earth for protective reasons.
Whatever was happening inside of the
Turner{§m} cluster, would have to wait. Of course, there would be
further investigations. This did nothing to reduce the clamor for
news about anything that was going on in Turner{§m}. The fact that
there was no way in, meant nothing. So much emphasis was placed upon
Turner{§m}, that many design contests sprang up across the Inhabited
Zones -- all aimed at breaching or penetrating the energy foil which
surrounded it.
The chain of relay stations which
Malcom and Mr. Vaga Bond had created for communications purposes, was
soon found; but not interfered with, lest they be damaged or put out
of alignment.
However, since the foil could be
portaged once -- surely it could be portaged twice. A new chain of
communications stations could be installed on the foil, perhaps even
cybernetic explorers could be sent in.
As these discussions filled the
communications terminals of the Inhabited Zones, another message
arrived from Malcom Jackson. It was entirely 'written', being a
single document. In it, was listed the specifications of the planet
TmSC-2021--4, and the discoveries that had been made there so far.
Such messages occurred once a week for five weeks, and then there
were no more.
Turner{§m}, was plunged back into
silence and deep space. But, the imaginations of the Intelligent
Species of the Collective were ablaze concerning the Turner{§m} star
cluster. If 'that' could exist there! What could exist in other
remote clusters?
----------
The silence was broken again, eighteen
months later.
Another audio and video message arrived
at Stationem Decem, from Malcom Jackson; this time labeled from
TmSC-0088--3. The Galaxy watched, as the camera's view flew over a
wide and seemingly endless expanse of snow and ice, punctuated with
outcroppings of red granite in jagged formations, that ran in
parallel lines with the direction of the camera. The land below was
totally frozen, but white steam was billowing from many cracks and
crevices in the ice, indicating that there was a heat source of some
kind below the huge sheet of snow and ice over which the camera flew.
The view angled upwards to show the
further stretches, and far off in the distance was a Man, dressed in
a pumpkin-colored snow suit; walking slowly towards a volcano,
playing a golden saxophone. Then, the song arrived; and it was
perfect to its setting and conditions. Not amazing and thrilling,
like the previous song; this one was much more subdued and filled
with long wailing tones and the emulations of the sounds of the wind
and the ice. The saxophone's notes rose and fell and shrilled and
flew through scales like a tempest, as the Man approached the rim of
the live volcano. Obviously, the view had been that of the top of a
volcano, smothered in ice and snow and yet still alive at its core.
Beyond the fiery caldera of the mountain, could now be seen vast
horizons of limitless snow and ice capped mountains, a fascinating
scene.
The camera was almost upon the Man,
when he disappeared over the rim of the caldera; and then the camera
too passed over the edge. Now, the song changed dramatically;
beginning to pulsate and tremble. The Man was very slowly walking
down a natural pathway that fed into the caldera; and before him,
two-thirds of the way down the descent, was the structure of an alien
starship.
It was somewhat streamlined, but the
engines were three and arranged in a triad about its tail section.
The tail was slightly oversized, but this was compensated for by a
bulky nose section, and the large main body which seemed to be more
utilitarian than military. It was probably a commercial vessel, seven
hundred feet long, and it could not have carried a large crew.
Possibly, it had been an exploration craft.
At once its fate was apparent. It had
landed just next to the caldera, whereupon the edge had collapsed,
plummeting the starship down into the volcano. It now clung
tenaciously to the side walls by its landing gears. Sooner or later,
natural events would loosen its hold on life and it would slide
downwards, turning over and over, until it hit the loch of boiling
lava below.
The song of the saxophone was now sad
and remorseful, and finished with a flourish of hopeful spirits and a
tone of mystery. At this point, the camera had reached the starship
to reveal that its outer hatches were all open. The impression was
that of emptiness.
----------
As the written data reports for that
planet came in, the Galactic Response was that of a deep appreciation
for the efforts of Malcom Jackson. A heavy sense of how worthwhile
the man was, swept over everyone. Even skeptics were now truly
impressed -- and everyone began to search through every database
known to exist in an attempt to identify that starship, whose
broadside image was now available to all.
This never happened. The ship's
identity was never solved. Soon, this was realized as something that
was not going to happen. Again! Mystery gripped the 'Life and Times
of Malcom Jackson' -- the title of an ongoing biography about
himself.
Days later, the written reports stopped
arriving about the planet. Habitation was not advised.
What was not reported, was that Mr.
Vaga Bond was now free. Free of the constraints of a large
transmission system being required to materialize his form. Instead,
Malcom had finished his prototype of a very mobile platform, around
which the artificial existence of Mr. Vaga Bond would center itself.
Being essentially a column of transmitters, firing out in all
directions, it literally materialized Mr. Vaga Bond around its
column. This was quite different from a projection. The platform was
mobile and flight capable, obviously.
So, Mr. Vaga Bond was now free to be
airborne, and to follow Malcom Jackson to a lot of places that
previously had never been accessible.
Malcom was still working on the
energy-to-matter problem, but for now it was sufficient that his
artificial bandit could accompany him into many environments outside
of the SSII. Mr. Vaga Bond now carried an onboard computer of his
own. Not as powerful as the unit he had once been a part of, but
sufficient for a lot of autonomous tasks to be performed. He was
usually in contact with the ship anyway, via data transmissions.
Malcom was getting closer and closer to
the realization of his dream -- to create truly independent
artificial-intelligence beings, that could be everything from a
companion for a Human, to a defender and adviser and worker. There
was still the energy-to-matter problem, but he was working on it.
His intention was to perfect the design
out there, in the depths of space, where he had access to large
amounts of computing power and laboratories. Once finalized, he would
keep it under wraps until he returned to Old Earth; whereupon, after
a correct amount of time, he would calmly apply for hundreds of
patents; thus locking down his copyrights to the design.
Then, with the right financial backing,
he would start production around the world.
After that, he would use billion dollar
poker chips at any casino on Old Earth. Most casinos, would bar him
admission. Within a few years, he would be one of the richest men on
Old Earth, and then the Galaxy.
But for now, he played his cards close
to his chest; and continued with his original mission of planetary
exploration. Thus, justifying his continued presence out there; and
giving himself continued access to the facilities he needed to finish
his design. It was a 'Win-Win' situation. The Galaxy was winning
priceless information, and Malcom was winning the time he needed.
Until, the Spoilers called him.
----------
So far, the communications stream had
flowed in one direction only, with simple acknowledgments coming back
from Stationem Decem.
Then one day, as they were approaching
another target star, Malcom was exercising in the repaired gymnasium
on board the SSII. He was struggling with a wrestling machine, a
highly flexible robotic device that resembled a Sumo Wrestler. He had
yet to win against this opponent, and was often unceremoniously
smashed onto the soft matting of the gym floor, by the Sumo Robot.
This was good for his overall stress relief, he told himself; and he
made it a regular routine.
This day, he was in a 'do-or-die' grip
with the Sumo Robot, when Mr. Vaga Bond came floating into the
chamber.
"I must tell ye lad, we have an
incommen word package -- ken you this?"
Malcom shouted, and sprang back from
the robot. It powered down, while he walked out of the gym and down
the new corridors to the forward bridge; Mr. Vaga Bond floating along
behind him.
The message was completely unexpected,
and immediately strange.
>>>>Four smiling faces.
They looked mannequin-like. Fat happy faces, not quite Chinese, and
not quite Caucasian. They were pleasing and comforting, and they
moved their heads slowly up and down as they spoke. They took turns
speaking, but it all came out in a perfect word flow, coordinated.
Their tones were respectful and delighted to be speaking to him. He
was a Great Programmer and Explorer now, they looked at each other
nodding. He should be honored across the Galaxy, and was; they all
bowed slightly. He, it was decided, deserved to be given the
Authority of the Star Cluster known as Turner{§m}, they held their
heads up high and showed grinning teeth. He, would be pleased to
accept the title of Star Governor. His greatness knew no bounds, and
it would be an honor to all others if he would deign to accept so
humble a position of Authority, they all bowed again, more deeply.
How could the Galaxy ever repay him for his efforts? Every
well-meaning soul would strive to serve the Great Malcom Jackson,
Star Governor of Turner{§m}. His word was Law. His imminence was
unsurpassed, they all raised a solitary finger and pointed to the
sky. His cooperation was valued above all others.
Please to accept this trivial honor,
that is almost unworthy of his Greatness.
Blip.<<<<
They both stared at the central screen,
which had gone blank again.
'Howser Man! Ken ye now, that we have
any lifeboats left?" was the response of Mr. Vaga Bond.
Malcom, was stunned and overwhelmed
with apprehensions.
"Wait Man! There! I have shut down
all communications devices between them and us."
Malcom reached for a mobile keyboard
and typed -- "Was there something wrong with lunch?"
"I wish, laddie." was Mr.
Vaga Bond's reply. "I just analyzed the entire reception, and
this is part of the audio stream." He clicked the fingers of his
right hand, and the bridge was filled with the amplified sound of a
low-toned pulsation, onto which was impressed the word "Yes."
in a long drawn-out voice -- "Yeeeeeeeessssssss."
"This is imbedded into the audio
stream at the source. It was playing while they spoke to us."
The audio track repeated and repeated,
while Malcom sat quite still and listened; and became more and more
stressed.
The Sumo Robot took care of that, quite
well. Mr. Vaga Bond watched, while Malcom hit the mats again and
again, until he just stopped and lay there -- freaked out.
----------
The communications lane remained down,
until twelve and a half months later. Then, the third audio and video
message in the series arrived at Stationem Decem.
This planet, TmSC-9401--1, was to all
extents and purposes an emerald with an iron core, having a surface
encrusted with precious minerals -- by galactic standards. Wherever
there was an elevation above the surface of the Emerald Plains, it
was composed of precious metals and jewels. The Emerald Plains,
however, dominated the surface; much like oceans would dominate a
Terrestrial-class planet. The polar caps of the planet were composed
of liquified gold, silver, brass, and copper; being quite hot at 2010
degrees Fahrenheit, instead of quite cold as expected. All of this
was later deduced from the written report, because little of it was
obvious from the audio/video message.
The first thing which the Galaxy saw of
this message, was the figure of Malcom Jackson running quickly on the
hard surface of the Emerald Plains, towards the right of the screen.
The light for the scene came from above (later determined to be from
a close moon), and from below (later deduced to be emanating upwards
from the emerald depths of the planet). Malcom was dressed in Chinese
Imperial ceremonial robes, of black silk covered with ornate designs
of golden dragons; all of which was trimmed with thick red borders.
The first scene was difficult to
comprehend, and was replayed often:
Malcom was running to the right of the
screen, dressed like a Chinese Emperor.
Malcom was holding his golden Alto
Saxophone in his left hand, and was motioning to someone with his
right hand. Motioning forwards.
Malcom was running on an emerald
surface, smooth and flat and very wide.
Beyond Malcom, was a bright swath of
light; in a low arc across the scene. It was fading to the left of
the screen, and dropping lower on the right side of the screen, still
bright.
There was an impact of some type, ahead
of and beyond Malcom.
The emerald surface flashed brightly
upon the impact.
The background then went dark, and
Malcom looked away from the camera towards the distance.
The camera then swung forwards, across
the surface of the Emerald Plains, so that Malcom was now running
along the far left border of the view.
Malcom now put the saxophone to his
lips, and while running he played a series of sharp notes in
ascending order; some kind of sequence that was pre-determined.
Beyond Malcom, and in front of him, the
surface of the Emerald Plains blinked into brightness at a single
spot. The blinking, was from within the surface and it widened
rapidly. Then, there arose from the surface a Quantum of Light. It
was a tan colored lightform that was struggling with its own inner
forces, which wanted to emerge as purely green light; and finally did
so, sending shards of light rays out of the tan-colored body, and
across the entire video.
At this, Malcom put the saxophone to
his lips again, and still running, he began to play a staccato series
of notes that sounded almost like they were produced by a
mathematical synthesizer.
Upon this, the Quantum of Light sailed
upwards and outwards for a certain distance, leaving behind it a
tangible trail of light quanta. With each series of notes, from
Malcom's saxophone, the Quantum of Light swirled and swooped upwards
and around in designs; each time leaving behind a trail of light
quanta that was an exponential multiple of the previous one. Soon,
after eight or nine playings of the saxophone, the Quantum of Light
impacted again on the surface of the Emerald Plains, and a large
explosion of light resulted.
Now, Malcom trotted to a halt and
turned to face the left of the screen. He began to play a purely jazz
composition from his playbook. Something melodious, and from Saint
Louis.
The camera's view swung around, until
it showed the back of Malcom, dressed in his Chinese Imperial robes,
and the stretch of the Emerald Plains beyond him. Leaping across the
illuminated surface, still miles from where he stood, was a large
group of Light Objects; leaping along as would kangaroos, only their
efforts took them quite high into the sky before they came crashing
back down. Bright disks radiated out from their return impacts, and
there was a low gong-type sound that reverberated through the surface
of the emerald planet each time.
Malcom, calmly continued to play his
song while the view came closer and closer to his back. The Objects,
continued to leap closer and closer, until it was just a matter of
seconds before one would land upon Malcom.
Then, without warning, a Light Quantum
from another direction impacted upon Malcom (in mid-song), and the
camera, and Mr. Vaga Bond.
Instantly, they were transported into
an ascending archway of tan and green colored light. All about them
floated hundreds of green lightforms that were obviously intelligent,
and inquisitive, and curious, and determined to get into everything.
Malcom gave up his playing, finding it hard enough just to breathe,
and immediately hundreds of green lightforms swarmed into his
saxophone to see where it went to. Their small illuminated bodies
were everywhere, all over the camera, in the lens and then out,
swirling throughout the scene.
They were inside a Light Quantum, and
somehow Mr. Vaga Bond managed to point the camera back along the
trail of light that they were leaving behind them. The view was like
that of a camera attached to a rocket, pointed backwards. Over the
Emerald Plains they soared, and now the structures of the Light
Quanta inside the Emerald Plains could clearly be seen. Great
avenues, boulevards, and Intra-city pathways became apparent to them
-- and all teeming with moving objects of white light, tinted green
by the emerald depths.
Malcom struggled, and then sent out
another staccato series of tones from his saxophone, blasting
hundreds of little light bugs out with each breath. The Light
Quantum, in which they were contained, soared ever upwards; but the
camera was still pointed downwards, and in the view there became
apparent the outline of a great city of light beneath them, beneath
the surface.
Then, a swarm of little and bright
green bubbles fell upon Mr. Vaga Bond and his camera. The message
ended abruptly.
----------
Only one written data report followed,
and it was staggering. Amongst the details and specifications, was
the fact that the planet was artificial, made by intelligence,
populated by billions of lightforms -- and the planet itself was not
from Turner{§m}.
Several things happened simultaneously,
when this message reached Stationem Decem:
1. The Galaxy went into a hushed awe.
That kind of lifeform was not unknown. There were two other planets
known to possess such Life, and both were already in the Collective.
Both species, would now have to be dealt with; as they would be
demanding expeditions into Turner{§m}.
2. The Four Fat Faces, had a message
primed to be instantly transmitted into Turner{§m}, the very second
any transmission came out.
3. The Four Fat Faces, tried to
piggy-back a quantity of nano and pico-technology probes onto their
message going into Turner{§m}.
The message reached Malcom. The probes
were fried in the attempt.
>>>>Four smiling faces.
They looked mannequin-like. Fat happy faces, not quite Chinese, and
not quite Caucasian. They were pleasing and comforting, and they
moved their heads slowly up and down as they spoke. They took turns
speaking, but it all came out in a perfect word flow, coordinated.
Their tones were respectful and delighted to be speaking to him. He
was a Great Governor now, they looked at each other nodding. He was
honored and legendary across the Galaxy, they all bowed slightly.
They, would be forever indebted to him for his service of their
claims for mineral and property rights on the planets listed below.
He, was the deserved Authority of the Star Cluster known as
Turner{§m}, they held their heads up high and showed grinning teeth.
He, would be richly rewarded and immortalized in his current position
as Star Governor. His greatness knew no bounds, and it would be an
honor to all others if he would deign to service their claims of
property and mineral ownership, as explained in the listings
below. They were so humble before his Greatness and his Authority,
they all bowed again, more deeply. How could the Galaxy ever repay
him for his services? Every well-meaning claimant would strive to
serve the Great Malcom Jackson, Star Governor of Turner{§m}. His
word was Law, and his fortunes were secured. His imminence was
unsurpassed, they all raised a solitary finger and pointed to the
sky. His cooperation was valued above all others.
Please to accept these trivial property
and mineral claims, that are almost unworthy of his Greatness.
See attached.
Blip.<<<<
"This time, the subliminal sound
track says -- "Agreeeeeee." Mr. Vaga Bond said to Malcom.
Sitting again at the main bridge
consoles, Malcom began to rub his eyes, and his head swayed back and
forth in his hands. Then, he turned to the keyboard and typed --
"Time to drop the mission, and start our own."
"Agreed."
**********
The first attempt, by the Four Fat
Faces, came slowly --- as in, an attempt to slowly squeeze into the
cluster by bringing a large Moderation Class Banking ship up to the
protective foil around Turner{§m}; then trying to slowly ease the
ship through the barrier. Sort of like easing one's self into someone
elses mortgage, uninvited.
They could have layered the ship with
moderation jelly, for all the benefit it gained them. The Banking
ship was shut down, a third of the way through the foil; almost as if
someone was watching. Someone, or some consciousness, that controlled
the energy barrier around the Turner{§m} star cluster.
Fear, now affected the Four Fat Faces.
They worried. Not for themselves. Not for the officers and clerks of
the ship, they were already dead. No, they worried about offending a
future trading partner.
So, the next attempt was more honorary
and formal; more celebratory and worshipful.
All along a ten thousand kilometer
section of the foil, the Four Fat Faces (representing the Finest
Personages of Moderation as they did) staged a very bright and loud
religious ceremony of adoration and idolatry and reverence for the
Foil Fathers; as they were now referred to. The Great Fathers of the
Foil, were offered many wonderful financial incentives, vastly
lucrative deals for trade, guarantees of embargo-free access and
distribution rights, their choices of planets (so far, uninhabited)
in the Galaxy on which to base their manufacturing facilities, and
(surprise) free membership in the Galactic Debt-Inflation Guild --
all of which was pleasantly presented in a vast procession of
trade-show ships; set up to offer their goods across the ten thousand
kilometer area of the foil. Each crew, displaying and presenting
their interests and inventions and promises as though the Great
Fathers of the Foil were right on the other side, watching them.
Caravans of space-suited accountants
and State Legislators, traveled in open pleasure crafts along the
line of trade-show ships; spraying out streams of Banker's Incense
with hand-held loan injectors; and throwing large pink porcelain
piggy-banks towards the foil -- filled with tasteless moderation
candies. Their suits, were adorned with the symbols of Galactic Debt
-- that being, all known currency symbols, turned inside-out.
The Lords of Moderation and Appeasement
watched, smiling; from a distance.
Then, partway through day two of the
Pleadings, an energy blister formed all along the line of the
Reverent Squeezers ...
and, in eighty-four seconds, it ate
them all.
Then, burped.
Moderately.
This was hailed by pundits throughout
the Galaxy, as the greatest thing to happen since the invention of
indoor plumbing. Many, asked if Turner{§m} wanted some Milk of
Magnesia to go with that.
Fifteen percent of the Galaxy's
Foreclosure Accountants and Political Madams -- were now unaccounted
for. They were promptly removed from the ledger books, and replaced
with new creatures who had been promised lifelong salary incentives.
Which meant, they worked harder and longer for less money on
salaries, then they would have earned hourly.
The Legend of Malcom Jackson, grew. If,
that was possible.
----------
The impasse of the situation, and the
quarantine on Turner{§m}, were both broken eleven months later; by
the fourth of the series of audio and video transmissions from the
Seeker Star II.
This time, our legendary hero was
rising upwards out of a pool of wine colored liquid, more tactile
than water, wearing a pair of light green bib overalls, and nothing
more. The wine clung to Malcom, his saxophone and the overalls as
though it did not want to let him go. He stepped upwards, on an
ancient stone stairway, out of an ancient stone pool; playing a light
classical jazz riff that was building up to a pleasant and pastoral
rendition of -- you guessed it -- the 'allegro non troppo' segment of
Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony #6.
The view that everyone saw, showed that
an old pathway bordered the pool; and just along the outer perimeter
of the pathway, trees grew. Not large deciduous trees or tall
coniferous trees, but rather thin and tall trees somewhat like the
Poplar trees of Old Earth. They were apparently grown as shelter
trees, and they were lined up eight abreast which would dampen most
winds.
At the far corner of the pool, the
trees parted to make a portal through which someone could walk; and
beyond that appeared to be a large and grassy plain of wild fields,
upon which sat a scattered population of blue-coned trees that were
somewhat similar to our own Blue Spruce.
Malcom walked out of the pool area,
through the portal, and into the fields; weaving his way through the
trees, all of which were nominally fifteen feet high. There must not
have been any rocks in the grasses, because Malcom was able to
'barefoot it' wherever he wanted to go. And, wherever he went the
camera was sure to go; following him at a height of about five feet
above the grass.
As they moved about, sometimes in
circles, it became obvious that there were hills close to them, on
the left side of the slopes that they were on; as it was now apparent
that they were on a very large sloping surface that descended to the
right of the scene.
Further up the slope, towards the
hilltops, stood a solitary blue tree with a cone shape to its
branches; and towards this Malcom walked; still playing the allegro
non troppo (first movement) of the Pastoral Symphony. Upon reaching
the tree, he merrily walked around and around it, playing his
saxophone to it like a Pied Piper would play a magic flute to a group
of children.
All of this was obvious to the viewers,
though they invariably replayed this lead-up segment many times;
because suddenly the blue tree changed into a fierce and dangerous
Acrocanthosaurus.
As was subsequently explained to the
Galactic Audience, an Acrocanthosaurus (Ak-row-can-tho-saur-us) was a
big grey and green colored dinosaur of the Early Cretaceous Period.
It stood sixteen feet high and was about forty-four feet long, from
the tip of its five foot long head to the end of its tail. Its body,
which weighed six tons, was mostly two-toned; grey on the bottom half
and legs, and green on the top half and upper arms; which were bigger
and more powerful that those of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Along its back,
there ran a long dorsal fin, about eighteen inches high at most;
starting behind its head, and running along its spine to finally
merge with its medium-length tail.
Its body was big, but not bulky, and
its hind legs were strong which gave it the ability for a speedy
pursuit of its prey. From Malcom's perspective, it was the upper arms
and head that had to be avoided most. With its strong upper arms,
longer than those of a T-Rex, it could easily seize and tear apart an
enemy like an automobile, but worst of all were the sixty-eight
knife-like teeth in its jaws.
As dinosaurs go, this Acrocanthosaurus
was on the handsome side (sort of like Clark Gable used to be); being
grey and green and somewhat streamlined for its size. Nor do I
digress, because this one Acrocanthosaurus was immediately named
'AkyKanthy', the cute and frisky dinosaur of TmSC-1008--4.
Whereupon, billions of cute and cuddly Teddy-Dinosaur renditions were
produced for children of all intelligent species across the Inhabited
Zones.
With a loud "Squaaack" from
the saxophone, Malcom leapt away from the tree (now turned dinosaur),
spun about and ran with his saxophone for his life. There began, a
madcap chase through the cone-shaped trees; first up the hill, then
down the hill, then back to the pond (which AkyKanthy just jumped
over with ease); and now out across a grassy plateau on which stood
Malcom's scoutcraft.
Panting and gasping for air, Malcom
reached the scoutcraft controls just as the hatch in the hull slammed
shut and AkyKanthy seized the portside wing with his strong hands.
Now, a tug-of-war commenced between the jaws of the fiercely growling
AkyKanthy, clenched onto the portside wing, and the takeoff engines
of the scoutcraft. The scoutcraft won, because the smell was too much
for AkyKanthy; and Malcom escaped back to the Seeker Star II. The
final view which the Galaxy saw, was that of a very angry
Acrocanthosaurus, reaching up with his arms towards the departing
scoutcraft, and spitting out pieces of its portside wing. Then, the
message ended.
No data followed.
----------
"Malcom -- the Great Adventurer!"
everyone shouted in their own languages. "What a financial gold
mine!" thought the Four Fat Faces, and the Finest Moderation
Personages that they represented.
Plans were immediately made for a mock
rescue attempt of Malcom Jackson. It mattered not, that the energy
foil around Turner{§m} was impenetrable. Moderation, is all about
concession and surrender, disguised as circus and sincerity -- the
attempt itself would net them billions of credits in profits. They
would simply find a place along the foil to stage their event, send
in thousands of sacrificial actors (preferably ones that they no
longer needed, or wanted to dispose of) and stage the Great Rescue.
Which, would entail many threatening gestures towards the Terrible
and Nasty Foil, and many promises to Malcom Jackson that he would be
rescued -- some Millennium.
To put it briefly, this too was eaten
by the foil. However, it did generate for the Finest Personages of
Moderation -- a net profit of seven billion, three hundred sixty-one
million, eight hundred and twelve thousand, ninety-two point six
credits.
The Four Fat Faces, were now the Four
Happy Fat Faces, and the next level of planning began.
----------
Mr. Vaga Bond was still besides himself
with his latest theatrical achievement, in his seat next to Malcom
Jackson on the bridge of the SSII. Malcom scanned the frequencies,
while Mr. Vaga Bond growled and clawed at the consoles. The Galaxy
did not realize that Malcom's relay stations, which were lined up in
a chain, half of which was outside the foil; were also highly
sensitive receivers for sub-warp and trans-warp transmissions.
Weeks had passed since their "Foil
from the Foil" had been sent to Stationem Decem, and the results
were all negative. Instead of frightening the Galaxy into giving up
any idea of owning or exploiting the Turner{§m} star cluster, the
Legend of Malcom Jackson had now reached a new and dizzying
longitude.
Inhabitants of many planets were now
dressing up their children as AkyKanthy the Fierce One, and Malcom
the Valiant! Especially, during any Halloween-type holidays, or
costume celebrations such as everyday life in Rio de Janeiro. Of
course, all of the fun was in having AkyKanthy the Fierce One
(growling) chasing Malcom the Valiant, who was tooting his toy
saxophone as loud as he could!
"That sucks!" Malcom typed.
"Grroooowwllll -- roowwl --
roowl!"
"Shut up!"
----------
The next foul attempt, by the Four Fat
Faces, came in the form of a diversionary tactic. The idea was, while
the foil was eating a diversionary target -- they would attack with a
vast multitude of Hunter/Seeker Probes along the opposite side of the
foil. This took some time, as the foil was large, astronomically. So
large in fact, that most of the Hunter/Seeker Probes were lost to
accidents and mishaps and moderation stupidity, before they could
reach their destinations outside the foil.
When the attack occurred, six thousand
sacrificial accountants met a grim resolve (dissolve) on one side of
the foil; and on the opposite side (simultaneously) a small number of
Hunter/Seeker Probes became imbedded in the foil, forever; and stayed
there, forever, like Christmas Tree ornaments. The foil used them for
display purposes, causing them to flash on and off at random
intervals.
Not to be deterred -- The Four Fat
Faces sold the reality video of the event, wherever Products For
Idiots are sold. This assuaged the cost of their colossal mistake,
which was never allowed to be know as a Colossal Mistake.
----------
Unhappiness, usually leads to
solutions, or at least escape from Reality -- in the case of our two
intrepid heroes, they chose the latter and decided to find for
themselves some habitable planet (if there were any left) that could
support them for the rest of Malcom's natural life. Of the first
four, the fourth had some potential environmentally. It also had the
advantage of being considered a very dangerous place to go, even if
the foil was breached, due to the performance of Mr. Vaga Bond as
AkyKanthy the Acrocanthosaurus.
Of the many other stars of the
Turner{§m} cluster, two more remained that the Waste Away Squadron
had tagged for possible earth-like planets; TmSC-3722--2 and
TmSC-6007--3. The former was the furthest away from the chain of
relay stations that Malcom had created to breach the energy foil, and
therefore the furthest from the center of attention; it was also the
furthest from TmSC-2021--4, the first planet they had shown an
audio/video message about.
With intense solemnity, they agreed to
head for TmSC-3722--2; they were now in the hands of Fate.
**********
TmSC-3722--2 was known to its
inhabitants as 'Oyolia'. To keep a long story short, they were
relatively new to this planet themselves. Eleven millenniums
previously, they had transported en mass across the Turner{§m} star
cluster to this location, from the verdant planet of their birth --
TmSC-1008--4. For three basic reasons: 1. Their original planet was
too small for their growing population; they needed a larger planet.
2. Due to overcrowding, social mental diseases of corrupt politicians
and deviated freaks had started to appear; with the intentions of
turning the entire society into a sewer of horrific and twisted
insanity. 3. A group of mad scientists, determined to rule the
world, had brought back to life ('created life') a collection of very
dangerous creatures from the prehistoric past of TmSC-1008--4. Chief
amongst these, was a tall green dinosaur-like animal with many sharp
teeth and strong upper arms, that had an insatiable desire to tear
and rend things to pieces. The newly introduced animals were allowed
to reproduce freely, on a continent ruled by perverted politicians
and scientists, until they existed as an army of many thousands. Whereupon,
they were unleashed against the rest of TmSC-1008--4.
The resulting war lasted for one
hundred and fifty years; and was terminated by the exodus of the
planet's dominant species -- the Jeolians -- to a new home world,
TmSC-3722--2.
The overall population of TmSC-1008--4
was abruptly reduced to hungry dinosaur-like animals, perverted
politicians, deviated freaks, scientists, and prisoners-of-war. Put
simply, the animals ate everyone else; and then started to eat each
other. Eleven millenniums later, the animal population of the planet
had reached an equilibrium; with the dominant species being a green
and toothy creature sixteen feet tall and forty feet long, with large
back legs and shorter front arms; that weighed six tons and walked
erect on its hind legs. During its scientific rebirth, it had been
given hands with three fingers and an opposing thumb, so it could
carry heavy weapons, none of which worked any longer.
This species of animal, was now busy
trying to understand how two things worked, on their war ravaged
world -- Fire, and the Wheel.
----------
Oyolia was a newer world, as habitable
worlds go; still volcanic in general, not sleepy volcanic like Old
Earth was. Oyolia, was literally a world as Frazetta and Vellejo
depicted in their works of fantasy art. It was primitive, lush,
eruptive, and saturated with many different and exotic lifeforms.
Whereas, Old Earth had a continuous
oceanic system all about its circumference, divided into three
'oceans'; Oyolia had a continuous land form that circumnavigated the
planet. Within that dominant land mass were separated oceans, just as
though everything that was water on Old Earth had turned to land, and
everything that was land had turned to water.
Land dominated the surface, in a 58 to
42 ratio over the water. This did not lead to stagnation of the
larger water bodies, as they were quite large, seasonally fed by
torrential storms, and connected together via a vast subsurface
network of massive rivers and subsurface seas; making Oyolia
two-layered with water bodies.
This worked well, as the land
components were very adequate to the task of holding the planet
together, despite its spongy layering.
Thus, traveling around and through
Oyolia took on forms of transportation utterly unimagined by
civilizations on normal earth-like planets. The way to circle the
globe on the surface was not by sea, but rather by land. The way to
circle the globe below the surface was not by land, but rather by
sea.
Everywhere, from the highest mountain
ranges on the surface to the giant subsurface sea environments, Life
teemed like an endless artesian well. There seemed to be no end to
the variety of species that existed on that one planet.
Oyolia, had never suffered a major
global purge of previous populations, due to an overwhelming natural
catastrophe. Subsequently, Oyolia was a large planet 2.1 times the
size of Old Earth, with 1.28 times the gravity due to a less dense
core, lighter planetary substructure, and faster rotary speed --
making an entire rotation in 22 earth hours -- but, it had no
dominant species that was quote-unquote 'Intelligent'. This was
because there were so many competing lesser species on the planet
that no one species could attain the security status of 'dominance',
and thereafter start to improve into 'Intelligence'. Whenever a
species did achieve a beginning level of secure organization, the
rest of the planet's lifeforms, or the planet itself, would take it
away. Thus, no species dominated. Instead, all species above a
certain intelligence point rose together.
Into this wild and beautiful and primitive world, came the Jeolian Exodus. Three hundred and
nineteen millions survivors from the One Hundred Fifty Years War on
TmSC-1008--4.
Not too difficult a crossing, all in
all, but the manufactured moon (which they made the journey in) was
too magnetic to become a useful addition to Oyolia; and had to be
turned into a lesser planet at a further radius.
Simple deeds, done well and reaping
great success -- typically Jeolian -- but compared to this, the
Turner sector of the Galaxy only had such ships as Dreamboard Items,
and the stuff of science fiction.
Which, of course, meant that Jeolian
technology was very advanced -- likewise its weaponry. Such weaponry
was very much needed on a raw and savage planet like Oyolia.
Technology, weaponry, intelligence, an orbiting moon base (for a
while), many shuttle crafts, and interplanetary spacecraft of many
types -- all of this gave the Jeolians an edge over Oyolia, as far as
who would win in the contest of mastery over all others.
Unfortunately, for the Jeolians, no one
had ever been the masters of all others on Oyolia.
Oyolia, was the master of itself. The
teeming populations of so many different species gave the first
appearance of a very complex and almost chaotic planet, with no
apparent rhyme or rhythm to its daily cycles -- but that was due to
any alien being out-of-tune with the planet itself. The planet of
Oyolia, being completely natural and unwarped and uninfested by such
abstract absurdities as scientific religions and technological
fetishes and imagined superiorities, had reached a life complexity
stage -- of Consciousness. At a relatively early age, as well.
We are not talking about a Singular
Consciousness, as any ego would imagine; but rather, a Sum-Total
Consciousness of everybody, about everyone, about everything. If you
were born on Oyolia, of a sufficiently intelligent species, you
realized the presence of this overall consciousness as you became
more and more aware of your surroundings and your life conditions.
It, was everywhere -- in everything -- always a factor -- and
surprisingly it acted as a buffer against severity and extremism;
just as the water oceans of the planet helped Oyolia to maintain a
central range of temperatures globally.
If you were born on Oyolia, you were
Oyolia; and you cared about Oyolia. That meant, there was a certain
lack of malice missing in everything that happened on Oyolia; which
was replaced by a sense of curiosity and mannerisms. For instance, if
you were an animal that could think and communicate, and you were
about to be eaten by a larger or faster animal that could also think
and communicate -- whereas on Old Earth you would simply be killed
with malice and eaten without a word -- on Oyolia you would be
captured, defeated and then examined by a curious predator. You might
even exchange a few sentences of polite conversation, mixed with
pleadings of "Don't eat me, please!"
And then, you would be eaten -- with
ceremony.
And yet again, you might be released!
Since prey animals are plentiful anywhere on Oyolia, a predator might
not want to eat anyone with your vocabulary, or your sad story, or
your opposite sex. Such things happened constantly all over Oyolia,
but only above a certain level of intelligence; which was, not by
mistake, the same level of awareness that all life on Oyolia belonged
to a Mutual Consciousness.
Such a Mutual Consciousness, was
missing in animals of equal intelligence on planets such as Old
Earth. On those planets, life was all about being-killed,
not-being-killed, killing, not-killing, eating, sleeping, taking
shelter, and making babies. On Oyolia, everyday life was at least
twice as complicated.
If the Four Fat Faces had known, that
within Turner{§m} there existed such a planet of 'Inconvenience'
(the moderation translation of 'Awareness'), they would have avoided
that star cluster at all costs. There was already a most disturbing
number of such nuisance planets to be found in the Galaxy. Not
surprisingly, no Inhabited Zone included such a troublesome and
obstinate and unprofitable planet. Also, they were deucedly difficult
to exploit. 'Cursed' and 'Possessed' and 'Entranced' and 'Bedeviled'
and 'Inauspicious' and 'Obstinate' and 'Intractable' were some of the
descriptions given to such planets -- by the spoilers that failed to
spoil them.
Old Earth had never reached such a
stage of advancement, due to the several large-scale extinction
events that its fauna had suffered; thus drastically thinning down
the numbers of its natural species. Had Old Earth not been hit by
such disasters, little monkeys would still be little monkeys in
trees, instead of politicians -- and a distant improvement of the
Theropods would now be the dominant species of Old Earth.
As it was, the original world of the
Jeolians, TmSC-1008--4, had also suffered such catastrophes; and the
Jeolians had been the result of it all -- the best of a bad
situation. So, the Jeolians had (as usual) a built-in egomania about
superiority. This mania, however, had suffered a severe shock and
distress for more than a century.
It was not a dominant species that
landed upon Oyolia, even though it took them a considerable amount of
time to realize that. Oyolia proved to be exceedingly difficult to tell
what to do, and had an amazing capacity for allowing the Jeolians to
think that they had any situation under control -- realizing only a
fraction of what was involved. Then, Oyolia would just erase the
Jeolians that had transgressed against the balance.
Being erased, was an easy thing to
achieve upon a planet of billions of carnivores of every size and
shape imaginable. During the first few centuries, the Jeolians
seriously considered reoccupying their Exodus Moon and heading out
again; this time for the region that happened to be occupied by the
Star TmSC-2021.
It was a plague that changed everything
for the Jeolians on Oyolia. From their own capricious experiments, at
trying to develop a biological weapon that would kill almost any
carnivore on the planet, they stupidly released upon their own cities
a virulent disease that traveled via the ever-present household
insects of their environs.
The disease, dissolved bone and
cartilage. Jeolians fell apart by the hundreds of thousands; being
mammalian anyway (of Human CetaB type), they were particularly
vulnerable to rapid bone decay.
Out-of-control, the disease could only
be stopped by a complete quarantine of all flying and crawling
insects, upon which the disease rode. Matters were looking truly grim
for the future of the Jeolians on Oyolia; and evacuation to their
Exodus Moon was very unlikely to work; they would just bring the
disease with them as they evacuated. The 120,000+ officers and crew
members of the Exodus Moon, and whatever spacecraft were off-world at
the outbreak of the disease, were now seen as possibly the last
surviving hope for the Jeolian Species.
And then, Oyolia began to drop snow and
to rain ice all over their side of the planet -- in early summer. For
weeks, the snow and ice rains fell, and all exposed insects were
smashed or frozen in place. The Jeolians opened their buildings and
shelters to the storms, and allowed everything to freeze. In the ice
storms, those already affected by the disease were carted off to
holding camps in the icy wastes that had been swamps a few weeks
before. There, they died of dissolvement.
Just as the surviving Jeolians were
starving to death, to the point of seeing each other as bags of chops
and steaks, the weather reversed completely. Heat from an intense
overhead star poured down upon the planet, accompanied by many
gargantuan tornadoes; the like of which the Jeolians had never seen
before.
Another month later, and their area of
Oyolia was a soggy and shattered mess of demolished cities and ruined
farmlands. The disease -- was gone.
Fast resewing of the fields could
produce a minor crop, enough to get them through the next winter;
there was still enough left of the growing season for that. Hunting
was actually better now, as most of the trees had lost their leaves;
so seeing your prey was much easier now. It was hard, but the
Jeolians survived as a civilization on Oyolia.
Everything about Oyolia, changed in the
minds of the Jeolians.
The children caught the sense of it
all, and began to call themselves -- Oyolians. That is how it
remained, and millenniums later, when Malcom Jackson and Mr. Vaga
Bond arrived, it was to a planet of the 'Oyolians'; where literally
every living thing on the planet was part of the planet itself.
----------
"That one, over there. Next to the
table of fried armadillos, or whatever they are. That one, with the
dark red hair." Mr. Vaga Bond pointed again and again over the
party crowd of Oyolians, at a very beautiful and sumptuous young
Oyolian female; about thirty-one years of age, five foot and eight
inches tall, 36D-26-36, long dark red hair, stunning face with a
slightly upturned nose, and a shimmering silver hologram covering the
most private parts of her blue anatomy, just barely. This was the
Feast of Thankance, the time each year when all Oyolians expressed
their appreciation for the saving of the Ancient Jeolians from the
terrible plague that had almost decimated their species, thousands of
years ago.
"You're not getting any younger
lad. When you find the makins, make the feast I always say!"
"How often?" Malcom Jackson
typed onto his mobile keypad.
"Look -- she's a CetaB, and you
are a BetaB -- a suitable match anywhere! Come on, get some legwork
going here. You need to make some yardage with these Oyolian females;
before they decide you are just 'The Oddity From Outer Space'!"
That argument worked well, after many
previous attempts, but in a kind of delayed fashion. Malcom had been
on Oyolia for the better part of a year now, and he admitted to
himself that 'this' was the final stop of his odyssey to nowhere.
Plus, it really was 'somewhere' -- volcanic, prehistoric, wild; but
it did have the transplanted civilization of the 'Jeolians' (now the
Oyolians).
As Bond was reminding him, more and
more lately, the females were sensuous and sumptuous and sweet and
scintillating; most of whom could win a beauty contest on Old Earth
just by showing up with six square inches of clothing on her body. Of
course, less is better at such times; but the danger of public riots
being proportional to the amount of males present -- would have
engendered rules and regulations to prevent that.
Malcom did start to date and woo the
local female fauna, but not the kinds that Mr. Vaga Bond thought were
ideal. Malcom, liked the better-read and more thoughtful types; more
worldly and yet pleasingly demure and easy to get along with.
In other words - he really liked
Librarians. The gorgeous-behind-the-bifocals and
busting-out-at-the-seams under the sweater, Librarian Chicks.
Malcom, began to visit as many
libraries as he could find; where the hunting was good, I might add
for three consecutive years.
Malcom, being somewhat of a Traveller
himself by now, had no problem with keeping such intelligent beauties
entertained; not only with amorous love-making, but also with true
stories (he would not lie) of his adventures in space -- so far. They
were intelligent women, of course, so he knew that he could explain
to them what life was like out in space; and they would at least try
to understand.
Which they did. Which they told to the
Elders of the Oyolians. Which caused considerable apprehension --
especially when the energy foil and the Four Fat Faces were
mentioned.
Meanwhile Mr. Vaga Bond, relieved that
at last something (anything) was approaching procreation, continued
his studies of the fascinating world of Oyolia.
----------
On the opposite side of the star
cluster, events were turning for the worse again. A new wonder
invention had been created that was sure-fire guaranteed to open the
foil (permanently), and to allow a fleet of exploration starships to
finally journey into the unknown interior of Turner{§m}. They would
send out constant reports of their amazing findings.
All fabricated.
As soon as they got inside the energy
foil, their one and only purpose in existence was to pounce upon any
and all planets that were available and 'workable', and to claim them
for the Finest Moderation Personages of the Galactic Council of
Wisdom.
It failed. Goodbye to dozens of
exploration starships; teeth-grinding to the Finest Moderation
Personages.
It shook the entire energy foil. The
Turner{§m} star cluster reverberated with the shock waves from the
attempt. Oyolia was tossed and shaken in its orbit, but held on.
Malcom, was in the loft of a library at
the time; playing his saxophone for a comely young lass (very blue
with buxom proportions), who was quite intelligent and quite adoring
of her new black acquaintance/lover. The library was closed for the
night, and he was up on the balcony (dressed in a roman toga again);
while she was down below in the rotunda (dressed in nothing), looking
up at him as he played a love song on his saxophone that had never
been heard in the waterfront jazz clubs of Saint Louis.
"I am getting really good at
this." Malcom thought as he watched her ascend the stairway to
the loft; whereupon she slowly began to take the toga off of him, and
to sing in harmony with the love song.
So far, so good. Then, the shock wave
hit the Exodus Moon in far orbit, and alarms went off all over the
Oyolian Civilization.
They could now hear the alarms sounding
in the streets outside, and Malcom had to struggle for a moment in
his mind. Should he leave and find out what was wrong. At a time like
this?
No, Malcom was not that strong -- or he
was beyond the point of no return. The alarms sounded, and the city
went to the streets to find out what was wrong -- and they made love
again, in the loft of the library, until dawn. By which time, the
shock wave hit them. It was more of a hard space wave, as though the
vacuum of space had been condensed into a wave form, than it was a
fiery wall of explosions and burning debris -- though there was some
of that too.
The planet actually heaved away from
the direction of the shock wave as it impacted, and then bounced back
to its original position as the wave passed around it, and produced a
countershock on the opposite side of it. After that, Oyolia shook and
vibrated violently.
Six weeks later, the planet was still
burning in many places; but, the dead had been buried (hastily), and
the roads were being cleared. Malcom, wearing his Chinese Emperor's
robes again, for the occasion, was attending the birth of one of his
babies. He listened, and memorized the tunes of the birth ceremonial
hymns that the nurses were singing, as they attended to one of his
lovers. When, a squad of Oyolian soldiers walked into the maternity
section of the general hospital, and arrested him.
He expected it, but he had to display
outrage lest they all presume his guilt. As he was seized, he shouted
to the nurses -- "Name him 'Reggie'! He's going to be a Man!
Reggie!" Thus, he was dragged by his arms, and saxophone, to the
building of the central authority for that city. The Elders of Oyolia
were gathered in the large meeting hall, waiting for him. There, Mr.
Vaga Bond was floating -- encased in a restrictive cocoon of fibril
energy.
----------
Everyone was very courteous. The Seeker
Star II was taken on board the Exodus Moon, and completely refitted
and repaired. Many good wishes were expressed. Malcom's children
would be waiting for him.
If.
Towards TmSC-6007--3 they now set a
course. The plan of their next adventure being discussed between them
all the way.
"I should have known, there was no
way to avoid what I knew was going to eventually return to my
knowledge, about those despicable bastards!" Malcom typed.
"Do not pour salt, Lad."
"I am completely dependent upon
Oyolia now, you realize that?!"
"Not much, I am artificial after
all."
"I mean, I am part of Oyolia.
Blood of my blood, now. I have women there and children there, and
responsibilities ..."
"Are you applying for castration,
Lad?"
"No. No. No, I am good with this.
I want many children, I can keep them fed. I have a good income, with
my entertainment circuit and my books being printed and now -- if I
survive -- I will have saved all of Oyolia, in their eyes. The Elders
will just allow me to continue to exist, not frozen in a meat locker
somewhere."
"Think about me. They want to shut
down my power supplies!"
"This plan has to appall those fat
bastards out there so much!"
Mr. Vaga Bond replied "What have
they really seen of lifeforms inside the cluster, so far? Just the
lightforms on TmSC-9401--1 and the flying wildlife on TmSC-2021--4.
That is nothing to scare off such greedy moderates as them! We have
to find out what TmSC-6007--3 is really like, and then we can make
some plans. The Oyolians will supply whatever we need."
"It depends. The planet has to
have a working environment for this caper to work." Malcom
typed.
They went over Malcom's plan again. If,
TmSC-6007--3 possessed environmental conditions that were suitable,
the Oyolians and their Exodus Moon would travel to TmSC-6007--3 and
disembark enough supplies and actors with which to stage a really
horrific show. A display. An audio and video message sent out by
Malcom Jackson, to the Outside Galaxy, showing a planet on which
lived a very belligerent and extremely dangerous civilization of a
blood-thirsty species; which (horror of horrors) -- ate money.
The Money-Eaters From Outer Space!
They might even eat precious metals. It
had to work, everything was riding on it. Whatever would scare the
crap out of, and sicken, the Fat Four Faces at the same time; could
possibly ward off any future attempts at breaking into the Turner{§m}
star cluster.
They had to take the gamble. For months
they traveled to TmSC-6007--3, while getting everything in readiness
and being sure that their chain of relay stations, now quite a
distance away, could be reached. To this end, they launched another
chain of relay stations that would insure proper transmissions from
TmSC-6007--3 to the point of the original relay chain.
----------
What you have learned thus far, is
indeed the realistic history of these matters. And here, we will
dispense with the telling of the entire story -- as from this point,
parts of it are unknown, forever.
We will focus instead, upon how the
Outside Galaxy perceived the events that followed the landing of
Malcom Jackson and Mr. Vaga Bond on TmSC-6007--3.
Forty-one months after their landing at
TmSC-6007--3, a data message was received by the Outside Galaxy; of
which only one word could be discerned -- "Cain't ..."
Then, eight days later, the last and
final audio and video message from Malcom Jackson arrived at
Stationem Decem. Aside from the shock value of this message, I will
simply describe what was seen and heard from it. The message began
with a burst of music, from many instruments, amongst which there
were many saxophones. The initial vision was almost overwhelming, and
had to be seen in replay to be fully comprehended.
It was the full frontal view of an
orchestra of musicians. A wide and large orchestra, bigger than the
standard size across the Inhabited Zones. There were at least three
hundred musicians in this orchestra. Their arrangement, however,
seemed to be somewhat standard -- with the biggest percussion
instruments in the back, and horn sections and clarinet sections in
the middle on one side, and heavy stringed instruments in the middle
of the other side, and both lower sections filled with violin
sections. The main floor contained two piano players, with their
pianos back-to-back, and on either side were eight saxophone players
-- for a total of sixteen. The conductor was not visible in the
vision ...
but surely, he must have been a dragon
too.
The music of these dragons, hit the
rest of the Galaxy like someone's first hearing of a melodious music
from the opposite side of their own planet -- both new and unusual.
The orchestra of dragons, all about
twelve feet high and playing oversized instruments, was cradled
inside a very large musical half-shell structure that was exactly
built to look like a huge sea shell from some unknown ocean. The
song, or musical piece, that they were playing, was very orchestral
in its structure while retaining a jazz-like quality that still
amazes. Of course, with sixteen saxophones blowing all the while,
that was to be expected. The music ripped from that message, still
has a very singular and unique impact upon all who hear it, even to
this day.
The camera, suddenly began to turn.
Slowly, very carefully, it turned to the right; and the Galaxy began
to see what was outside of the orchestral shell. Standing just next
to the shell, on the viewer's right, was a mammoth dragon (complete
with horns and a ridge of armor plates along the top of its head and
down its back), with a skin encrusted with blue-green jewels, and red
claws, and golden teeth. It was blowing white smoke rings out of its
nostrils, which were turned upwards as this dragon was very happy
with the music that it was hearing -- thumping its big tail in time
to the song, and snapping its fingers at the same time.
The view continued to the right, and
slowly there appeared a sense of the landscape; being that of a
butte, arisen above the surface of the planet, on which (and at the
end of which) stood the orchestral half-shell. The lines of the butte
went backwards and slightly downwards, then more to the right; all of
it being quite brown, a mixture of tan and dark browns without green
vegetation.
As the view swung slowly, the sight of
the Seeker Star II came into view; hard smashed nose-first into the
side of the butte. It was crushed into the planet at a sixty degree
tilt downwards, and was quite still and inert. There was no mistaking
it, it was the remains of the Seeker Star II. The view continued
around, slowly bringing into sight a large plains area of desolation,
next to which the butte stood. Here and there, across its expanse,
there lay shallow pools of some unknown liquid; all steel grey and
steel violet mixed.
Now, a structure came into view. It was
elevated above the plains floor, to the same height as the camera. It
was soon to be seen as a half-ring, fully 180 degrees around; that to
our eyes appeared like the rails of a monorail train, suspended and
without a train. No supports for the rail were visible to the viewers
of this scene. It was colored like, and reflected like, a bronze
metal of some kind; only it was soon considered to have been made of
much stronger material.
The ring was sectioned in two, with one
rail above and one below, connected by a long system of archways
between them; binding them together with one rail along the tops, and
one rail along the bottoms. Through these archways, there appeared
many different scenes of the planet, as visions shining into the eyes
of the viewers.
Some scenes showed domestic dragon
life. Some scenes showed military dragon life. Some scenes showed
industrial dragon life. Some scenes showed executions of aliens.
At the midpoint of the half-ring, just
opposite to the position of the orchestra, there sat a large and
happy purple dragon; with a silver-colored tummy. Very large, very
content, with bright white frills all along its arms and legs, and
white feathers growing out along the ridge of its armor-plated back.
Red plumes, grew at long lengths along the top crest of its dragon
head, giving it the resemblance of a dragon wearing the war helmet of
an Ancient Roman Centurion. It was weaving from side to side with the
music of the dragon orchestra, clicking its heels together with the
beat.
With its left arm, it was clutching a
big transparent bowl, filled with blue-skinned Oyolians. One at a
time, it plucked a struggling Oyolian out of the bowl, and ate half
of it with obvious relish; throwing away the gory remainder. The
camera slowly moved to the right, and into view came the sight of a
large golden fishbowl attached to the top of the half-ring, the
similarity was exact. The glass of the fishbowl was tinted with real
gold, but there was no doubting that within its heavy liquid interior
floated the inert body of Mr. Vaga Bond -- lifeless -- still in his
black boots, and red and blue Highway Man's outfit.
The camera moved on, slowly swinging back
towards its original aspect, and once again the viewers saw a far
horizon of the planet from this elevation. The tan and brown plains
this time gave way to the presence of a very modern looking
industrial complex of behemoth proportions, still being built, and
populated by many thousands of dragon workers of almost endless color
combinations and variations. The silver spires of the complex
challenged the heavens with impertinence, and far up there at the
very highest points, there sparkled many welding torches and work
lights; even there the flurry of busy dragon bodies could be seen.
The camera continued to the right,
slowly, inexorably -- the music of the orchestra becoming louder, of
course.
Just to the left of the orchestra
half-shell, from the viewer's perspective, the camera swung to a
point and stopped. The music played on, and the far left portion of
the orchestra of dragons could be seen in the view, with the dragon
saxophonists dancing and weaving to the music.
Dead center in the view, was a message
written in Old Earth English; chiseled into a huge tablet of stone. The tablet was propped up,
somehow, so as to present its message to the camera; but it was at
least five hundred feet wide.
Planets not for sale.
No Debts.
No Politics.
**********
At this, the messages stopped coming.
No more did the songs of the saxophone cross the reaches of the
Galaxy. And, as they say, the silence was deafening. No written
report followed, and the chain of relay stations went dead. A
coldness, wrapped itself around the energy foil. A sense of deep
foreboding seized any member of any species which approached the
foil, from that day forwards.
Elsewhere -- wonder, surprise, awe, and
conjecture all washed over the Inhabited Zones, in their turns. The
impact, socially, was even more dramatic than that of the first
message of Malcom Jackson; who was never seen in the last message.
Finally, wisdom prevailed. Turner{§m}
was written off, figuratively and in practice. After all, holographic
images cannot be immersed into fishbowls of liquid, only matter can.
All ships avoided the Turner{§m}
vicinity, as an unbreakable rule. On all star charts, regardless of
species of origin, Turner{§m} was prominently outlined and brightly
colored in the shades for 'Danger'. Next to which was placed the
appropriate symbol of death, and the Human Species words -- "Cain't
Touch That. Dragon's Quick."
----------
Thus, from sudden mystery and endless
speculations, was perpetuated the timeless Legend of Malcom Jackson.
Who, was supposed to be still exploring the stars and planets of
Turner{§m}; unable to tell anybody about his findings; forever lost
to the Galaxy, and forever trying to find his way back to the rest of
us.
Malcom's legend rose to the level of
epic proportions -- alongside the Twelve Labors of Hercules, the
Odyssey of Odysseus, the Tragedy of Faustus, the Legend of Paul
Bunyan; even the Legend of Jacob Waltz and the Lost Dutchmen Gold
Mine was compared to the plight of Malcom Jackson. Naturally, the
inevitable comparison was made between Malcom Jackson and the
Cremation of Sam McGee, by Robert W. Service. Yet, Malcom's story
stood apart, in some ways its own, its uniqueness carrying it
through.
Malcom was the eternally trapped and
forlorn soul of mythology; forever playing his saxophone for his
Turner{§m} companions, lest he be eaten by them. The paragon of the
'best intentions', wrecked and dashed upon the Rocks of Chance.
Nor, was it to fade into obscurity, as
so many other legends do.
4,191 Earth Years later, the entire
affair became an even more stupefying puzzle, and an unforgettable
object lesson. The foil of energy which surrounded Turner{§m},
snapped off. Ceased to exist.
After years of -- "You go!"
"No, you go!" "No, I said it first -- you go!"
-- a suspicious Galaxy went inside Turner{§m}, to see the wonders
that were now the stuff of fables, and classical dreams.
Turner{§m}, was not there.
No stars, no planets, no moons, no
comets, no celestial bodies -- just space.
An empty space, exactly the size of the
inner area of the energy foil which had surrounded it.
Turner{§m}, was nowhere to be seen or
found.
And, in the exact center of the void --
floated one golden Alto Saxophone.
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Markel Peters
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All inspirational jazz music for this
work comes from Spyro Gyra.
The Waste Away Class of Destructor
Starships gets its inspiration from 'Dark Star'.
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The characters and places in this story
are characters and places in this story only, and bear no
resemblance, nor are related to, nor attributed to anyone living or
dead who has had the same names; or any places that now exist.