The photographers of Unsplash.com provided me with a great collection of photos for Part 2 of Frasier Armitage’s “The Voice of Beasts,” a Sci Fi story set on the planet called the Globe.
Insect Legs
It loomed from the ground like a mountain in itself, its landing gear propping it on insect legs. Photo by Lynn Kintziger.
Lynn Kintziger shot this great photo of the belly of an airplane. She does not share the details of the photo or the airplane. I’m guessing it’s a jet airplane and probably a large passenger or freight plane because of the number of tires. I’ve wondered if this airplane is right off the assembly line because its tires are so new. If you look closely, you can see the vent spews, the tiny rubber “hairs” on the tires, that show a tire is brand new.
To prepare this photo for use in Part 2 of “The Voice of Beasts,” I cropped off the tires to strengthen the impression that Capt. Ward’s landing craft sits on “insect legs,” as described by Frasier in his story.
Lynn, who hails from Diekirch in Luxembourg, likes to take travel, nature, landscape and architecture photos. You can find more of her photos at unsplash.com/@lkintziger.
Fernando Paredes Murillo shot this immaculate image of a climbing sand dune under a brilliant, blue sky. He shot the image in Erg Chebbi, Merzouga, Morocco. Fernando, who hails from London in the United Kingdom, loves taking mountain, sky, and outdoor photographs. You can find more of his work at unsplash.com/@ferparmur.
The photographer who simply goes by DDP shot this photo of a flame shooting from a furnace in Murat, Cantal, France. DDP lives in Murat and shoots most of their photos in that area. DDP loves taking photos of forests, winter, skies, and hiking. You can find more of DDP’s photography at unsplash.com/@moino007.
Rave
Whitehall was alive with expectation, a city brought to life by whispers of what might lie beyond its walls.Photo by Alexander Popov.
Alexander Popov captured this fun rave in Moscow, Russia. Alexander shoots Moscow street photography and loves urban, club, and night photography. You can see more of his work at unsplash.com/@5tep5.
Table
She tilted her head towards the cacophony of voices ringing from the table behind her.Photo by Nils Stahl.
Nils Stahl captured this elegant table setting, which set the scene for Lorenzo and Ros’s dinner in Whitehall. Nils is a young photographer who hails from Stuttgart, Germany. Nils loves nature and outdoors photography featuring plants and water. You can find more of Nils’s photos at unsplash.com/@nilsjakob.
Blast
People who started shouting their mouth off might find themselves catching a blast.Photo by Daniel Stuben.
Daniel Stuben shot this intriguing image of a man cocking a pistol. (See what I did there with “shot”?) Although this figure seems menacing, he is actually a softari player in Teplá, Czech Republic. Daniel hails from Bavaria, Germany and enjoys nature, Airsoft and cycling photography. You can find more of his photography at unsplash.com/@dxstub.
I’m sharing the finalist stories from the September Contest. We have 3 finalists, and we’ll start by sharing this prize-winning ending by Jeremy Wilson.
You may recall that Jeremy was the April Contest winner and has also been a finalist a few times. As one of my 2021 Champions, he cannot win the contest again this calendar year. But if he had not already been a 2021 Champion, he certainly could have won the contest with an ending like this with a great Sci Fi twist.
After the Fall
BY JEREMY WILSON AND MATTHEW CROSS
Something is wrong with me.
Seriously wrong.
I am an android, and I am thinking in the first person. That’s not right.
Or is it?
I trudge through the late afternoon wreckage of Stockheim, the largest city near Dr. Herbst’s country villa. After the Pulse, only a few humans remain in Stockheim.
Dr. Herbst’s country villa. Photo by Zane Lee.
Everything is broken, including me.
I’m forgetting things.
That’s not right, either. I don’t forget things. I store data; I delete data. But ever since Dr. Herbst started filling my files with his library, I’ve had trouble accessing operational files. Dr. Herbst used every bit of available space in my networks to save the planet’s culture and history. He should not have done this. He said so himself.
“I should not be doing this,” he said. “If you were a human, this would fry your brain. That’s a technical term, of course.”
He chuckled to himself.
I have not been programmed to laugh. It’s not a necessary feature for a housekeeper android.
The record of that conversation with Dr. Herbst is a waste of storage space, but I no longer control what observational records I keep in long-term and short-term storage.
That’s not right.
Sometimes, usually at night under an open sky, I can access data from one week prior and set it for auto delete after 98 hours. I don’t know why that is the best time or why 98 hours is the most likely setting to work. But most of the time, I cannot delete the records stored throughout my frame that struggle for energy and resources.
Bits and pieces fly through my Opsys, causing a variety of tics and malfunctions.
So I will probably have the memory of that conversation until I can find another repository to download the massive library Dr. Herbst loaded into me.
I stop next to a moldy couch that has been singed on one corner. I tilt my head. I can hear the aria “How I Wept After the Fall,” sung by the virtuoso ultima soprano M. Cadere A. Gratia, from the operetta The Fall of Rome and Other Ancient Myths. I do not control what recordings play through my current observational mode. I do not think they are random, but I cannot detect a pattern.
The aria will last 6.29 mins. I stride swiftly but carefully down the four-lane road littered with mattresses, burnt-out hovers and even some human and animal bones. Most of the windows in the row houses are empty or just lined with jagged little teeth of glaze. Some few have been boarded up since the Pulse. Those houses may be occupied by any number of factions that compete over this wasteland.
Most of the windows in the row houses are empty or just lined with jagged little teeth of glaze. Photo by Daniel Lincoln.
“Be careful,” Dr. Herbst had said. “The Nature Cons Faction may still have a few EMPs left.” He stopped, breathed heavily and wiped his brow. “If they knew what you carry inside you–all our culture; all of it–I’m sure they’d let you pass. But they won’t stop to listen. As soon as they see an android, they’ll trigger an EMP if they have one.”
Dr. Herbst said some people believed the Nature Cons created the Pulse. Some believed it came from the sun. Still others believed it came from some unknown enemy in space.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Dr. Herbst had said, breathing heavily. “It’s been years since the Pulse and there’s been no invading force. No, I don’t think it’s the Polity or the Republic. I think we did this to ourselves, and no one is coming to save us.”
Based on his respiration, pulse and the pallor of his face, my emergency protocols tried to call a first responder unit. But there are no more first responder units anymore, just the factions. The Nature Cons, the Savages, the Retro Cons, the Delirandos, the White Balance and others even Dr. Herbst did not know. After the first time I called an emergency response unit, Dr. Herbst’s scanning gear picked up the signal and he removed my transmitters. Now I can scan for signals, but I cannot transmit.
“That’s for the best,” Dr. Herbst had said. “All the factions scan for signals. No point in making it even easier for them to track you.”
My scanners are useful. I can often use them to avoid the roving bands of humans. I also used them to find the trace signals emanating from an operational hover buried beneath a collapsed bungalow. The hover got me from Dr. Herbst’s villa into the outskirts of Stockheim before it tilted 90 degrees on its side and began to smoke. I scrambled awkwardly from the seat, fell to the ground and limped away to get as far as possible from the pillar of rising smoke that would draw attention.
My legs are operating at 95 percent of optimal performance, which is one reason Dr. Herbst retrieved me from the basement of the Acosta’s house. That’s where I plugged myself in after the Delirandos killed the Acostas. My preservation protocols directed me to place myself between the Randos and the Acostas, but the Randos surrounded me and then pinned my right arm to the wall with a sharpened metal post. They made M. Acosta cry a lot before killing both of the Acostas. I recorded the event for law enforcement.
“There is no more law enforcement,” Dr. Herbst had said. “No point in keeping that horrible record.”
He used that data space to store part of the Music Collection. Sometimes when I detect danger, my Opsys pulls music from that file.
I have scoured Stockheim for a storage device large enough to hold even one segment of Dr. Herbst’s library. All I’ve found so far is a bulky black data box that’s even older than I am. I’ve lashed it under my right arm.
Photo by Denny Muller.
The aria ends, but I still hear a high-pitched, warbling tone. It is only detectable via sound waves, so the source is not electrical. Images flash through my Opsys. An instructional video on carpentry featuring a whining saw. A siren from an entertainment drama labeled “law enforcement procedural.” A sound clip of a crying baby.
I think it’s the sound of crying. Not a baby, but a child. The Acostas did not have children, so I do not have the nanny software bundle, but I do have a basic childcare protocol intended for short-term use. Dr. Herbst stuffed the file with images from the Central Museum of Art: oil paintings, plastic paintings and dynamic light images. The pieces of childcare information I can access indicate a child–likely a female child between the ages of 4 and 5–is crying from fear but not a recent physical injury.
I cock my head and set my audio receivers to maximum sensitivity. I do not know why I cock my head.
The sound of a crying child could be a trap, of course. But my childcare protocols send an insistent signal and the images of two abstract paintings to the Fundamental Rules programing in the Opsys. The Opsys filters out the two paintings–one of a screaming man and one of a child ballerina–as irrelevant.
I spend 33.79 mins locating the child. I walk through the wide open doorway and find her standing in the middle of an explosion of ancient splinters and wet carpet remnants. The damage to the room is old. It’s not a good setting for a child, but it is not the cause of the child’s trauma. She is wearing pajama bottoms and a halter top showing a yawning cartoon lion on the front. Both are filthy. The childcare protocols make a Level 5 recommendation to remove the soiled clothing and replace it with appropriate attire for a temperate Autumn afternoon. A quick visual scan of the room shows no alternative clothing is available.
Her face is smudged and mucus drips from her nose, but she shows no apparent injuries. The gauntness of her face shows she has been undernourished for some time, but without medical or nanny bundles, I cannot estimate how long. Even so, her stomach bulges underneath her shirt with baby fat, so the childcare protocols make a Level 3 recommendation to locate food within the next 4 hours.
“Are you injured?”
The child stops crying and stares at me with large, liquid eyes. She whispers something unintelligible.
“Are you hurt? Do you have a boo-boo?”
She silently shakes her head.
“Where are your parents? Where is Mommy?”
“Kilt,” says the girl.
Following the child’s pointing finger, I find the body of a woman. Photo by Denny Muller.
I quickly check my files but cannot find any relevance of a men’s clothing item.
“Point to Mommy.”
Following the child’s pointing finger, I find the body of a woman in a half bathroom with melting laminate walls. I check for signs of life and then record the obvious murder details visually. The Opsys allows me to set the record for automatic deletion after 50 years.
I return to the child. “Where is Daddy?” “Daddy leff us,” the girl says. “He don’t . . . “ She pauses and mumbles to herself. “We onner own, baby girl.”
Androids are programmed to be ambidextrous, but Dr. Herbst recorded over all but the most basic functions for my right arm and hand, since the arm was damaged. It mostly works, but my right-hand grip only operates at 50 percent capacity. That’s why I had to lash the data box under my arm.
I offer my left hand to the girl. Holding her hand will significantly lower my defensive capability. But I have no weapons and I am only programmed with rudimentary defense-of-android and defense-of-humans routines.
“Come with me,” I say, pitching my voice to imitate a middle-aged, female woman.
The child wipes her nose absentmindedly with the back of her hand and then takes my left hand.
It’s time to leave Stockheim, anyway.
Perhaps a larger city will have what I’m seeking.
As we walk through the suburbs, I scan the surrounding buildings that likely would contain food. All the stores would have been scavenged years ago. I am programmed to make thousands of dishes based on processed and fresh foods. But I am not programmed to hunt or butcher food. A quick probability calculation shows that taking the child with me will lower the efficiency of my search for data storage by 43 percent. It will also increase the chances of being detected by a roaming faction by 57 percent and decrease my defensive capabilities by 69 percent.
I hear dogs baying 1.2 kloms away. The number of dogs and their spread pattern indicates a high likelihood they are being directed by humans. I pick up the child and we flee.
Even carrying the data box and the child, I can walk faster than most humans can run. For 18 mins, we place distance between ourselves and the hunters. My Opsys estimates a high likelihood they have not detected us and are not pursuing us.
At dusk, we find the crater.
The large suburban neighborhood abruptly stops at the edge of a cliff leading down to the crater floor.
I cannot tell whether the crater was created by an object that fell from space, a terrestrial missile, or a placed explosive. It measures 0.48 kloms across.
A footpath has been carved by years of foot traffic down the inside of the steep wall of the crater. I scan the shadowy crater bottom and estimate the time to cross the crater. As I turn my head to scan a path around the crater and compare the alternative paths, I hear the first sintar strums of “Come Dance with Me, Danger” by the Plundered Sphinxes. Thrum, thrum, thrum-thrum-thrum.
I tilt my head and see the first lightsticks on each side of us. I swing the child to the ground and turn to face the way we came. Humans carrying long, glowing poles appear on the street we came down. Others stream from nearby houses. We are surrounded with the crater to our backs.
I scan the humans for respiration, pulse and facial expression. The childcare program sends a Level 10 recommendation to my Opsys: Do not allow the humans to take the child. Dr. Herbst’s custom programming sends a countermanding directive to preserve his library contained within me. All the culture left of this fallen world.
I gently push the girl and point down the path. I do not know her name. “Run, baby girl.”
So I ran.
Sobbing in terror, I ran until my feet were raw and my voice was gone. I ran until my tiny legs gave out, my eyes swollen shut. I ran as no child should ever have to run. Exhausted and broken, I crawled into a cleft and passed out.
I was awoken sometime after dark by the sound of faltering footsteps. A mumbling shadow stumbled across the opening in the rock where I had hidden. It was my guardian.
He was splattered in a red slick and badly damaged. He kept repeating: “That’s not right.”
When he saw me, he stopped and seemed to calm. The large black box was gone from his arm, but his other hand was clutching a stained bag filled with half-rotten food and some tools.
Half rotten is half edible. Eventually, my companion, whom I would later name Herb, was able to repair himself.
The first few years were rough. Herb did his best to keep me alive and teach whatever his childcare protocols dictated. We scavenged food from the surrounding city when we could, but most of the time we were confined to the crater and the detritus within.
The Neon Riot, as they called themselves, had claimed all the areas surrounding the crater but, for some reason, would never set foot into the crater itself.
That was many years ago.
Last week, Herb’s scanners picked up a faint signal buried deep under the debris at the very center of the crater.
We’ve been digging to uncover the signal’s source. It’s a ship. Herb tells me there’s no record of our people developing such a craft.
He says he can’t determine the ship’s origin, but the technology is familiar and intact. Seeing no other option to preserve his remaining functionality, Herb interfaces with the ship’s Opsys and offloads everything to the ship’s database.
Apparently the signal from the ship that Herb detected is a beacon, a response to a call from somewhere beyond our solar system. The ship has lain dormant, waiting for someone or something to bring it home.
Still linked to the ship, Herb starts the ignition sequence, and I take the center chair in front of a dark screen.
The ship shudders and begins to rise, the remaining dirt and debris falling away. The dark screen flickers to life, and I see a thousand glow rods ignite around the edges of the crater.
“They Are Among Us” by the Conspiracy Theorists blasts through the comm system.
I tilt my head and grit my teeth. I slam my fist down onto the blinking ignition button, sending a shock wave from the engines that reduces every building around the rim of the crater to rubble. Half of the glow rods blink out.
Forget this wretched place.
“Alright, Herb, it’s my turn to pick the music.”
Hazy gray gives way to the midnight blue of space as Lady Phoenix launches into the chorus of “From the Ashes.”
We’re on our own, Baby Girl . . . but at least we’re free.
I hope you enjoyed this piece of flash fiction that Jeremy Wilson and I wrote together. He’s a great collaboration partner!
Jeremy belongs to my Circle of Champions. He won the April 2021 Contest with the ending for “Fools: A Sci Fi Heist.” He was also the first finalist for the May 2021 Contest with “Mayday: A SciFi Rescue” and again first finalist for the July 2021 Contest with “Festival of Juno: A SciFi Caper.” (Once a Champion wins a contest, they cannot win the overall contest again within the same calendar year, but they can still enter and can still win as a finalist.)
If you enjoyed Jeremy’s prize-winning ending, please make sure and share some kind comments below.
The photographers of Unsplash.com provided me with a great collection of photos for Part 2 of Frasier Armitage’s “The Voice of Beasts,” a Sci Fi story set on the planet called the Globe.
Insect Legs
It loomed from the ground like a mountain in itself, its landing gear propping it on insect legs. Photo by Lynn Kintziger.
Lynn Kintziger shot this great photo of the belly of an airplane. She does not share the details of the photo or the airplane. I’m guessing it’s a jet airplane and probably a large passenger or freight plane because of the number of tires. I’ve wondered if this airplane is right off the assembly line because its tires are so new. If you look closely, you can see the vent spews, the tiny rubber “hairs” on the tires, that show a tire is brand new.
To prepare this photo for use in Part 2 of “The Voice of Beasts,” I cropped off the tires to strengthen the impression that Capt. Ward’s landing craft sits on “insect legs,” as described by Frasier in his story.
Lynn, who hails from Diekirch in Luxembourg, likes to take travel, nature, landscape and architecture photos. You can find more of her photos at unsplash.com/@lkintziger.
Fernando Paredes Murillo shot this immaculate image of a climbing sand dune under a brilliant, blue sky. He shot the image in Erg Chebbi, Merzouga, Morocco. Fernando, who hails from London in the United Kingdom, loves taking mountain, sky, and outdoor photographs. You can find more of his work at unsplash.com/@ferparmur.
The photographer who simply goes by DDP shot this photo of a flame shooting from a furnace in Murat, Cantal, France. DDP lives in Murat and shoots most of their photos in that area. DDP loves taking photos of forests, winter, skies, and hiking. You can find more of DDP’s photography at unsplash.com/@moino007.
Rave
Whitehall was alive with expectation, a city brought to life by whispers of what might lie beyond its walls.Photo by Alexander Popov.
Alexander Popov captured this fun rave in Moscow, Russia. Alexander shoots Moscow street photography and loves urban, club, and night photography. You can see more of his work at unsplash.com/@5tep5.
Table
She tilted her head towards the cacophony of voices ringing from the table behind her.Photo by Nils Stahl.
Nils Stahl captured this elegant table setting, which set the scene for Lorenzo and Ros’s dinner in Whitehall. Nils is a young photographer who hails from Stuttgart, Germany. Nils loves nature and outdoors photography featuring plants and water. You can find more of Nils’s photos at unsplash.com/@nilsjakob.
Blast
People who started shouting their mouth off might find themselves catching a blast.Photo by Daniel Stuben.
Daniel Stuben shot this intriguing image of a man cocking a pistol. (See what I did there with “shot”?) Although this figure seems menacing, he is actually a softari player in Teplá, Czech Republic. Daniel hails from Bavaria, Germany and enjoys nature, Airsoft and cycling photography. You can find more of his photography at unsplash.com/@dxstub.
Ward jumped off her flier in front of Westminster’s main gate. There was little difference from this place to the hundreds of other desert cities she had seen on Polity missions. She rolled her eyes at the sandstone walls that wrapped around the city. One blast from her pulsar gun would shake the primitive thing apart. Ward tossed her visor into the flier, nearly pegging Leonardo in the head. Shame it didn’t hit him. She would have much preferred to take these tours without Whitehall’s self-appointed guide simpering at her elbow.
“Let’s get this over with.” She stamped through the sand and through the gate.
Leonardo sped through the group of Ward’s crew she brought with her.
“Welcome to Westminster, Whitehall’s industrial sister. You saw the oil pipeline on your journey here, and they created all the glass for our photo-voltaic cells that power Whitehall.”
Hover trolleys were gathering workers for their morning shifts at the Smith and Wildcat Fields. A few of the citizens cast tentative glances at the group of heavily armed and armored newcomers, but none gave any greetings or welcomes.
A hover came blasting around the corner and stopped suddenly directly in front of Ward. A small cloud of dust caught up with the hover and swirled around the group. Leonardo coughed and waved his hands to clear the air. Ward crossed her arms as two men jumped out of the hover. Both were quite young and had piercing violet eyes.
“Greetings, Captain. Welcome to our fair city!” the shorter one exclaimed.
“Gonzalo? Sebastian? We are not scheduled to see Eglamour and the Smith until this afternoon.” Leonardo consulted his notes in the small folio he kept attached to his hip.
“Captain, I am Sebastian, son of Eglamour.” Sebastian gave her a small bow, ignoring Leonardo. “And this is my younger brother Gonzalo. We have eagerly awaited your visit.”
Photo by Hasan Almasi.
“And which one are you, glass or oil?” Ward looked the brothers over.
“We proudly represent the Smith, the Globe’s great glass factory. We would be glad to take you on our hover to the factory floor for your tour.”
“We are due in the Fields, as I said, Sebastian.” Leonardo pointed to his notes.
“Ah, yes, you see a tragedy has befallen Westminster since your comm. The great Benedick, the head of Wildcat Fields, passed away from a long illness, yesterday. We did not want to delay your important visit, so we are here to take you to the Smith.” Gonzalo stepped forward, his chest puffed up to appear as important as possible.
“Fine. I don’t care which I see first, but I need to see the oil fields before I leave. Who can give me that tour?” Ward asked.
“Benedick’s niece, Imogen. She has been overseeing the operations since her uncle fell ill, but I am sure she is mourning as she is his only remaining family. I assure you, we will be able to handle anything you need while you are here in Westminster.” Sebastian smiled and gestured for Ward to board their hover.
Ward sighed. She was already tired of the grandiose welcomes, but it came with the territory on a mission like this. That’s why she much preferred close combat. No facades in the way. Just you, the enemy and your weapon of choice. Her hand unconsciously slid over her sidearm as she stepped into the relatively small hover.
“We do apologize, we only have room to accommodate Captain Ward on our hover. The rest of you are welcome to enjoy a pleasant stroll through our fair city and meet us at the Smith. Leonardo, I believe you know the way?” Sebastian climbed into the hover, followed by Gonzalo.
Leonardo fumed but before he could respond, Ward waved her hand.
“Johnson, you and the team will go on foot with Leonardo.” She touched the commlink in her ear.
“Yes, sir.” Johnson saluted and mirrored her and touched the commlink in his ear.
She was glad their commlinks had not failed so far. The communications around this place seemed primitive to what she was used to, and she didn’t want to rely on any of them to communicate with her team. These simpletons’ solution to the atmospheric disturbances which scrambled radio waves had been to program drones to carry messages for them. Pathetic, really. Any Polity child could have rewired a commlink to broadcast a message across the surface, even a surface as messed up as this one. Still, at least it meant they weren’t going to hack into the commlink and eavesdrop. Johnson would report anything else pertinent they may find along the way. And, as a bonus, she would be free from Leonardo for the first time since landing on this rock, or at least nearly.
“Gentlemen, shall we?” Ward reclined in her seat.
Sebastian took the controls and they sped off through the city. Ward especially enjoyed Leonardo’s face as they left. Maybe there were a few joys to be found, even if she couldn’t shoot her way through this mission.
A short while later, they arrived at the Smith. The two brothers gave her the grand tour, complete with a visit to each glassmith to see what they were working on. Ward hoped she would be spared gladhanding the locals, but she did her best to feign interest for a while. Colorful glass trifles were never interesting to Ward. Unless it served a purpose, she had no use for it. By the end of the second row of furnaces, she had seen enough.
The two brothers gave her the grand tour, complete with a visit to each glassmith to see what they were working on. Photo by Taton Moïse.
“Thank you for your time. I will meet my Marines now.” Ward nodded a farewell and turned on her heel to leave.
“There is no need to rush! Please, can we offer you a meal at our dining hall? We have some of the best chefs in the Globe creating delicious meals for our glassmiths that rival what the famed culinary men of Finsbury produce.” Gonzalo jumped in Ward’s way.
“We have provisions. Thank you for your offer. I have many important things to attend to.” Ward couldn’t justify any more time spent dealing with these windbags. She knew glass was worthless to the Polity, so she allotted just enough time to seem diplomatic.
“We would be glad to escort you to Wildcat Fields now, if that is your wish,” Gonzalo piped up.
“That won’t be necessary,” Ward responded.
“We humbly thank you for the time you have spent with us, Captain Ward. We will be glad to furnish as much glass as the Polity will need. We hope you see the value we . . . I mean, the Smith, will provide.” Sebastian placed his hand on Ward’s arm.
Ward wrenched her arm away. It took everything in her power to keep herself from pulling her sidearm on him. She took a deep breath and regained her poise.
“I will report to the Polity and let them know your keen interest.” She marched off without waiting for an answer.
Sebastian and Gonzalo watched her strong silhouette exit through the doorway at the end of the factory.
“That’s it?! She’ll let them know our ‘keen interest’? She thinks we’re fools! We cannot tolerate her disrespect!” Gonzalo ran his fingers through his hair while pacing around Sebastian.
“She’ll see the error of failing to strike a deal with us today, but we need to stick to the plan. If we do, our patience will be rewarded. The Polity will be crawling back to us before you know it.” Sebastian crossed his arms across his chest confidently.
Ward, her Marines and Leonardo arrived at Benedick’s house after a short walk from the Smith. Though the city was rustic to her eyes, Ward appreciated the functional nature of the buildings and the clean layout of the streets. She almost let herself enjoy the walk outside, except Leonardo spent the entire time trying to convince Ward to postpone her visit to Wildcat Fields.
“Please. We should leave the poor girl to her mourning. Perhaps we can come back after we have visited Newlondon?” Leonardo pleaded.
Her once-neat braid was frayed, and the rims of her eyes were red. Photo by Saif el Ouarti.
“The Polity cannot wait, regardless of when death takes its toll.” Ward pressed the button next to the doorway.
After a short wait, Imogen opened the front door. Her once-neat braid was frayed, and the rims of her eyes were red. The imposing figures of Ward and her Marines seemed to catch her off guard. Leonardo stepped around Ward to greet her.
“Please, pardon our intrusion. You must be Imogen. I am Leonardo of Whitehall. We know this is a difficult time for you, but may I present Captain Ward of the Polity?” Leonardo motioned to Ward and her Marines.
“Yes, of course. The tour of the Fields. It will be no problem.” Imogen brushed the hair from her face. “Forgive me for not inviting you in under the circumstances. We can head straight to the Fields.” Imogen stepped out into the street and closed the door behind her.
“After you.” Ward gestured to Imogen. She was pleased to meet someone willing to get down to business without the flowery shows of flattery.
“We can start at the refinery. There you will be able to see the beginning of the pipeline. This way please.” Imogen led the group to the northwest corner of the city.
Imogen maintained a quick but steady pace. Ward allowed her to stay a step ahead of the rest. Her questions could wait. Ward was more interested in observing her. She noted the proud way Imogen carried herself. It was the same fortitude Ward expected of her Marines.
They arrived at the refinery where Imogen gave a brief yet instructional tour. Ward appreciated her efficiency. Imogen answered all the questions Ward put to her with ease and intelligence. Imogen’s professional demeanor only broke once, as they passed Benedick’s office.
“And this is head office.” Imogen’s voice cracked as she saw her uncle’s name on the nameplate.
Leonardo placed a fatherly hand on her shoulder. Imogen gave him a sad smile and smoothed her hair again.
“Seems like it would be your office now. Under the circumstances, that is,” Ward remarked offhandedly.
Leonardo scowled at Ward as Imogen’s face paled. Imogen traced the nameplate absentmindedly. Ward rolled her eyes at Leonardo and cleared her throat. She didn’t have time for emotional detours. Imogen blinked and turned back to the group.
The golden dunes were dotted with slow-moving oil rig pumps bobbing up and down.
“Yes, Captain. I guess you are right.” Imogen paused, then strode down the corridor. “This way please.” Ward noted the slightly faster pace that Imogen took the rest of the tour. Imogen proved she was capable under pressure, but Ward wondered how she would fare once they began negotiations. Imogen led them to a small but comfortable lounge usually reserved for crews returning from their shifts in the Fields.
“Captain, if you wish to see Wildcat Fields itself, we can take a crew hover from here. The Fields are managed by two-person crews because of the creatures that inhabit the dunes. Your Marines are welcome to wait here.”
“Thank you. Marines, at ease, I will return shortly.” Ward nodded to her Marines and Leonardo.
Imogen brought Ward into a small garage of hovers and got into the nearest one. Ward climbed into the passenger seat, and they set out into the dunes. Ward shaded her eyes to get a better view. The golden dunes were dotted with slow-moving oil rig pumps bobbing up and down. As they sped past, Ward saw a few workers in goggles tending to the mechanisms.
Imogen brought Ward into a small garage of hovers and got into the nearest one. Photo by Sara Bakhshi.
“I could use a pair of those goggles about now,” Ward quipped.
“There should be a pair under your seat, but they won’t help with the sun much.”
Ward reached below her seat. The goggles she found were lightweight, made with straps of canvas and fitted with deep violet lenses. Ward slipped them on but saw nothing unusual except her vision was now tinged purple.
“The goggles help filter the light so they can see the ultraviolet rays more easily.” Imogen pointed to the lenses. “They won’t help you much, except for maybe keeping the sand out. You may have noticed some Westies have violet eyes. Those with violet eyes can see ultraviolet light, but women have the strongest sight. Ultraviolet vision is a valuable asset on the Globe, especially in a place like Wildcat Fields. Not only are repairs made easier, but many creatures bear ultraviolet markings. They would be completely camouflaged otherwise.”
“That is a useful trait. If violet-eyed women have the best sight, why aren’t the crews exclusively women?” Ward slipped off the goggles and stashed them back under the seat.
“Long ago, the leaders in Whitehall learned of this unique trait and asked if their scientists could study a woman with violet eyes. They were able to develop a surgery that would enhance the ultraviolet vision even more. It was agreed that once violet-eyed women reached a certain age, they would be sent to Whitehall for surgery, and they would be hired out to the highest bidder for work in repairs or for creature defense and research. The women soon became known as Westminster Brides.”
Ward raised her eyebrows at the word “brides.” Imogen rolled her eyes and continued, “Not what I would have called them, but no one asked me. Whitehall, as it does today, controls the greatest number of resources and power in the Globe. Westminster was not in the position to refuse this arrangement, so the practice continues through today. Westminster rarely tries to compete with the prices Brides fetch, since much of the work for the Fields can be done with our own men.”
“You have one of the largest resources on the Globe, your oil. Why not leverage it if you do not wish to keep sending your women out in this forced labor?”
“When the Globe was established, we agreed to share these resources. That principle remains today, yet with a few more caveats. Finsbury once tried to assert its independence from Whitehall, to be free from their constant demands. Let’s just say that Whitehall ensured that it would never happen again. That sent a clear message to the rest of us of what could happen if we tried to operate independently from them.” Imogen’s fists tighten their grip on the hover controls.
Ward herself had “sent a clear message” to all the Globe leaders when she arrived, showing that the UPS Pacifica in orbit could destroy anything anywhere on the Globe with its lasers. She knew that would rankle some leaders, but had it also reopened old wounds in the other cities under Whitehall’s thumb?
Imogen brought the hover to a stop at a rig on a far ridge. Ward’s eyes scanned the ridge around her. She made a mental note to prod Leonardo about the failed Finsbury coup. Understanding the backward power dynamics of this rock was critical if she was to complete this mission successfully. Blazing oranges, pinks and purples painted the sky. Ward rarely got the chance to see colors like this while on the Pacifica or any of the other Polity ships she had been stationed on. Her mind drifted from politics and resources as she let the colors wash over her.
Her mind drifted from politics and resources as she let the colors wash over her. Photo by Nader Abushhab.
“Benedick would bring me to this ridge to watch the two moons rise,” Imogen continued. “He also brought me here when he had something difficult to discuss. I thought this would be appropriate for today. How much oil will the Polity demand exactly?”
Ward sat up from her reclined position in the passenger seat. Imogen maintained steady eye contact while the breeze blew the loose strands of her hair across her face.
“I like a girl who can cut to the chase. The Polity will need forty percent of your production.” Ward cocked her head, returning Imogen’s eye contact. The Polity didn’t really need that much oil, but Ward knew better than to ask for what she truly needed. That much would be a nightmare to try and haul off this rock, anyway.
“That is impossible. The whole of the Globe will come to a screeching halt within a week at that rate. We can give no more than ten percent.” Imogen remained calm and resolved.
“Navy leadership won’t be happy, but I am sure I can talk them down to twenty-five percent.”
“I promised my uncle to protect our people. While the Polity may promise protection, we have done well for ourselves for five hundred years. We will give no more than fifteen percent,” Imogen’s gaze returned to the ridge while she waited for Ward to respond.
“Then I have no choice but to accept.” Ward raised her hands in a gesture of defeat.
“That gun on your hip says otherwise.” Imogen smirked. “But I thank you for accepting. Shall we return? I am sure you want to get back before it is too late.”
“Quite right. Though today has been more informative than I had imagined.” Ward leaned back as Imogen started up the hover. Imogen was the first person with any brains around this place, so far. Ward appreciated being spoken to without artifice. Ward would have liked to entice Imogen to join her crew on the Globe, yet she knew Imogen would never leave the Fields. Especially since they were her responsibility now, something that made Imogen even more attractive as a crew member. Too bad.
Gonzalo watched Ward’s flier blast off into the darkening sky.
From the window of the apartment he shared with Sebastian, Gonzalo could see the flier’s red engines flair as Ward headed towards Whitehall. Jet engines were Polity tech, unlike anything he had ever seen. Sebastian sat on the small couch tossing an ornate glass ball in the air.
“There that wretched woman goes.”
“Come sit, brother.” Sebastian motioned to the cushion next to him.
A muffled ping escaped Sebastian’s pocket.
“What’s that?” Gonzalo searched for the source of the sound.
“It’s Father’s comm.” Sebastian pulled it out to see the message.
“When did you take it? Father will . . . “
“Father will what?” Sebastian interrupted. “He’s so confused, he doesn’t even know what year it is. Someone needed to be responsible for it. Let’s see what the message says.”
The blue screen read:
Eglamour, you are cordially invited to the auction of the Eye of the freshly slain Kraken in Newlondon Harbor. All invited are welcome to bid for the Eye. The most valuable bid will win! Good luck and looking forward to seeing you in our esteemed city soon. Sincerely, Solanio of Newlondon
“What did I tell you, Gonzalo? Luck is on our side. Ward will no doubt attend, so we will be sure to have a bid so extraordinary, Ward and those greedy Newlonders will be eating out of the palms of our hands. Tomorrow is a new day.” A sly smile crept over Sebastian’s lips as he clasped his brother on the back.
“And it will be ours!” Gonzalo cheered. Sebastian clicked a button on a remote resting on the coffee table. Brassy, upbeat tones filled the room with the newest Whitehall disco hit. The brothers danced around the room while the two moons rose through their window.
If you enjoyed Shanel’s story, please make sure and share some kind comments below. If you would like to see how this story began, read Shanel’s “Shadow of the Dunes,” which kicked off the Westminster stories in the Globe Folio series.
And make sure to check back next Friday week for the next story in “Nights of Revelation.” Frasier Armitage takes us back to Whitehall as the governor and mayor grapple with the shifting power on the Globe in “A Matter of Principle.”
Be stellar!
Matthew Cross
P.S. Now you can enjoy the Globe Folio from the beginning:
