The Journey

By J D Foster

45,000 word short story: Father Bright, of the Church of the Sacred Seven, is overjoyed to learn he will be awarded the ‘Jade Numbers’ in recognition of his service to the Church. He cannot wait to get back to Earth and the Basilica where he will receive this great honour.

Ambrose Ruggs has a night he'll never forget as his tour as security on a mining planet comes to an end. With just one week of leave before his unit is shipped off to the infamous plains of the Flatlands fighting the Phalerons, there is only one thing on his mind – his beautiful girlfriend Maria. All he wants is to get back home and spend a week in her arms before he is shipped off to war.

Their pilot, Mr Hood, is the only person available to fly the two travellers to their destinations. Bad luck for them, since they're about to become entangled in Hood’s past. He is a man who lives his life without consideration for others and with no fear of the consequences of his actions. But, he is about to learn the eternal truth, that you can never entirely escape your past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J D Foster
• Release date: Mar 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310322808

J D Foster

Hi, I am James Foster. I live in the Southwest of England with my wife and two children. In my day job I grind numbers for a huge international corporation (hmmm lets call them Mine Corp). But by night (and sometimes early morning) I live in the future in the Sci-Fi universe of the Church Of The Sacred Seven.I am a novice writer, but I love writing these stories so much. I’ve become obsessed by this little world. I have vague notions of what might become of the universe in the end (when I’ve written all I can). I have one more story idea that isn’t on the website yet and a good few of the stories are in their infancy so it will be while before I need to decide that.I write these stories for two reasons. One they are bouncing around in my head and I enjoy typing them out. Two there is just a vaguest chance that someone else might enjoy reading them too.I love the idea that someone else might read one of my stories and just for a moment be caught up in my little universe too.

Book preview

The Journey

J D Foster

Copyright © 2012 J D Foster

Cover design and Photo copyright © Ben Yates

Thanks to Dominion Editorial

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author via the comments field on the author's Web Page:

http://jdfoster777.wix.com/churchofsacredseven

See more of Ben's work at:

http://www.photocubism.com/home.php

Doninion Editorial:

http://dominioneditorial.com

---

This book is dedicated to Saskia, for helping me develop it, and for being a friend when I needed it most.

Table of Contents

The Journey

The Priest: Part 1

The Soldier: Part 1

The Pilot: Part 1

The Priest: Part 2

The Soldier: Part 2

The Pilot: Part 2

The Priest: Part 3

The Soldier: Part 3

The Pilot: Part 3

The Priest: Part 4

The Soldier: Part 4

The Pilot: Part 4

The Priest: Part 5

The Soldier: Part 5

The Pilot: Part 5

The Priest: Part 6

The Soldier: Part 6

The Pilot: Part 6

The Priest: Part 7

The Soldier: Part 7

The Pilot: Part 7

Also Available

The Journey

The Priest: Part 1

The pilot arrived in the dead of the night. Shattering the peace with the bellowing of his oversized engines, causing the very air around his ship to tremble. The proximity of his chosen landing site rattled the ancient stained glass windows of my church and I am quite sure dislodged a few roof tiles too. A month had passed since my regular supply ship had last visited bringing with it the Chancellor's letter. My hands trembled as I opened it for I recognised his seal straight away. It contained within it the joyous news that I was to be awarded the Jade Numbers, the highest accolade the Church of the Sacred Seven could bestow upon any priest.

You might find it odd Chancellor Anchell did not call me since Thurium is within reach of several satellite networks. However, satellites represent technology, which is something I have sworn to live without. Before the day was over my bags were packed and ready to go, just waiting for a ship to arrive. In the weeks that followed I entertained a notion that the pilot might arrive while I was pottering around my garden. Instead, he arrived at night, startling me from my sleep with his approach. Swinging my tired old legs out of bed, I fumbled to get dressed by the dim lamplight.

Normally the supply ships that visit me land in a small clearing to the west of the chapel and I meet them there when they arrive. Then depending upon the joviality of the pilot I either lug the supplies back up on my own, or they pitch in and help. This bothersome man ignored the obvious landing spot and chose instead to set his craft down upon my doorstep. As if this weren't enough of an imposition he then proceeded to shake the front doors from their hinges with an infernal clattering and thumping on the knocker.

I'm coming, I shouted fruitlessly as the sound of his hammering echoed through the building.

Tucking my shirt in I shuffled wearily from my living quarters to the front of the chapel, feeling a familiar pang in my right shoulder as I went. Clearly I had pushed myself too hard the day before, by insisting I could plough and sow four rows of my late cropping potatoes in one day. It was a necessary diversion though. For in those expectation-filled days following my receipt of the letter, I felt much as a child must do, waiting excitedly for their vacation to begin. Every morning I woke at four and performed the morning rituals, and then I waited.

Why it was almost unbearable, I thought the excitement would give me a heart attack... Well at least for the first few days I thought that anyway. Then as each day passed, I found myself spending less time waiting and more tending to my priestly duties and, of course, my beloved garden.

The supply ships only pass my way a few times a year, so what I do not grow in my garden, I do not eat. My vegetable patch doesn't just nourish me physically, it feeds my soul too. That is why it is my most favourite place to be. You see as a living spiritual presence, being in the garden also serves to remind me of my place within nature and the universe as a whole. A garden is a perfect analogy for the mind I feel. If we do not tend to it diligently and make a concerted effort to grow that which we desire, then weeds will overcome it and run rampant. The crop we wish to see thrive in our garden must be fed, nourished, cared for and tenderly coaxed from our imaginations into reality. For that reason, and to distract me from the waiting in the weeks leading up to my adventure knowing that I would be away from my garden for a spell, I put every effort into tending to it.

There is no moon to grace the night time on Thurium but a distant star visible only in late summertime does play the part quite nicely. Its dim, filmy yellow light filtered through the blue glass of the windows as I lit lamps from my night-light and worked my way to the front door.

The wonderful thing about having a trade, besides lending us a purpose, is that it takes our minds off the future and the past. It allows us to dwell in the present so that we become lost in the moment until we find hours and days have passed. The distraction of my garden had served me well, for that night I went to sleep without the least expectation of being disturbed.

I know, I know, I shouted at the disembodied hammering sound as I approached the main doors. Despite all the noise and my prior excitement, when the time came to leave I found myself struggling to awaken. I pulled the heavy bars from the inside of the doors and in due course opened the church up to him. I heard you land; there's no need to wake the dead, I complained.

As a priest, I have in my long life flown to all the corners of our galaxy. At least figuratively speaking. I am used to travelling through inhospitable places in whatever vessel I can afford with my meagre means. I'm also used to the rough edges on the men and women who are willing to fly to these places in often inferior vessels. Beggars cannot be choosers, as my dear mother used to say. Nevertheless, bringing all of my experience to bear I was still quite unprepared for both the ship and the pilot who arrived to ferry me to the Basilica.

The doors thrown aside, I came face to face with the man for the first time. He was short and stocky with a great rotund belly that preceded him everywhere he went. His hands and arms bore many scrapes, scars and burns and were as black and dusty as his clothes. He looked rather as though he had been rolling around in his cargo hold for weeks without bathing. Worst of all he insisted upon calling me Padre every time he spoke.

Evening, Padre, he said, tapping his head and doffing an imaginary hat. To my surprise, he then barged in passed me without being invited and continued, Where's your kitchen? I've been flying all night and I'm in sore need of coffee.

Closing the church door behind him, I ushered him towards the kitchen, feeling an uncharitable resentment prickle my skin. How was it possible I wondered to meet a man and feel instantly uneasy in his presence? He paused with his head turned upwards and his eyes travelling all over the chapel roof. Then, showing no sign of reverence at the majesty of its design, he sniffed, scratched at his waist and began to follow me.

My church is secluded high in the mountainous Orfa region. Quite out of the way of the holiday makers who frequent the planet to be one with nature. Thurium is thankfully such a small word and so lacking in any mineral resources that MineCorp has no presence here. As a result, the scenery is unspoilt, densely covered in woodland and inhabited solely by the smallest of insects. Besides the Orfa region, there are few buildings or man-made structures on the planet at all (the vacationers come for the camping). So living here I often feel as though I am the last soul alive. In stark contrast to this I was now in the company of another human being and struggling to make conversation with him as we wound our way through the darkened passages to the kitchen.

Although, to some, the idea of being, or at least feeling, alone may be suffocating, to me it is sheer joy. Sadly, I learnt rather late on that I am a solitary creature. Otherwise, I would have spent far less of my life in the company of other people. I firmly believe that we should all take the time to understand who we are. Since I am a brother of the Spider, it will doubtless not surprise you to hear I believe strongly in the power of meditation. It is only by sitting quietly with oneself that you can ever hope to hear the voice of your soul. Pay careful mind to that voice, act upon the wisdom it lays at your feet, and the satisfaction you reap from life will multiply. When I began to listen to my soul as it spoke, the message it gave me time after time was peace. My interpretation of this was that I needed more tranquillity and thus began to seek out solitude. That was how I learnt that being alone was a tonic for me, and perhaps it also explained why the pilot set me on edge.

So this is one of those outposts without technology, eh? He inquired smirking as we reached our destination. Nodding an agreement I set about heating the coffee pot on the fire. I was forced to rekindle the glowing embers that were dying in the grate, which was all to the amusement of the pilot.

Couldn't live my life that way, Padre. I couldn't live without instant food and drink or a shower. Hell, I don't think I could last five minutes without looking at pictures of naked women on a screen. He stopped and tittered at this while I wondered at his lack of abashment.

Whilst I believe you're unable to survive without pornography, it seems you can forego a shower, I mused.

How desperately I wished to tell him just that, this objectionable man with the finesse of a sledgehammer, who had barged into my home in the dead of the night. Alas, beggars cannot be choosers remember? My award ceremony was set to coincide with the Feast of Inception a mere week away. Who knew how long it would be before another pilot would pass close enough again. I was compelled to endure whatever coarseness this man threw at me, and by the look on his face he realised that as well as I.

Well one man's meat, is another's poison, I stated, thinking of something to reply that was as inoffensive as it was meaningless. As my dear mother used to say.

She sounds very wise, Padre, he responded, as I set a mug of coffee in front of him. He stopped picking his gnarled red nose, which I presume he thought I couldn't see. Then he drank the coffee, hardly waiting for it to cool, before letting out a satisfied sigh as he finished and laid the mug on the table.

Seriously, though, you've got not computers at all? He asked with a wicked and goading glint in his eye.

True solitude comes at a cost; you cannot feel disconnected with a universe's worth of data streaming at you day and night, I advised.

But I heard you were a writer. He continued, Don't you type or dictate your books somehow?

It seemed he had done some research on me before arriving. My writing is done with pen and paper and the Church scans the documents I send to them and takes it from there.

He whistled, Paper? Now there's a luxury item. Would you not save the church money by dictating it? Or are you one of those silent monks?

The Brothers of the Monkey stand for wisdom and as such they are known for their silence. They see all and say nothing. They accumulate great knowledge through wide reading and travelling. Brothers of the Spider, on the other hand, are sworn to live without technology, hence the use of pen and paper.

Huh, he replied, a half laugh, half 'I couldn't care what you do' kind of sound. Then settling in his chair, he rubbed the back of his hand across his chubby, stubble-covered jowls and stuck out his lower lip in a peculiar pout. For a moment, I was perplexed, until he reached out with one hairy digit and worried away at a speck of dried food in the corner of his mouth.

When he had finished preening, he asked, So where's your store room, Padre?

My storeroom? I replied puzzled.

"Yup, I cut a deal with your