Half a year later...

Like a badly edited plot jump in a made-for-television movie, I return!

I can't put my finger on what's going wrong with chapter 3. Perhaps the characters are moving too fast.

On the bright side, I started writing again! On the flip side, the first thing I wrote was the murder of my favourite character thus far. I watched as the body was hidden in the ship, but I didn't see how they died. It ruined my mood, I'll tell you that much for free.

Talking about free information I figure it's probably about time I posted some trivia about myself. Consider the following embarrassing information an apology for losing myself in a thought. That's the trouble. I'm useless with street names, so it takes me a little while to get back to reality.

• I greet every magpie I see. Not because I'm superstitious, but because it's polite. I also greet sparrows, blackbirds, robins, wrens and other species of crow. Not geese though. They greet me. LOUDLY. On the topic of birds, at the front of my house there is a sparrow which sometimes perches on the bay windowsill and watches television for a few minutes. I call it peeper. At the rear of house a house marten sometimes hovers in front of the patio doors and looks in our fridge when we open it. Sometimes I take out a block of cheese and wave it in front the closed window.
• I moved into this house in November last year, and I'm still living out of boxes. I have more stuff than furniture. As a result my personal space is an absolute mess.
• Last month I talked to myself with a Liverpudlian accent. Still not sure why.
• I'm a fire marshal at my lab, and my colleagues accidentally start fires on an almost daily basis. Usually when all the marshals are so far away that by the time we reach the incident, it's been dealt with. I think I taught the little pyromaniacs well.
• Upon purchasing a bottle of spirit, I drink half the bottle within the week, and then forget about it for a month or two. As a result my 'collection' always looks bigger than it actually is.
  
• I can build my own computer (if I had the money), but still refuse to buy a digital camera. I have three 35mm cameras- 2 SLRs, one from the 80's and one modern, and my pride and joy, a Yashica Electro 35 GT rangefinder with lens kit (these stopped being made in 1984, but my dad tells me he bought it before he was 30, so it's a mid-70's camera). I used to fiddle with it when I was a kid. My father gave it to me shortly before I went to university. It's still the most beautiful machine I've ever laid eyes on.
• My beard currently extends my face by several inches, and refuses to be neat. The resulting look would make an 1850's gold prospector proud. People stare when I try to drink a cappuccino, because most of it ends up in my moustache. I gauge drinks by how many napkins I'm going to need to drain my facial hair.
• I actually like some Uwe Boll films as low-quality cheese, but am still too ashamed to actually buy one.
• I tried ordering my DVD collection in alphabetical order of the hexadecimal code of the colour of the sleeve. After several hours working it out, I crammed them all in boxes, and I still can't work out where everything is.
• I'm concerned that some of my characters represent certain individual aspects of my own personality. As a result, I struggle to make them appear normal, because I myself do not have 'middle ground' emotions aside from abject apathy. I've been trying to instill a sense of ambivalence in each one.
• I've considered giving up talking altogether. I often see myself as an educator, but my advice is usually met with disdain and mocking. From my friends.
• I once bought an item from a store because I didn't know what it was. I took it apart and to this day I am none the wiser. The copper wire came in handy though.
• I occasionally buy dragon fruit because they look wonderful, despite finding their flavour to be lacking... in anything.
• My party trick is picking apart smells until I can work out the ingredients. I do it with stews. It's also how I find the herbs and spices aisle of an unfamiliar supermarket. It's considerably more difficult since I developed hay fever.
• It takes me five hours to wind down before I can sleep. Which means I have to start the moment I leave work.
• Alcohol has the exact opposite effect on me to which I expected. When I am tipsy, I am considerably more alert than after taking caffeine. Of course, the coordination still suffers somewhat.
• I wander around in the winter without a coat. My favourite response to the hoards of thin people who ask 'aren't you cold?' is 'No, I'm fat.'
• If I'm not paying attention when walking in my town and get lost, I work out where I am by the most prevalent species of crow. I actually scolded a pair of jackdaws for ruining my system and nesting in magpie territory.
• I understand when people reassure me that everybody talks to themselves. What they don't understand is that I debate with myself. And on more than one occasion had a blazing row with myself.
• It's 23:12, 23°C in here, and I've just realised why I'm so warm... I haven't taken my raincoat off yet.
• I can believe it's not butter. Really.
• I'm addicted to a dried produce store called Julian Graves. I struggle to walk past them. They make the best bombay mix.
• Last time I shaved, I used up a full battery on my clippers, and blunted an entire pack of razors. Shaving is expensive when your facial hair is made of spring steel.
  
• I tried making my own moustache wax, partially because I want to curl it into handlebars, partly because I'm fed up of eating my facial hair. It turned out to be more wax than I had hoped. Trial and error will eventually ensue.
• And finally- I laugh like a hyena. Which is odd, because my voice is quite low. I was particularly embarassed by this whilst at school and started laughing silently. People wondered if I was epileptic.

Okay, onto the chapter. Phyllis is still my best character here, but the bridge scene seems... odd. I think perhaps it is too fast.

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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/.

Chapter 3

With a flicker of recognition, Kabe D'Roni spotted the red light blink over the pilot's shoulder.

“Harry, your far aft stabiliser is overburning again.”

“Duly noted,” the pilot mumbled his words lazily, before adding with a uninterested tone, “don't fret about it. It does that from time to time.”

“Which would suggest it's in need of repair.” Kabe waved his hand over the table that sat over his legs, opening a holographic map, “you may want to actually talk to Amorka this time.”

“Like that furball actually knows what he is doing. I will go and fix it tomorrow.”

Harold Lime was a superlative pilot, but his inability, nay refusal, to see the potential in others made him appear bigoted and close-minded. A middle aged human, he was always impeccably tidy in his appearance. His moustache was groomed and oiled, and his blond hair was neatly trimmed and oiled back. His navy jumpsuit was ironed on a daily basis, and he kept a small bottle of eye brightening solution in his pocket.

“That furball as you so adroitly put it, is a world class propulsion engineer who has previously worked on vessels such as the Leisure Vessel Flagstone. We are lucky to have him.” Kabe rapped his fingers on the table in irritation.

“Still a furball,” Daikah Byrne, the First Officer, grunted from the captain's chair, “he got kicked off Flagstone because he nearly had one of the ionic reactor drives go critical. We have him because no one else will work on this ship.” He mumbled in his mother tongue as he absent mindedly prodded a few buttons on the control panel in the chair arm.

Daikah's hairless bony exoskeleton scraped as he moved. It gave him the appearance of a crudely carved statue, with angular features which rarely moved. It was often difficult to tell whether he was awake or sleeping, although it was often a sure bet that he was awake. He rarely slept, he often claimed it was because his species was less inclined than others to do so.

“Flagstone got vaporised just yesterday.” The communications officer spoke up whilst spinning in his chair.

Kabe faced him with a start, “how?”

“It was attacked by a platoon of Miaphe manned fighters.” The communications officer Ted Plymouth stopped spinning and brought up a news article, “they finished it off with a nobelium warhead.”

“A nobelium warhead? I thought they banned those.” Kabe closed his map and focused his attention on the young auditor.

“They will now.”

Daikah growled and mumbled in his mother tongue before nodding to the pilot, “I bet that little shit was trying to sabotage it when they kicked him off!”

“Hold it Daikah, that's too far!” Kabe pulled up the schematics for Leisure Vessel Flagstone, “why would they even attack? The Flagstone is not the most advanced virtually defenceless ship around, and it is not linked to any military. Where was it destroyed?”

“Above Apep Prime in sector zero zero two three four alpha. The planet got razed by debris.”

With another wave of his hand, Kabe opened a map of the sector. “It's nowhere near Miaphe territory, and they've never been known to stray far before.”

“Perhaps they wanted a passenger?” Harry suggested as he twisted the blinking light to disconnect it.

“Which means Amorka could not have been a saboteur,” Kabe continued, “because the passenger would not even have been onboard when he was thrown off, and he also designed part of the ship's propulsion system.” He pointed to a segment of the ship schematics to back up his statements.

He turned his chair to the First Officer, “do not make such wild accusations without evidence. Amorka has done nothing to deserve such vehemence.”

“Being Miaphe is enough,” Daikah grunted, “don't you have maps to check, cripple? The captain wants us at the nearest trading centre as soon as possible.”

“I am no cripple, Daikah. I can move perfectly well,” Kabe waved up maps as he spoke, “and even give you a challenge in combat.” Ignoring the laughs of the bony plated grouch, he continued, “although I would only have time to pass my infestation over to you before it consumes me.” He transmitted his map over to the pilot's station, “coordinates to Orbital Station Dordan.”

“Dordan? It's supplied by scanvenger vessels. That's the best you can do, cripple?” Daikah mocked.

“You wanted the nearest. Unless you want to tell Scrape that you want to travel another parsec to a likely more expensive trader colony on New Charon, perhaps?”

Daikah fell silent for a moment before responding, “To the witch then. Plymouth, make it known.”

******************

“Mathis!” Phyllis gingerly stepped over cables as she entered the programmer's den. In the centre, next to the deactivated mechanoid known as Sage, was a small paunched human, hunched over a desk before a bright screen.

“What?” Graham Mathis, Computer Engineer aboard the ship, turned away from his coding and scowled at his colleague.

“You should've finished Sage's maintenance days ago!” She moved some cables aside with her foot, “this ship is falling apart and we're missing our chief engineer because of your laggard attitude.”

“I've been busy, okay? Serving your needs is not my only purpose.” He turned back to his screen and continued typing.

“Your priority was Sage. How much else did you have to do?”

“My operating system needed a complete overhaul. I don't work well with a clunky system.”

“You don't work well with a clunky system?!” Phyllis raised her voice, “I don't work well without a sufficient supply of oxygen, and neither do you I suspect!” She bunched her fists, “and if you want to continue breathing, you'll get Sage up and running and helping me fix the damned air recycler!”

“What gives you the right to threaten me?” Graham didn't stop typing, “your warnings hold no sway with me!”

“My warnings? How about I get the General down here so you can explain to him why his breathing allowance might be cut short this month?”

“You-”

“Consider that he was in deep freeze until last month, so he's still a little grouchy.” She loured at him, “get your finger out of your arse, and get Sage up and running.”

Without another word, she walked out. As she wandered back to her quarters, the youthful tones of Ted Plymouth resounded throughout the ship over the speaker system embedded in the ceiling.

“We will be docking with Orbital Station Dordan in fourteen hours. We will be staying approximately three hours, so if you need anything, don't be slow about it. Everybody knows the drill- lock down all quarters before we dock, and hide Derrick in the stasis chamber.”

She rolled her eyes at the last comment. The middle aged behemoth who lived on that station always tried to look for their Cargo Storage Officer ever since he stole a flask of conductive miasma from her. The others knew he was a liability, but the captain was too lazy to search for new staff, and the Quartermaster always spoke up in his defence. No one contradicted Yvan the Quartermaster. Not even the General, the captain's pride and joy of a security officer, could avoid his wrath if incurred.

She made her way back to the air recycler, which was central to the ship, towards the rear and connected to propulsion engineering. The recycler was a simple but power-hungry machine, so it was connected directly to the generators running off the engines. By breaking the covalent bonds in carbon dioxide, it essentially 'scrubbed' each molecule clean of carbon until it became oxygen. It then pumped the carbon through a conversion tube which added spare recycled water to create a rough hydrocarbon fuel, which was in turn used in some of the smaller steering engines.

Of course, the recycler still functioned without a conversion tube, but without converting the excess carbon, the heat produced by the recycler quickly reattached it to the oxygen, and instead formed carbon monoxide. Phyllis checked over her work carefully, listening closely for gas leaks. Satisfied that it was holding up, she looked it over again carefully, confused that it was lasting so well. She quickly recognised several welds that were not hers.

“Mork?” She looked upwards to see the hirsute engineer again using the roofing panels as a hammock, “is this your work?”

“Phyllis worried with tube break. Mork made fresh. Good not as Phyllis, but last far enough.”

“I had no idea you knew how to repair the recycler.”

“Mork know not. Saw Phyllis work. Learned with eyes.” Mork presented what could be perceived as a smile, his brow stiff and his lips parting to bare the teeth.

“You have too much time on your hands, if you've watched for that long.”

She pulled out a tool roll from underneath the recycler and attached it to her belt. Lying down on the floor, she looked back up at Mork and smiled.

“If you're in need of any parts, you'll have to pass me a list. The station isn't a safe place for your species.”

“How so?” Amorka tilted his head to one side quizzically.

“Lots of junk piles. Sharp edges everywhere. Trisara and Derrick aren't the most organised of people.”

“Mork careful. Sharp ship. Dangerous engines.”

Admittedly, being elbow deep in a functioning engine was probably the most dangerous thing Amorka could miraculously survive. The Miaphe were notoriously thin-skinned and fragile, meaning they were largely a peaceful people simply out of necessity. They were thereby more famed for their intellect than their physical prowess or military might, the latter of which was virtually non-existent.

“You wouldn't know how to reactivate Sage, would you?”

“Mork no watch Mathis. Mathis always sit. Do nothing.”

Phyllis sighed. Mathis was notoriously lazy, but few were willing to work on the Phoenix because of the reputation of the captain, ship and crew. Those who did work on her were not happy about it, and were usually only there because they were desperate or indebted, or on the run. Mork's reputation was ruined because of a minor failure aboard the Flagstone. Phyllis would have been penniless and homeless. The General was hiding from the United Council, in case they wanted to re-draft him upon discovering his newly regained status as 'alive'. Mathis saw easy work, whilst Kabe's condition black-listed him from many ships. Only the captain was aboard willingly and without grudge, but only because it was his ship.

Sometimes she wondered if it would be better to leave the ship to fall apart, to prevent other lost souls being trapped there. But it was just a flight of fancy, as she wasn't paid nearly enough to survive away from the ship for long, and with the ship tarnishing her reputation, she would struggle to find work elsewhere. Many women in her position had been forced to whore themselves, but Phyllis wasn't certain if she was one of the lucky ones. The Rising Phoenix was probably more likely to kill, injure or disfigure her than any undesirable customer.

Chapter 4

“He hasn't said a word since the event.” The psychiatrist observed Akhiret's body language as she spoke to him. He was erratic, stratching occasionally, his eyes darting around the room, his focus not falling on anything in particular.

“Perhaps,” Akhiret began rapping his fingers on his leg, “perhaps he is too afraid of what will happen, yes.”

“Are you certain that he is the Mavat, sir?”

With smooth, but lightning quick movement, he had pushed the psychiatrist across the room and pinned her against the wall by her throat. Breathing lightly, he pressed his nose against hers and stared into her eyes with an unhinged glare.

“Do not doubt my word, whelp,” he whispered, his voice quavering, “he is the Mavat, yes. He will bring this order back to its feet, yes.”

“Y-yes sir.” She tried to retract her head away from his, but was blocked by the wall behind her, “but I'm not sure how long it will take to have him speak again. Such trauma,” she paused for breath as he loosened his grip on her throat, “such trauma can take weeks or even months to get over.”

“Let me speak to him, yes.” Akhiret released the psychiatrist and walked towards the door, “he will sing again.”

“I'm not certain that's-” she had to rush towards the door to catch up with him, “sir!” The door slammed closed as she reached it, leaving her to brace herself for impact.

Without pausing to listen to the loud thump on the door, Akhiret pushed aside the guards and marched down with hallway. He came to a halt before a room sealed by a thick steel door. He carefully placed his left hand on the door and rapped his fingers against it, moving his ear closer to hear any reply. He gradually turned the rapping into a knock, to the beat of a war drum. He sighed, growing bored of waiting for a response.

“Mavat?” He opened the door, grasping it with both hands and peeked into the room.

Inside was a basic, but comfortably furnished living quarters, with the sleeping area and bathroom at the far side from the door, and the general living area taking up the remainder. Antula sat on the bed, his head buried in his hands, silent.

Without a word, Akhiret stepped into the room and gingerly walked closer to the broken man, his hands up and preparing to defend from an expected assault that never arrived. Gaining confidence, Akhiret twisted his neck in attempt to look at Antula's face, wiggling his fingers as he did so. Failing to see any form of response, he tried gaining the colonist's attention once more.

“Mavat, yes?”

“Why,” Antula's quiet words were interrupted by a look of alarm as Akhiret leapt backwards with his words, “why do you call me that?”

“Because that is who you are, who you were, and who you shall be, yes.” Akhiret twitched as he spoke, “because that is your name, yes.”

“My name is Antula Fret, of Apep Prime. Why do you call me Mavat?” His voice increased in volume as he grew ever more angered by the madman's antics. As he reached the end of his question, a metal flask on the table beside the bed shattered. Akhiret leapt backwards again.

“That is why you are the Mavat, yes. The Mavat is the opposite to the Canisariad. Canisariad heals, Mavat destroys. She, heals worlds with touch, you destroy them with voice, yes.” He seemed to dance around Antula, leaping lightly from one foot to the other, never resting on one for long.

“I-” he lowered his voice as he sat down, “I didn't realise the Canisariad had an opposite.”

“All things have opposites. We just have to know where to find them.”

“I thought the Canisariad was found and chosen at birth?”

“Correctly thought.”

“Then why not the Mavat?” He tried to look Akhiret in the eye, which was a more difficult task than it should have been, as the madman's eyes darted around the room.

“People,” Akhiret began, “creatures, sentient beings everywhere do not want a destroyer of worlds, no. So the order, the White Hand, chooses not to seek out the Mavat, letting him live a normal life, yes, unaware of the shadows, the gifts, the power that bubbles within, waiting to boil over, to speak metaphorically. The Canisariad is sought and discovered at birth, yes, hailed as a beacon of faith throughout the cosmos, unaware they have a natural enemy. Of course, Mavats have sprung up before accidentally. Some destroyed whole systems before they were intercepted, yes.

“The last one they were unable to put down, no, so they had to imprison him, trap him. Some theorise he still lives today, yes, they can live many many years.” Akhiret calmed down somewhat, and pulled a chair closer to the bed to sit down.

“So what will become of me?” Antula's heart sank at the madman's words.

“You will be free. Free, unimpeded, yes, let go.”

“Free, but why? I thought the Hand wanted the Mavats 'put down' as you said?”

“Times have changed. The Canisariad has rebelled, become Mavat, yes. Perhaps, with time, Mavat becomes the Canisariad, yes?”

“I don't understand.” Antula couldn't think what Akhiret meant by his words.

“Your colony, Apep Prime. Destroyed by Canisariad, yes, she provoked the Miaphe into attacking that vessel, which destroyed your home, yes.”

“I thought she was still a child, why would someone that young do such a thing?” Dust poured down from the ceiling as Antula raised his voice again.

“She may be young, just twelve of our years, but has a wicked heart, yes. She grew bored of healing, yes. It could be that her guardian led her astray, we cannot be certain, no. But what is certain, yes, most definitely, is she, the Canisariad, has killed nearly as many, equivalent to that she has healed, repaired, yes.”

“Her guardian?” Antula was no expert on the Canisariad, but virtually everybody knew of her. As a 'living goddess', she was the most celebrated sentient entity throughout the galaxy. She did not have a private live to speak of, as her every move was watched, and every word listened to. It was a lot of pressure to take from birth, so it was not inconceivable that she may have cracked under the burden. But the guardian was different. It was well known that the guardian was genetically engineered specifically for each Canisariad, to act as a bodyguard, friend, playmate, cook, teacher and any other function he needed to fulfil. The guardian's primary overriding purpose was to keep the Canisariad alive and healthy, so it seemed strange that he would allow or even partake in such activities, “I thought the guardians were engineered, why would he encourage such evil?”

“We know not. Perhaps if we were to capture them, yes, we would discover the root of it, yes. But we are certain, yes, they need to be stopped, and soon, yes, before they can destroy more lives.” Akhiret leaned in close to Antula and attempted to look him in the eye, but could not keep his eyes steady enough, “we must stop them, yes. As Mavat, it is your destiny, yes.”

“Why should I do what you ask?” Antula stood up and glared at the madman, “why must I follow this destiny?”

“Because, yes,” Akhiret smiled esuriently, “because she will leave more like your wife in her wake as she travels across the galaxy, yes.”

Antula did not abide the thought of his late wife for long, the memories still caused pain with every moment's cerebration. He cleared his mind and turned to Akhiret.

“What do I have to do?”

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And a bonus chapter! Chapter 5 still needs a little tweaking, but it generally fits.

Everthing I post is pre-edit. I don't believe I'm anywhere near the editing stage yet.

Anywho, I must be away. G'night.

Mike
AKA Mr Magpie
AKA The Bird Man of Ivybridge
AKA Big Mike