Post by Cid on Feb 20, 2010 7:15:20 GMT -5
For what I do to keep you near
For what I wouldn't do
For what I hope to make of this
To fear the fear of fateless fate
and know all that will be missed
You descend upon me and plant your flag
atop my keel and tell me of exotic lands
where fire is met with water, earth and sky.
And there we stay, forever, and hold to the
truths of this world and beyond.
We swim between the fallen timbers and
sink into its deep. I see you smile,
lulling me with your soft siren call.
We float in the effervescent wombland,
finding the time to love each other absolutely
But It rolls in like the great wave hour
to come face to face ol' spiteful himself.
He wretches you from my hold
and spills you into its briny deep.
And where you were the silence fills you.
And the silence stays.
And I remain. Here.
For what I'd do to set things right
For what I didn't do
For what I know will never be and will never come
I speak now only to those accused--
Here be a dog of war, beating, beating on his drum
~Samuel Riley, "Criminals, All"
---
0055, somewhere in the Jovian Sphere
Albert Kirkland sat unobtrusively on the bridge of his new starship, rubbing the cleft on his chin curiously and thinking of his dinner plans. They'd named it Clarissa after one of his favorite 18th century satire novels. She'd been kind enough to acquiesce to his final decision on the matter--he being the authority on anything literary and theatrical. She loved it every time danced across the stage in his ragged mock-up of Renaissance attire. He'd quote all the obvious: Shakespeare, Pope, Spenser, Ovid, and Homer--all the greats. She'd sometimes turn from her pickpocketing and glow up at him and he'd almost miss his mark.
He touched his nimble fingers to his jaw and wondered when the grass would grow. They'd docked at a curious little fueling station hardly a day out from Io, and to their luck, it had a dining establishment. It was there one year anniversary and he was excited.
How a year had passed already he couldn't comprehend. After Jupiter and the ship theft, he'd run the craft all the way to the outer Jupiter Sphere. He pushed it so hard the reactor cracked and he leaked fuel. He'd limped all the way from the inner rings to the Customs Station without it going critical, and sold what remained of the ship's "complimentary" cargo. It was there he'd found his stowaway.
And he'd loved her ever since.
He had twenty minutes before their agreed-upon rendezvous. He'd stopped primping and powdering already and resigned to just waiting on the bridge, in his chair. His left pocket was full. In it was a surprise. A surprise for her. He was giddy but did not show it. Sam could always hide his emotions, and this is what partly bothered him. He did not know if she felt what he felt, or if she'd even consider them in that capacity. He'd read signs--plenty of signs--though it had always parted right before the finale. The kiss. He knew it was there, somewhere, waiting. Tonight he would plot them a course. They'd fly through the Jovian rings, pass the tumultuous sea of rocks, left at the Red Planet, and land somewhere on an dessert island. Just the two of them. Fletcher Christian and Roger Byam wouldn't have it any other way.
The clock on the chart table chirped. An old clock his father had given him that he'd bought before leaving Side 1--something to help start their new life, he'd said. It looked like an owl, only the chest had hands and showed the minutes in roman numerals. It was the only thing the remained of his former life. But now he'd start a new one. Like Swiss Family Robinson, only on a interplanetary ship and instead of the treetops, they've live amongst the stars.
It was time to move, he didn't want to be late.
---
The place was the image of decay and disrepair. It held a smell that could only be described as mind-numbing, something between fatty grease that needed to be changed and five week old farts. Most of the patrons were older, unkempt, and completely lost in the swirls of their favorite poisons. They made a low moaning sound akin to the dying throes of a skinned cat.
It was glorious.
He saw his table in the corner. He'd called ahead and pressed his charm. The proprietor had been sulky and uncooperative, but a few credits and a strong arm had shown him the way. He'd gotten them a fresh checkered tablecloth, a candle, and clean food. They had half the shithole to themselves and it couldn't be any more perfect. The night, and whatever might occur after (maybe, hopefully) would be something to remember when they got old together and had little else to do but sit around and sip coffee at the kitchen table.
Only, she wasn't there. Albert walked slowly to the table and looked sideways, scanning the dark corners. The men would clear out soon thanks, again, to trust Mr. Credit. He checked his watch, 1800. The sulky proprietor came, hurriedly, from out back, the swinging doors slapping his misshapen buttocks. He rushed around, waving at all the workers with a crusty dishtowel, trying to move the immovable. All left but one, and when the owner tried his turn at him, the remaining man raised a hand and sulks' eyes bugged and he ran back through the swinging doors to the kitchen.
Albert walked up the man, pissed as one should be on his "big night."
"I have rented this establishment for the night and you need to leave."
The man looked up from his untouched swirly drink and smiled. "I trust that you paid top dollar for such five star affair." His voice was like songbirds drowned in anti-freeze. Albert noticed the man wasn't wearing the down-on-his-luck outfit of a knuckledragger on the fringe. No, he was much too clean. "I apologize for ruining your evening, but perhaps you two can reschedule. I had high hopes of meeting a few of my dear friends for a drink."
It wasn't until Albert saw the man's white, gloved hands that he knew. This wasn't some snarky businessman or wayward bard, he wasn't something much more feral. Albert's heart ran aground.
"There have been a great many angered middle class Jovians as of late, claiming there wallets had disappeared during a, quote, 'quirky spectacle of class and exploit.'" The man's face contorted into whatever it was he was feeling. Contentment, no less. This was his specialty, and he seemed to love his job dearly. "And! As you'd have it, a day later, a fine-looking interplanetary craft would buzz out of port, destination unknown."
The two men faced off--no, one man and one frightened would-be pirate--and Albert's mind raced to Sonja. Where was she? He looked around frantically and made haste to the door. Two large men, both with gloved hands and fine silk suits, blocked his way.
"You've amassed quite a small fortune at the expense of the people, your eminence, King Henry V. Or would you prefer Redcrosse Knight? Leopold Bloom? Odysseus?" The darkness surrounding the man unfolded and presented a sinister shape of someone who knew no peace or pleasantness, no God. He was the portrait of pure undoing, the face that's given to wars. His name, even, was a name you'd give to a solar storm that decimated colonies and tore families from one another.
"Let me introduce myself, lad. I've lost my manners in the excitement. I apologize." He paused, clearly and intentional gesture that was not lost on Albert. "I am Gillian Meisner, Jupiter Development Enterprise Company, Procurement Division. And I believe you have something that belongs to me and, I think, I may have something of yours, as well."
The corsage he'd given to her beforehand was lying on his private table, orange in the candlelight. He felt the world upending, the station's artificial gravity a few pounds too heavy. He wanted to strip out of his formal attire--mostly because he felt ridiculous. He felt stupid and worthless. He hadn't planned for this. He hadn't seen it coming and now he'd killed them.
"She isn't harmed, so don't you worry! Pretty thing, though. Pretty thing. I am curious how that came to be, but I'll leave that for another time." He snapped his fingers and got up jerkily. Albert felt sick as the motion blurred and conformed to the light.
"What--" Albert couldn't talk, his through tightened into a cactus. "What do you want from me?"
"Ah, that's quite simple. We want our property, of course. Just give us the onboard signature encoding and you'll get what you want. No trickery, of course. That wouldn't be good for business."
The man's talking was wearing him down. He'd never thought they'd take a personal stake in his case. Sure, he'd stolen their property and made them look bad, but that was old news. Why now? Why?
Albert being Albert, he couldn't help but weigh his choices. He felt physically unwell doing it, but he could not deny his nature. He loved his ship. He utterly loved it. It epitomized his lust for freedom, his dream he'd first conceived in the arms of his tear-jerky father who spoke of high seas and swashbuckling men who gave no quarter. He believed in it almost as much as he believed in Tennyson and Byron. He couldn't just let them go.
But he loved Sonja more than anyone. Ever since his parents, no one came close to unlocking the secrets of his being. He needed her. He'd choose her. Even though odds were they'd both be dead by tomorrow, he'd choose her.
"I--I choose here."
Meisner clapped exuberantly, sending shock waves in every direction. "Marvelous! Let's set things in motion, shall we?"
They all marched to the ship dock. A JDEG vessel was now parked adjacent to Clarrisa. It dwarfed it, the Jovians always had a flair for giant and awe-inspiring. Albert felt ashamed for being a little bit impressed by it.
---
The docking nerve was empty and gray, and Meisner brought them to a stop between the two vessels--all part of his over-elaborate, showy demeanor. The docking tubes were clear on all sides, giving a splendid view of the stars at every angle. The JDEG vessel blotted them out, and as Albert scanned its pimply exterior, he saw a small airlock porthole with a face peering through. A helpless, angelic face, mouthing words he couldn't understand and would spend the rest of eternity untangling. She was weeping furious, her beautiful gold locks that she had probably spent hours fighting with in the Clarrisa's meager washroom. Her face was bruised, oh was she sad.
"We spent a great deal of time tracking you, building our case, dotting the i's, crossing the t's. You know what I mean." Meisner flipped a gloved hand into the air conversationally. "We could have had you six months ago, but we wanted to go through the proper channels. It took the Corporate Finance Committee three months, nearly, to agree on the budget for this little endeavor. It was well worth it, if you ask me. The Group prize each and every one of its vessels."
They stopped abruptly. Meisner turned militaristically and put out his hand. "Now, give it to me."
"Let her go first."
Meisner laughed and jabbed Albert in the chest with his pointed fingers. "Tut, tut, that isn't how we play the game. Give me the codes and all will be as it was."
Albert felt sweat form under every crease of his body. He had already made up his mind, but that didn't make what he was about to do any easier. "There is a false door near the gangway. The code is 0054. You will find it in there."
"Ah, wonderful," said Meisner, victory on his mind. He motioned for one of his thugs to retrieve the ship's code while he fiddled with a two-way communicator. He put up a finger as if to say just one moment, please. "Release our guest."
Albert waited impatiently, knowing very well how each and every one of these moments had come to pass in literature. They were always no-win situations, where the good guys always lost and the bad guys always triumphed. He felt as though he was in the creation story of some epic hero and this was his call to arms. He needed Sonja to be safe, but nothing felt right. If there was anything that Albert had always relied on it was plot, and this plot had yet to reach climax.
He closed his weak little, teenager eyes and dreamed of a happy life on an island, the warm water lapping over his feet, and the wind (he had never felt wind) on his brow. He pictured them there together, happily together forever, just as he had written it to be a year ago in his dreams. He opened his eyes and the airlock was open and she was motionless.
He moved immediately, Meisner expecting him to crumple and fall inward. Instead, he moved with remarkable speed and accuracy. he shoved the remaining good into the glass and right into a refuse dispenser. His hand activated the release and began pulling him toward it. He began his slow descent into vacuum and his screaming filled the walkway. Meisner was confused, apparently also a very inflexible man if his plans went sour. Albert attacked him with his whole being, grabbing a fistfull of his hair and bringing him to the deck.
They hardly wrestled at all when Albert found himself on top, winning. He scratched at the Jove's face, removing chunks of soft, powdery flesh with each stroke. Meisner screamed like a trapped animal, and gurgled as Albert brought his thumbs up to the man's eyes and pressed. The Jove's body twitched and shook, then stilled.
Albert got up shakily and peered out as Sonja. She was dancing now, dancing a slow dance made for one. She was beautiful. He felt his center return, his core of gravity back online.
The goon was up to his elbow now, babbling incomprehensibly. Albert picked up his pistol and headed, automaton-like, back to Clarissa. He'd start her up and find a crew to start his new life. The man's belly burst and the only sound that remained as a strong, violent sucking. Albert paid no mind and walked back to his ship.
---
On board his home, his castle, he disconnected docking clamps plotted a course for anywhere. The slave circuits were still working--not up to par with a real crew, but they were doing their job. He'd remedy that soon enough when he hit the belt. He gave one last look at the station. The other suit was lying near the hatch on the other side of the seal, his face gone due to a bullet to the back of the head.
He was alone again, as it seemed he was meant to be. He was the protagonist, and they the antagonist--this was his story. In Sonja, he had found something worth dying for. And now, with her gone, he'd found something worth living for.
He would kill the Jove's.
For what I wouldn't do
For what I hope to make of this
To fear the fear of fateless fate
and know all that will be missed
You descend upon me and plant your flag
atop my keel and tell me of exotic lands
where fire is met with water, earth and sky.
And there we stay, forever, and hold to the
truths of this world and beyond.
We swim between the fallen timbers and
sink into its deep. I see you smile,
lulling me with your soft siren call.
We float in the effervescent wombland,
finding the time to love each other absolutely
But It rolls in like the great wave hour
to come face to face ol' spiteful himself.
He wretches you from my hold
and spills you into its briny deep.
And where you were the silence fills you.
And the silence stays.
And I remain. Here.
For what I'd do to set things right
For what I didn't do
For what I know will never be and will never come
I speak now only to those accused--
Here be a dog of war, beating, beating on his drum
~Samuel Riley, "Criminals, All"
---
0055, somewhere in the Jovian Sphere
Albert Kirkland sat unobtrusively on the bridge of his new starship, rubbing the cleft on his chin curiously and thinking of his dinner plans. They'd named it Clarissa after one of his favorite 18th century satire novels. She'd been kind enough to acquiesce to his final decision on the matter--he being the authority on anything literary and theatrical. She loved it every time danced across the stage in his ragged mock-up of Renaissance attire. He'd quote all the obvious: Shakespeare, Pope, Spenser, Ovid, and Homer--all the greats. She'd sometimes turn from her pickpocketing and glow up at him and he'd almost miss his mark.
He touched his nimble fingers to his jaw and wondered when the grass would grow. They'd docked at a curious little fueling station hardly a day out from Io, and to their luck, it had a dining establishment. It was there one year anniversary and he was excited.
How a year had passed already he couldn't comprehend. After Jupiter and the ship theft, he'd run the craft all the way to the outer Jupiter Sphere. He pushed it so hard the reactor cracked and he leaked fuel. He'd limped all the way from the inner rings to the Customs Station without it going critical, and sold what remained of the ship's "complimentary" cargo. It was there he'd found his stowaway.
And he'd loved her ever since.
He had twenty minutes before their agreed-upon rendezvous. He'd stopped primping and powdering already and resigned to just waiting on the bridge, in his chair. His left pocket was full. In it was a surprise. A surprise for her. He was giddy but did not show it. Sam could always hide his emotions, and this is what partly bothered him. He did not know if she felt what he felt, or if she'd even consider them in that capacity. He'd read signs--plenty of signs--though it had always parted right before the finale. The kiss. He knew it was there, somewhere, waiting. Tonight he would plot them a course. They'd fly through the Jovian rings, pass the tumultuous sea of rocks, left at the Red Planet, and land somewhere on an dessert island. Just the two of them. Fletcher Christian and Roger Byam wouldn't have it any other way.
The clock on the chart table chirped. An old clock his father had given him that he'd bought before leaving Side 1--something to help start their new life, he'd said. It looked like an owl, only the chest had hands and showed the minutes in roman numerals. It was the only thing the remained of his former life. But now he'd start a new one. Like Swiss Family Robinson, only on a interplanetary ship and instead of the treetops, they've live amongst the stars.
It was time to move, he didn't want to be late.
---
The place was the image of decay and disrepair. It held a smell that could only be described as mind-numbing, something between fatty grease that needed to be changed and five week old farts. Most of the patrons were older, unkempt, and completely lost in the swirls of their favorite poisons. They made a low moaning sound akin to the dying throes of a skinned cat.
It was glorious.
He saw his table in the corner. He'd called ahead and pressed his charm. The proprietor had been sulky and uncooperative, but a few credits and a strong arm had shown him the way. He'd gotten them a fresh checkered tablecloth, a candle, and clean food. They had half the shithole to themselves and it couldn't be any more perfect. The night, and whatever might occur after (maybe, hopefully) would be something to remember when they got old together and had little else to do but sit around and sip coffee at the kitchen table.
Only, she wasn't there. Albert walked slowly to the table and looked sideways, scanning the dark corners. The men would clear out soon thanks, again, to trust Mr. Credit. He checked his watch, 1800. The sulky proprietor came, hurriedly, from out back, the swinging doors slapping his misshapen buttocks. He rushed around, waving at all the workers with a crusty dishtowel, trying to move the immovable. All left but one, and when the owner tried his turn at him, the remaining man raised a hand and sulks' eyes bugged and he ran back through the swinging doors to the kitchen.
Albert walked up the man, pissed as one should be on his "big night."
"I have rented this establishment for the night and you need to leave."
The man looked up from his untouched swirly drink and smiled. "I trust that you paid top dollar for such five star affair." His voice was like songbirds drowned in anti-freeze. Albert noticed the man wasn't wearing the down-on-his-luck outfit of a knuckledragger on the fringe. No, he was much too clean. "I apologize for ruining your evening, but perhaps you two can reschedule. I had high hopes of meeting a few of my dear friends for a drink."
It wasn't until Albert saw the man's white, gloved hands that he knew. This wasn't some snarky businessman or wayward bard, he wasn't something much more feral. Albert's heart ran aground.
"There have been a great many angered middle class Jovians as of late, claiming there wallets had disappeared during a, quote, 'quirky spectacle of class and exploit.'" The man's face contorted into whatever it was he was feeling. Contentment, no less. This was his specialty, and he seemed to love his job dearly. "And! As you'd have it, a day later, a fine-looking interplanetary craft would buzz out of port, destination unknown."
The two men faced off--no, one man and one frightened would-be pirate--and Albert's mind raced to Sonja. Where was she? He looked around frantically and made haste to the door. Two large men, both with gloved hands and fine silk suits, blocked his way.
"You've amassed quite a small fortune at the expense of the people, your eminence, King Henry V. Or would you prefer Redcrosse Knight? Leopold Bloom? Odysseus?" The darkness surrounding the man unfolded and presented a sinister shape of someone who knew no peace or pleasantness, no God. He was the portrait of pure undoing, the face that's given to wars. His name, even, was a name you'd give to a solar storm that decimated colonies and tore families from one another.
"Let me introduce myself, lad. I've lost my manners in the excitement. I apologize." He paused, clearly and intentional gesture that was not lost on Albert. "I am Gillian Meisner, Jupiter Development Enterprise Company, Procurement Division. And I believe you have something that belongs to me and, I think, I may have something of yours, as well."
The corsage he'd given to her beforehand was lying on his private table, orange in the candlelight. He felt the world upending, the station's artificial gravity a few pounds too heavy. He wanted to strip out of his formal attire--mostly because he felt ridiculous. He felt stupid and worthless. He hadn't planned for this. He hadn't seen it coming and now he'd killed them.
"She isn't harmed, so don't you worry! Pretty thing, though. Pretty thing. I am curious how that came to be, but I'll leave that for another time." He snapped his fingers and got up jerkily. Albert felt sick as the motion blurred and conformed to the light.
"What--" Albert couldn't talk, his through tightened into a cactus. "What do you want from me?"
"Ah, that's quite simple. We want our property, of course. Just give us the onboard signature encoding and you'll get what you want. No trickery, of course. That wouldn't be good for business."
The man's talking was wearing him down. He'd never thought they'd take a personal stake in his case. Sure, he'd stolen their property and made them look bad, but that was old news. Why now? Why?
Albert being Albert, he couldn't help but weigh his choices. He felt physically unwell doing it, but he could not deny his nature. He loved his ship. He utterly loved it. It epitomized his lust for freedom, his dream he'd first conceived in the arms of his tear-jerky father who spoke of high seas and swashbuckling men who gave no quarter. He believed in it almost as much as he believed in Tennyson and Byron. He couldn't just let them go.
But he loved Sonja more than anyone. Ever since his parents, no one came close to unlocking the secrets of his being. He needed her. He'd choose her. Even though odds were they'd both be dead by tomorrow, he'd choose her.
"I--I choose here."
Meisner clapped exuberantly, sending shock waves in every direction. "Marvelous! Let's set things in motion, shall we?"
They all marched to the ship dock. A JDEG vessel was now parked adjacent to Clarrisa. It dwarfed it, the Jovians always had a flair for giant and awe-inspiring. Albert felt ashamed for being a little bit impressed by it.
---
The docking nerve was empty and gray, and Meisner brought them to a stop between the two vessels--all part of his over-elaborate, showy demeanor. The docking tubes were clear on all sides, giving a splendid view of the stars at every angle. The JDEG vessel blotted them out, and as Albert scanned its pimply exterior, he saw a small airlock porthole with a face peering through. A helpless, angelic face, mouthing words he couldn't understand and would spend the rest of eternity untangling. She was weeping furious, her beautiful gold locks that she had probably spent hours fighting with in the Clarrisa's meager washroom. Her face was bruised, oh was she sad.
"We spent a great deal of time tracking you, building our case, dotting the i's, crossing the t's. You know what I mean." Meisner flipped a gloved hand into the air conversationally. "We could have had you six months ago, but we wanted to go through the proper channels. It took the Corporate Finance Committee three months, nearly, to agree on the budget for this little endeavor. It was well worth it, if you ask me. The Group prize each and every one of its vessels."
They stopped abruptly. Meisner turned militaristically and put out his hand. "Now, give it to me."
"Let her go first."
Meisner laughed and jabbed Albert in the chest with his pointed fingers. "Tut, tut, that isn't how we play the game. Give me the codes and all will be as it was."
Albert felt sweat form under every crease of his body. He had already made up his mind, but that didn't make what he was about to do any easier. "There is a false door near the gangway. The code is 0054. You will find it in there."
"Ah, wonderful," said Meisner, victory on his mind. He motioned for one of his thugs to retrieve the ship's code while he fiddled with a two-way communicator. He put up a finger as if to say just one moment, please. "Release our guest."
Albert waited impatiently, knowing very well how each and every one of these moments had come to pass in literature. They were always no-win situations, where the good guys always lost and the bad guys always triumphed. He felt as though he was in the creation story of some epic hero and this was his call to arms. He needed Sonja to be safe, but nothing felt right. If there was anything that Albert had always relied on it was plot, and this plot had yet to reach climax.
He closed his weak little, teenager eyes and dreamed of a happy life on an island, the warm water lapping over his feet, and the wind (he had never felt wind) on his brow. He pictured them there together, happily together forever, just as he had written it to be a year ago in his dreams. He opened his eyes and the airlock was open and she was motionless.
He moved immediately, Meisner expecting him to crumple and fall inward. Instead, he moved with remarkable speed and accuracy. he shoved the remaining good into the glass and right into a refuse dispenser. His hand activated the release and began pulling him toward it. He began his slow descent into vacuum and his screaming filled the walkway. Meisner was confused, apparently also a very inflexible man if his plans went sour. Albert attacked him with his whole being, grabbing a fistfull of his hair and bringing him to the deck.
They hardly wrestled at all when Albert found himself on top, winning. He scratched at the Jove's face, removing chunks of soft, powdery flesh with each stroke. Meisner screamed like a trapped animal, and gurgled as Albert brought his thumbs up to the man's eyes and pressed. The Jove's body twitched and shook, then stilled.
Albert got up shakily and peered out as Sonja. She was dancing now, dancing a slow dance made for one. She was beautiful. He felt his center return, his core of gravity back online.
The goon was up to his elbow now, babbling incomprehensibly. Albert picked up his pistol and headed, automaton-like, back to Clarissa. He'd start her up and find a crew to start his new life. The man's belly burst and the only sound that remained as a strong, violent sucking. Albert paid no mind and walked back to his ship.
---
On board his home, his castle, he disconnected docking clamps plotted a course for anywhere. The slave circuits were still working--not up to par with a real crew, but they were doing their job. He'd remedy that soon enough when he hit the belt. He gave one last look at the station. The other suit was lying near the hatch on the other side of the seal, his face gone due to a bullet to the back of the head.
He was alone again, as it seemed he was meant to be. He was the protagonist, and they the antagonist--this was his story. In Sonja, he had found something worth dying for. And now, with her gone, he'd found something worth living for.
He would kill the Jove's.