A local author has challenged me, and so - not one to know when to back down from absurdity or futility, have answered her call. (Like I didn't have enough going on, already, right?)
I have to confess I'm already starting out at an advantage, as I have oodles of stories brimming to the top, all clamoring to become real, to breath free, and feel light upon their pages. It was so much so I was having a hard time choosing.
But I really want this to be a serious undertaking; to really make myself do more than just float by with all the easy material I could just as easily drop. And then it struck me...
I have a small back story over at Neverland Transit Authority that was meant to be just a touch eerie while adding some color to the world of Justin Bailey. But given some more fleshing out, I could have a first rate creepy Scifi horror novel on my hands.
Well, horror isn't my thing... not by a long shot. So, what better thing to do than to write something that will be as hard as to dig down into my inner monster, right? So, I'll be - among all the other projects I have going on, and some temp work - cranking out this little beauty as it worms its way through my brain; costing me sleep at night because, damn, now I just sickened myself.
Curious? I thought you might be. So, here is the prologue for my November novel, tentatively titled "The Marigold"...
Mission Control was buzzing with the kind of symphony one
would expect to hear from a medium sized room packed full of control equipment
and staff. Reports shuffled from hands to hands as carts were pushed up and
down isles, calls went out over headsets, and panels chirped and squawked as
data was displayed on monitors. On the large board that encompassed one whole
wall the screens were displaying mission status of various ships that were launching
out through the new frontier of the opening cosmos
.
“That’s not what I’m saying at all,” Frank said, stopping to
take a sip of coffee. “All I am saying is that if they didn’t want it out
there, then they shouldn’t have posted it to the Comm Tech 2 board, that’s
all.”
George keyed up his headset mic; “copy DeltaComm , I have
green. Over.” As the channel went clear he turned back to Frank, annoyed. “Comm
Tech 2 is SUPPOSED to be a secure board. That’s why it’s on the low band in the
first place.”
“Look out, boys,” Katy called down the tight isle way as she
made her way down; threading between chairs, bodies, and stacks of reference
logs piled on the floor to almost desk height. She cradled a clip board in one
arm and held a mug in her other as her backpack shifted off her shoulder,
swinging in time with her step. Like always the fan of history she was, she
wore a nicely fitting business skirt suit.
George smiled at Frank and pushed his chair out, butting up
against the control bank behind him as she approached them. “Hey, Katy,” he
greeted her with, mustering up the sliest smile he could.
“Cool your thrusters, space cadet. It was one kiss at one
function because booze. You didn’t have landing clearance then, and you’re not
going to get it now. So park it in a geosynchronous orbit and get some actual
work done. Copy?”
George sat up a little deflated, straightening his tie, and
trying to keep his suave exterior up in front of Frank as Katy scooted by him.
Dropping her gear she logged into her station at section MOD and put on her
comm headset. She gave one more look at George and Frank through her glasses
before she turned to her screens.
Frank looked back at George. “Wait… What? You and the cold
steel mistress of the Milky Way…?”
“At the department party last week,” he answered, his sly
sneer slowly making its return appearance. “And let me tell you, the right
amount of fuel, and she’s making escape velocity in nothing flat.”
The crackle of an open broadcast came on overhead. “Go,
again, GNC? We didn’t copy that last one.”
George and Frank looked down to see that, in leaning in
George had accidently keyed up his mic. “Uh… disregard DeltaComm,” he stammered
out, managing a recovery, “we have some cross chatter on the line.”
Frank and George looked relieved at managing to avoid what
would have been a heinous reprimand and training seminar on workplace ethics
when something caught Frank’s eye on his monitor.
“Hey,” he said to George,
“switch to 027. Do… do you see that?”
George punched a button on his panel and his displays
switched over to read outs of another mission spec. “What the…” escaped his
lips as they both watched trajectory indicators and ship output levels
fluctuate erratically. Course headings and flight plans suddenly altered toward
random bits of empty space, and then corrected themselves just as quickly.
“What the hell is going on? Some sort of downlink hiccup,”
Frank asked.
“I got nothing; these readings are going crazy. Look, now
the reactor is off line. If... if this is right, this ship is drifting. What
mission is this?!”
“DSE 1131A.”
“That’s The Marigold, right? She’s off to ZZ epsilon v622
for soil and geographic survey. Not due to get there for…” George checked the
mission stats displayed on his reader, “another few months.”
Frank keyed up his mic; “EECOM, this is GNC. Do you copy?”
A voice pushed through the line static; “This is EECOM, go
ahead.”
“EECOM this is GNC. Do you have eyes 027; DSE 1131A.”
“Standby, GNC.” There was a brief pause in which George and
Frank passed uncomfortable looks back and forth until even Katy could sense
there tension and called over from her desk.
“GNC this is MOD; what are you two crater brains up to?”
“Katy, turn to 027. Seriously, do it,” George called back,
pleadingly. Without breaking her skeptical gaze at George, Katy punched up her
displays at her station. The monitor chirped to let her know 027 was displayed
and her eyes flicked down and back up and George. Then what she saw registered
and her eyes fell back onto her monitor focused, this time. She quickly keyed
up her mic.
“EECOM this is 1100 section MOD, do you copy?”
“MOD, if this is about 027 we’re just getting telemetry now,
too. Everything’s checking out on our end, so I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Copy EECOM.” Katy toggled a switch on her station and keyed
up her mic, again. “This is MOD section 1100. Get me FLIGHT. Yes, sir; it is,
sir.”
Frank and George looked back at each other nervously as
Kathy waiting for the flight director to pick up the line. A crackle on their
shared line made them both nearly jump. “GNC this is CAPCOM. Do you copy?”
George nervously nodded as Frank keyed up. “This is GNC. Go,
CAPCOM.”
“I know your section MOD is on the line with FLIGHT, gut I
think you all might want to hear this. I’d get their attention quick like.”
George turned, waving his hand and snapping his fingers,
attempting to get Kathy’s attention. She peered over, speaking into her mic.
“Hold just a minute, sir.” Pulling the mic from her face she addressed them
directly, concern over any new bad developments all over her face. “The
Director is on his way down; what is it, now?”
“CAPCOM just received a transmission from The Marigold. You
better-“
George was cut short as The Deep Space Explorer Missions
director entered the 1100 section control center. A veteran of many operations,
Director Yaggy dominated any room with an aura of both respect, and a little
fear. “Who is MOD Bates?”
“Me, sir,’ Katy said, rising from her chair. “We have a
situation developing with mission DSE 1131A.”
She led him to Frank and George’s station at GNC. The
Director looked over the screens, his face changing from a stern mask to one of
confused bewilderment. He leaned over the panels, staring hard at the monitors.
“Are these reading right? This looks like their reactor is venting and their
core is offline."
“EECOMM verifies them, sir,” Frank answered with all the
courage he could gather. “We were about to confirm with NETWORK when CAPCOM
piped in with a transmission from The Marigold.”
Director Yaggy turned to Katy; “Put this up on the overhead,
please.” After she punched in a couple keys he addressed CAPCOM. “CAPCOM this
is FLIGHT at section 1100. Go for that transmission, please.”
“Standby, sir. It’s a priority transmission coming in… live?
There’s no point delay on it, sir; it’s a live feed. Looks like it’s about a
two day split with the telemetry.”
Katy leaned in bemused. “They have got to be blowing a lot
of power to broadcast live wave.”
“Here it comes, sir.” There was a click as CAPCOM switched
over, followed by a hiss of static that faded in to a quiet cacophony of
garbled noise. The main viewer switched over from general mission reports and a
dance of snow joined in the serenade.
“I don’t hear or see…” Director Yaggy began.
Straining, Katy raised her hand. “Wait... listen. Do you
hear that?”
It was a murmur;
barely audible above the static. But it was there. A heavy crackle coming
through like sick, off key, humming in the twisted crinkling noise. But then it
grew louder, becoming a tune, a limerick being sung over and over again by a
garbled voice; a grown person in the demeanor of a child, but with maybe
something in their throat. As the voice became clearer – as clear as it was
going to get, a shape could be seen through the static on the screen. A shape
that could be called, at the most, human like.
“phhhzzzz… it’s never gonna hurt… Flowers and ped…
phhhzzzz… mulch and dirt; weed it with a
trowel, it’s never gonna hurt… Flowers and peddles and mulch and dirt; weed it
with a trowel, it’s never gonna hurt…”
“This is FLIGHT director Yaggy,” he said to the voided image
on the screen, “who is this? What’s the status of your mission? We’re getting
readings here that-“
“Oh,” the voice said, interrupting the director,” I’ve
dropped a branch on the box that makes them from there talk.” The form shifted
to indicate that it must not have been looking directly at the monitor. Even
though it was hard to make out, it looked like that movement wasn’t easy… or
quite natural.
“Crewman,” the director addressed, mustering an authority
that nearly shook the room,” identify yourself and get me to staff that can
update FLIGHT on your mission status. That’s an order.”
The form shifted again, looking like it was trying to lean
into view of the monitor, but just not quite getting there. “It’s too late, she’s coming. Run quickly
before your drubbing. I tried to run before it got thick, but now my legs much
less than sticks. It’s not just a hobby, soon you’ll see. There’s nothing left
once you’re like me.”
“Crewman, you’re going to be in a world of trouble if you
don’t-“
“Quiet, she comes! Can’t you hear the drums?” The form shook
visibly on the monitor with what sounded like… a rattle? Maybe like a tree rustling…?
“When we make land, it all will fall; only because she’s killed us… killed us
all.”
Before the director could issue another futile command
another voice could be heard; garbled by the degradation of the transmission.
There was no way to discern anything about the voice, other than it was a motherly
voice. “Oh, there you are. How did you get out so far from your box? We’re just
going to have to secure that trestle better, now won’t we?”
There was a whimper from the first voice as a second form
came into view on the distorted screen. “Oh, and I’m going to have to do some
serious pruning, I can see. Now, let’s turn this annoying thing off and get you
back t-“
The transmission abruptly ended. The screen was dark and an eerie
silence fell over the section control room.
