With all the strength, agility, charisma and social ability of an epileptic ground sloth, Mike is here to save the day!

.... Yes. Ground sloth. That's my excuse for not posting since June. I was bitten by a radioactive ground sloth and every time I see vegetation I transform into.... it.

Now sitting in a vegetation-free room, I can live again!

Now... where was I? Ah yes. I'd just posted chapter one. Well, you'll be pleased to know, I'm still working on it, and it should be completed sometime at the end of the Mayan calendar.

To be honest, life got in the way. I moved 400 miles south just last month, and am now living in sunny, snowless, but ultimately not flat (! This last point was very important to me. I'm a hill walker! South Lincolnshire is all river basin.) Devon. Just 10 miles north of Plymouth to be exact. So I've running around like a blue-arsed fly, or any other simile you can come up with, sorting things out and generally running low (very) on funds. So I haven't been interwebbing much of late.

I'm also virtually alone down here. I'm living with two friends and colleagues, but the only people who actually made me feel good about myself are now nearly half the country away. I hate using the phone because conversations do not come quickly to me, so phone calls tend to short and full of awkward silences. Emails are emotionless. I can't sing songs from Team America via facebook (you probably don't get that, but I'm So Ronery made someone laugh very hard every time).

But, I've got a week off later this month, so instead of locking myself in my room and typing like I usually do, I'm actually taking a holiday... back up North to see the janitors of my sanity.

As I've said previously, slow down, let life flow around you, good things come to those who wait. And I'm very good at waiting. Since moving I've felt the lowest moods I've ever had, and each time I've pulled myself through believing that eventually all the torture will be worth it. And it will.

It's a brand new year, a brand new decade! And like every year, I'll feel great for the first quarter of it, then realise applying logic to the world doesn't work, get frustrated, depressed and lonely, and then feel good again the moment I hear Tom Jones sing The Midnight Hour during Jools Holland's Hootenanny at midnight on new year. Every goddamned year. Why don't I learn? And what will I do when Sir Jones is gone? Or heaven forbid, Jools?

I suppose I'll just have to watch my dvd of Muppets Christmas Carol. Ah nostalgia, brings so much more warmth to the soul than any glass of sherry. Wait! That doesn't mean I don't want the sherry...

Anyway, enough of these thought experiments. Schrödinger's cat needs feeding.

On to chapter 2! A relatively short chapter, introducing a few members of the (reluctant) crew aboard the Rising Phoenix. I'm not happy with chapter 3 yet, so I'm going to rewrite some of it (some of the crew seem to be acting strange to me... They're not themselves, so I've got to get them back into character). I've also realised 'glower' has become one of my favourite words. I think use it too often.

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From the Ashes pt. 1

Chapter 2
This document is licensed under the Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 UK: England & Wales license, available at http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/uk/.

The scream reverberated throughout the cargo vessel known as the Rising Phoenix. Its chief Life Support Engineer threw down her soldering iron and stormed toward the bridge. Her eyes, bloodshot as they were, glowered at everything and anyone who dared step across her path as she marched forward.

“Scrape!” She screamed as she reached the bridge doors, “we need to talk, now!”

“Shh..” Captain Buriash Scrape waved his hand dismissively as he looked upon the screen embedded in the arm of his chair.

“Good morning Phyllis. He's a little distracted, as always.” A floating metal cockpit turned to face her, displaying the Stellar Cartographer Kabe D'Roni. “I take it by your vehement visage that we are only breathing by your own good graces?”

“We are only breathing because I managed to make a conversion tube out of spare circuitry and metal panels from the ceiling.” Phyllis Walsh punched the wall, then raised her voice for the captain's benefit, “if our good captain doesn't loosen his purse strings and buy a new one soon, we'll be dead within the week!”

Scrape looked up from his control panel and sighed, “what's wrong now, Walsh?”

“Your damned air recycler has clapped out again.”

“Then fix it.” Scrape went back to his control panel.

“I did fix it. Using scrap and chunks of the ship. It will last four days, maximum.” She rushed over and looked the captain in the eye. “I need a new one, preferably before we all suffocate.”

Scrape sighed again. “How much will it cost?”

“New conversion tubes cost about two thousand dollars. But we need a new recycler- they cost around ninety eight thousand dollars.”

“No chance of a new recycler. Can't afford it.” Scrape thought for a moment, “we'll stop by the nearest trading post and pick up another tube.” He turned to a squat, boney plated humanoid, “Daikah, sort it with the accountant.”

As Daikah turned to leave, he called him back. “No, on second thoughts, I'll do it. I could use the exercise. Take the helm.”

Daikah watched the captain leave before muttering under his breath in a language Phyllis could not understand. He then sat down at the main command console and waved his hand dismissively at the crew.

“You know he's going to set a tiny budget for your new buy, right?” He didn't even look at Phyllis as he spoke to her.

“That's what I'm afraid of. I may have to convince Avery to stretch it a little further.” She leaned against the wall, and thought for a moment. “Does it feel cold in here?”

“Now that you mention it, it is cooler than usual.” Daikah looked at the control panel, “It is below standard ship temperature by three degrees.”

She tapped the back of her head against the panel behind her in frustration. “If it's those bloody plasma pumps again I'm going to murder someone.” Turning to storm back to the engineering section, she added, “you know these ones are second hand? Our good captain thought refurbished models would suit this rust bucket down to the ground.”

She jogged out of the bridge, scowling. Phyllis Walsh, chief Life Support Engineer aboard the Rising Phoenix, was a plump, wide-hipped female humanoid. She was, in most senses of the term, human, although her parentage was questionable. Her turquoise eyes drooped toward the distal corner, giving her a rather sad appearance which was not helped by her mood. Her long hair was dark enough for the streaks of engine oil to be virtually unnoticeable when light was not shining directly on it, and was tied back.

Her overalls were once a fluorescent orange, though were now covered in brown, black, red and green stains from around the ship. She scratched at one of the scores of patches she had repaired them with, and had to physically stop herself from picking at the stitching.

She hauled her canvas tool bag out from underneath a set of pipes near the door and leapt down a small flight of stairs toward a small hatch in the floor. A few twists of the bolts and she had the hatch open and venting steam. Phyllis stared towards where the mechanisms the hatchway hid were supposed to be displayed, but instead were hidden by vapours.

“Judging by smoke, pumps broken again?” A gruff, broken voice attempted to speak a language it was not built for speaking.

Above her, laying on the pipework, was a silver furred creature with four arms dangling down over the pipes as it watched her work. Amorka Pabhan was the Propulsion engineer aboard the ship, and was very good at what he did, leaving him plenty of time to do what he did best- relaxing.

“It's not smoke Mork,” she responded through gritted teeth as she strained with a spanner, “it's steam. One of the-” she grunted as the pipe she was trying to release suddenly pulled free and sent her toppling over. She threw it to one side and flicked a hair away from her face, “one of the damned plasma pumps is venting where it shouldn't be.”

Amorka peered over into the hatchway and strained his neck forward to get a closer look. Seeing nothing but steam, he grabbed the pipes he was laying on and swung down to the floor.

“You need help?” He queried as he wafted the steam away from his face.

“Can you make another?” Phyllis looked at her colleague with a frown.

“Probably. Without proper material wouldn't last.” He shrugged, then clapped his lower hands together as he often did when he had an idea. “Sage build better than us!”

“Sage is being repaired. Won't be ready again until Mathis gets his finger out of his arse.”

“Ask captain for new?” He helped her remove the shoebox sized pump from the hatchway.

“I've just asked him for a new conversion tube, and to be honest-” she glanced back at the doorway, “I think Scrape's gonna get another second hand one. He's refusing to pay more than he has to.”

“How say- false money?”

“False economy. Yeah, he's a miser, but he's not bright enough to know these things.” She prodded at a small hole on the pump's surface which was not meant to be. “That'll need welding. Pass the torch, and a small slither of metal. Mind your fingers on the edges.”

Amorka passed the tool and scrap over delicately. “Perhaps passenger help were captain not?”

“I can see it now,” flicking down the visor on her welding goggles, she motioned Amorka to look away before she set at repairing the hole, “I know you've just got on board, and you're paying us to travel to Earth and all, but would you mind shelling out a few grand for a new plasma pump so we don't choke on ice crystals? You see, our captain's a bit of a twat.”

“What twat?” Amorka asked.

“It's just an insult Mork. Don't say it to anyone's face, mind.”

“Noted.”

Phyllis turned off the torch and looked at her handy work. Amorka turned back to check the weld.

“How long last?”

“I'll give it a week. Then I'll be repairing it again.” She yawned and set at replacing the pump in the hatchway.

“Sleep.” Amorka tapped her shoulder.

“No time,” she groaned, “That jury-rigged conversion tube needs checking every hour or so to make sure it doesn't disintegrate while I'm not looking. Then the circulation control down in habitation needs looking at. Circuits might need replacing.”

“Need sleep.”

“I'll sleep when I'm dead. I don't think I've got spares either,” she started mumbling to herself, “so I'll either to repair or build a new PCB from scratch. Mork?”

“Mork do it. Phyllis sleep.”

“No, it's okay. But can you check if I have any spare five-way tag strips?”

“Mork plenty circuit board spares. Phyllis sleep, Mork work.” He gripped her left shoulder and looked her in the eye, “Mork spare time.”

Before she could respond, he snatched the spanner from her hand and secured the pump and replaced the pipes above it. Seeing the futility of arguing, she stood up and stretched.

“I suppose I could use forty winks. Thanks Mork.”

“No thank. Just sleep.”

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“You must prepare yourself for what you will see when we reach our destination.” Rhiarla Rose, the priestess and counsellor aboard the ship, sat gracefully on the chair across from the passenger. She moved most elegantly for her species, a race of unwieldy bipeds who resembled trolls of Earth mythology.

Although she, nor any of her kind, had eyes, she always seemed to be looking in the correct direction. In this case she was looking at the passenger, a tall dark skinned male of human appearance. His hair, cropped short, was coloured in odd unintentional patches of blond and brown. This diffused the unusual symmetry of his facial features somewhat, but they were more exacerbated by the large temporalis muscles rounding out his jaw line. He wore a white linen suit, and looked at her with dead grey eyes.

“As an ambassador to the Kanjavar collective, I am most definitely aware of the tragedy which has befallen Earth.” He scratched at his left arm before continuing, “that being said I much appreciate the forewarning. Thank you.”

“You know what many citizens of this galaxy know. But the crew aboard this ship have seen first hand how the planet limps on.”

“And I intend to analyse how strong it's crutches need be.”

“A most admirable aim, ambassador. But the Earth is dead. It does not need crutches, it needs rebirth.” Rhiarla took a recherché sip from the glass in front of her.

“It needs that much aid?”

“On the path of progression, each habitable planet will come close to total destruction at the hands of it's dominant species. Many will draw back and mend their ways before it is too late.” She began to wave her left hand in a circular motion, “humans, however were, and still are too individually disparate to form such a collective rescue. They razed their planet's surface, and left it dead. Although they have a collective effort to terraform the planet, to make it habitable once more, they lack the cohesion and finance to succeed.”

“How likely is it to succeed, if money were not in short supply?”

“During their fifth world war, parts of their planet were turned to glass. Large portions of their oceans are home only to rampant nanotechnology- the cost of progressing without understanding. Even if they had all the backing they need,” she inhaled the aroma of the beverage, “it would be optimistic to say it would take centuries. But it will succeed.”

“Then I shall see where my people can help.” The ambassador reached for a damp cloth which lay on the table in front of him, and wiped his brow. “Who would I ask for a little more humidity in my quarters?”

Rhiarla laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle. “That would be Phyllis Walsh, our Life Support Engineer. I am certain, with persuasion, she would be most eager to see you comfortable.”

“Persuasion of what kind?”

“A new plasma pump, perhaps parts for the air purifier, and she would be eternally grateful.”

The ambassador hesitated to respond. Believing she had perhaps offended him, Rhiarla continued reassuringly.

“Although, as you are already paying for transportation, we cannot possibly request such extras from you. Please think nothing more of it.”

He sipped his own glass before responding, “your captain is not using my funds to repair his ship?”

“I cannot speak ill of the captain to a customer,” Rhiarla smiled, baring a row of sharp teeth, “it would be most unprofessional.”

“Quite. I shall see what I can do.” He stood up and began to walk awkwardly toward the door, “excuse me. It was most pleasurable speaking with you.”

She bowed her head in response, “and you, ambassador. Perhaps later we should talk some more?”

“Perhaps.”

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I hope you've all had a happy Christmas (mine was spent with another family... really awkward. Felt like I was intruding, despite being in my own house), and I wish you all the best for the year to come. You wonderful people you.

And remember, too much nostalgia leads to brain rot. Sentimentalise responsibly.

Warm, toasty feelings,
Mike.
AKA Were-sloth.
AKA Melon-faced Man!
AKA Spartacus