The Archer's Paradox - The Travis Fletcher Chronicles: The Travis Fletcher Chronicles

By Chris Devine

Book 1. Travis Fletcher is arrogant, brash, chauvinistic; the very embodiment of 1980s Britain. He finds himself paralysed and on life-support after a train crash that brings his efforts at reconciliation with his family to a tragic end. He is unable to tell anyone he is still alive inside his wrecked body, except for the two enigmatic and indifferent apparitions at the end of his bed.

The Xi Scorpii were an ancient and proud race that numbered in the tens of billions that once spread across the planets of five suns and strode across the galaxy in huge ships. Now reduced to less than a hundred million living in one city on a dead planet after a genocidal war and dying from the effects of a genetic weapon. Searching for a cure they find Travis Fletcher, primitive, broken and dying, and make him an offer - save the Xi Scorpii from extinction and become more than he was.

310 paperback pages / 113,228 words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781326061364

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The Archer’s Paradox

Book One of the Travis Fletcher Chronicles

By

Chris Devine

Copyrights

The Archer’s Paradox

First published by Christopher Devine in 2014

Revision 7

This edition copyright © 2014 by Christopher Devine

The moral rights of the author has been asserted.

All characters in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor otherwise be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Proofreading by Natalie Tipping

Cover Art by Rhi Tristram

Distributed by Lulu

www.lulu.com

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ISBN 978-1-326-06136-4

Dedication

For Ken (1929 – 2014). If a father had not taken his eleven year old son to Hull Fair, the germ of this story may never have been born in a daydream.

Acknowledgements and Credits

First and foremost to my wife Julie for her love, patience, ideas and continual encouragement when I was running out of words. Also for persuading me to ‘go for it’ otherwise this story would have just stayed on my laptop and probably got lost during an upgrade. Also for helping with read-throughs, picking out plot holes, and inconsistencies and rewording some of the nonsense that spilled out of my brain.

To Claire, Mike, Ryan, and Anna for their encouragement and being the best family a dad could wish for.

To Emily for being the cutest granddaughter in the universe.

To Natalie for her boundless enthusiasm for proof-reading, editing, suggestions, wading through the grammatical mire I created and still smiling at the end. I’ll never ‘double space’ after a full stop again!  Find Natalie on LinkedIn:

To Rhi for the amazing cover art bringing my characters to life.  Find Rhi on LinkedIn or see her amazing portfolio at http://rhitristram.wordpress.com/

And last but not least, to all the people that provided me with a montage of attributes I used to create some of the characters.

You can find me on Facebook as https://www.facebook.com/pages/Chris-Devine/856088317744723

The Archer’s Paradox

The initial stages of flexing of the arrow from the loose, as it accelerates past the bow, that makes the arrow appear to be going in a different direction.

Chapter 1

Well? The Mercenary looked over the table at The Journalist. His ice blue eyes stared steadily back at her emerald green ones over his glass of vodka. He sipped and put the glass on the table without breaking eye contact. Ice blue and hard as granite; eyes that had witnessed so much, held her in a thrall she could not break away from. Unbidden, her vision zoomed in until his eyes were all she could see. He seemed to be sucking her in. His head tilted a fraction to the right and his left eyebrow rose quizzically. Well? he repeated. His voice was little more than a whisper. His eyes drew her closer and she suddenly felt cold. It was as if he was stripping away her privacy, layer by layer, to reveal her inner most thoughts, boring into her very soul. She felt as if she would tell him anything he wanted to know. He did not even have to ask. She was there for the taking.

Stop!

With an inaudible snap, her vision pulled back to view the whole man again. The Mercenary’s eyes softened slightly and, was that a twinkle? A small, mischievous lift to the mouth confirmed her suspicions.

Sorry, he apologised, that was rude and unforgivable, I’m sorry, he repeated. She nodded her acceptance, but she was in no position to say any different. Thank you. Your motives are unclear, and I need to know, but maybe now is not the time.

She raised her glass, took a sip of her wine in order to steady herself and recover her composure, while she appraised the man opposite. The label on the bottle said it was a Montrachet 1978 from Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. Even though she knew that the contents had never seen the inside of a winery, it did nothing to lessen the pleasure.

Unlike the wine though, he was unremarkable, except for the eyes, which had returned to their crystalline blue hardness as he waited. Close-cropped fair hair topped a slightly bulbous nose and ears that did not lie quite flat. Lips that belied the hardness of his eyes by curling and twitching into an occasional smile, that seemed to be more of a vague echo of a more carefree past, than happiness in the present. If she estimated by looks alone, she would put his age at no more than twenty-five, although she knew it was more than double that. He wore a gunmetal grey jumpsuit with no pockets, made of a pearlescent material that shimmered slightly like liquid metal as he moved. It had no adornments, badges marks of rank, or any visible fastening. Soft soled shin length boots of the same colour and sheen finished the ensemble.

Well? he repeated as he pushed his chair away from the table and readjusted his posture, leaning back with his hands behind his head. On first inspection, the chairs, table and floor appeared to be moulded from the same piece of translucent material, yet the chair moved silently and smoothly. There was a brief pause before the chair modified itself slightly to accommodate the new pose. She searched for a beginning.

How’s Star? she said finally, her soft Welsh tones giving the question an almost sing song quality.

She always did hate me calling her that, he mused, almost to himself. He steepled his hands and tapped his index fingers to his nose as he seemed to drift off into a private reverie for a moment. His eyes refocused on the present again and caught The Journalist. I don’t know, he replied evenly, his face fell, taking on a look of deep sorrow and regret.

Will she die? The words sounded surreal in her mouth.

She’s already dead, but that’s the wrong question, isn’t it? He raised a small smile at a shared experience, but his eyes did not reflect the humour.

Momentarily, she remembered their first meeting and smiled back before asking, Will she recover? A stupid question in any other situation, but here it seemed almost natural.

She must, he finished simply, but that’s not why we’re here, is it?

She took another drink and looked around the bar. It was starting to fill, as it always did just before a departure. Off-duty crew drifted in, in small groups. Wherever they stopped, a table and the requisite number of chairs in appropriate designs for the occupant, oozed out of the floor and became solid, followed by drinks in a myriad of colours in drinking vessels of every conceivable shape. The whole procedure continued to fascinate and surprise The Journalist. She was not sure she would ever get used to it. The bar ran the full width of the ship, about four hundred metres, and occupied the middle deck’s most forward position. Open on three sides and about four metres from floor to ceiling with one complete ‘picture window’, it curved with the contours of the ship and merged organically with the floor and ceiling. It commanded the best possible view of the void outside and the blue and green planet dominating the forward view.

The Journalist guessed that about four hundred people, of at least a dozen races, now sat and chatted, and an air of expectation was gathering. Although the bar could be no more than ten per cent full, a party atmosphere was growing. Without exception, the patrons were all bipeds and of humanoid construction, mostly discernible as male or female, but each had unique attributes that gave clues to the type of planet or civilisation they had come from. Some wore a small and unobtrusive breather that covered their noses. This device, she had been told, supplemented particular gasses that each crew member needed that were not available in the ship’s atmosphere, as well as filtering out any potentially poisonous ones.

At the next table sat a petite female who looked no more than a teenager to The Journalist, but she had been wrong before. She had pointed features, small, deep set black eyes that flickered continuously like a nervous rodent, and voluminous deep red hair sprouting from a topknot like a volcanic eruption that threatened to engulf the entire area. She looked pale and weak, but had a look of determination on her face that said that she would not miss this event, whatever the cost. She was in deep conversation with a large, bald male with a barrel of a chest and powerful arms and legs. Both spoke different languages: his boomed with large, round vowels while hers was high pitched with short, sharp syllables, but each understood the other without difficulty. It sounded like a starling conversing with a bull to The Journalist, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Noticing The Journalist looking, they stopped talking, stood up and bowed gracefully. The girl clutched her chest and winced in pain, gripping the edge of the table for support. The man put a protective arm around her and eased her back into her seat again. A look of concern crossed The Mercenary’s face, the first real emotion The Journalist had seen him exhibit since leaving Earth, but he relaxed when the girl raised her face to nod and smile at him, though her brow was still creased in pain.

The Journalist and The Mercenary returned the bow, The Journalist taking her cue from The Mercenary. They sat and continued their conversation, glancing occasionally outside. Each crew member wore one-piece jumpsuits, similar to The Mercenary, also with no adornments, although the colour varied. She pulled her attention away from the surroundings and focused on The Mercenary again.

How did it all start? she asked.

That’s a question with many answers, he replied levelly. Do you want me to begin with the dawn of time, how life evolved, my birth, or how I got here? he continued, indicating the immediate surroundings. They’re all linked, you know. There was that twinkle again, then it was gone.

It’s your story, you choose where to start, she prompted.

He gave a satisfied nod, satisfied and tossed the rest of his vodka down his throat. Almost immediately, the empty glass vanished, and a fresh shot appeared on the table.

I was born in England in 1957, the year Sputnik was launched. You could say I was born at the beginning of the Space Age. Not that I ever cared about that sort of thing, he shrugged. Now look at me, he finished poignantly, spreading his arms.

That makes you sixty!

You win a cookie. He inclined his head in mock acknowledgement. I was born to average parents and had an unremarkable childhood. I was one hundred per cent average at school except for a hatred of mathematics that bordered on pathological. He leaned forward, as if he was taking her into his confidence. I took an instant liking to computers when I was in my primary school. A forward-thinking teacher remarked that one day computers would do all our work for us. It was then I resolved never to try at mathematics as there was no point, he shrugged. The Journalist smiled appropriately.

The blue green planet outside started to slip to the port side, slowly at first but gathering momentum as the great ship manoeuvred majestically on its axis. All sound in the bar ceased as the assembled crew raised their drinks in a silent salute. Everyone except The Mercenary. His stare remained fixed on The Journalist, pointedly ignoring the events outside. The great ship moved out of orbit, riding the surrounding magnetic fields provided by the planet and nearby star, to propel it silently forwards. The Mercenary glanced momentarily at the receding planet and gave a little snort. The planet’s single moon appeared and hung in the forward view.

I left education in 1973, with hardly any qualifications and drifted from one dead-end job to another, he continued, oblivious to the external events. Eventually I got a job selling computers. I earned good money, I had friends, girlfriends and I even had sex occasionally. Life was good, he finished, studying his glass intently. The Moon was now growing steadily in size and sliding slowly off the port side as the ship accelerated. A slight haze suddenly distorted the Moon’s features, indicating that the ship’s ram scoop had been deployed. The scoop extended in a one thousand kilometre wide radius around the front of the ship, a prelude to the firing of the ship’s fusion engines.

The Mercenary watched the Moon for a few moments. I was going to take you to dinner on the Moon, just for kicks, he noted, without emotion.

I bet it would have driven the scientists and astronauts nuts if they found empty wine bottles and leftover food at Tranquillity Base next time they went up, she smiled.

No one will ever go back, he replied with finality.

She knew he was right, but that simple phrase had a second meaning to her. She fought down the sudden wave of emotions that welled up from deep within her: sorrow, bitterness, loss, loneliness, panic. What have I done? Oh God, how could I have been so stupid? What was I thinking? She had the sudden urge to beat on his chest and scream to take her back, but it was too late. His eyes caught hers and held them. Calm, slight euphoria, the feeling of wanting to sink into goose down pillows…

Better? he enquired.

Yes, she nodded. My turn to apologise. That was very unprofessional of me. You must teach me that sometime.

No need to apologise. You’re a long way from home and getting further away by the second. You will learn, in time, he finished, glancing momentarily at the vista outside, before returning his cool, steady gaze to The Journalist.

A very faint vibration indicated that over eight and a half kilometres away, at the stern of the ship, the six massive fusion engines had ignited. The Moon began to grow more rapidly in size, and the assembled throng watched in silence, as was the custom that was carried out at each departure. The vibration faded as the ship continued to accelerate steadily and the engines reached their peak efficiency. There would be a point where the ram scoops would be gathering more hydrogen than the engines burned. This meant that the ship refuelled itself, thus minimising the amount of bulky fuel it needed to carry. The remaining debris and gasses were broken down into elements and stored for recycling through the ship’s systems as water, atmosphere, metals for emergency repairs. There would be a delay of a couple of hours while the ship made a safe distance from the nearby planet before the next stage of the journey, so the crew returned to drinking and chatting.

You are blocking me! The accusation came from a lithe female that had just appeared at the table. The Journalist jumped in surprise as she had not seen or heard her approach. Her pale, almost paper-white skin contrasted starkly against her jet-black ship suit and shoulder length hair, which was shot through with blue gloss and pulled back from her face into a tight ponytail. Her ears were too long and too high on her head to be human. A wide, flat nose with a long, tapered bridge disappeared under a paper thin, one-piece form-hugging visor. Its highly polished mirror finish reflected back a distorted view of her surroundings. Her posture, along with her thin almost non-existent lips, which were pressed tightly together, and proud angle of her head gave her a haughty and superior air. She inclined her head towards The Journalist and pulled her lips back revealing two rows of small pointed teeth, into a chilly smile. Without any visible eyes to convey emotion, she looked like a cobra preparing to strike. The Journalist shivered. There was no warmth behind that smile for her.

I’m blocking everyone Cat, The Mercenary retorted. His tone was not unkind and did not appear unduly irritated by the interruption. What do you want?

The Hunab Ku is expecting us. Her voice rolled smoothly over the vowels, almost like a purr.

Thank you. It’s going to be a long trip, The Mercenary acknowledged with a slight nod.

Time enough for healing and restitution. The emotionless visor held The Mercenary for a second before he looked away, pain and sorrow crossing his face once again. Before turning and walking away, she smiled again, or was she about to strike? The Journalist could not tell. The Journalist watched her go, her stride long and stately with each step precise, perfect and unhurried, like a predator stalking its prey. Muscles rippled underneath her jumpsuit with every step, only serving to enhance The Journalist’s image of a two-legged panther prowling its territory.

Be mindful of Cat, he said, still watching the retreating form, she sees things as black and white, and she holds grudges. The retreating alien’s movements were almost hypnotic, and The Mercenary’s warning jarred The Journalist back into the present. Her loyalty to me is absolute, but she doesn’t like you, so be careful what you say or think around her.

The Journalist remembered Cat’s warning to her when she boarded the shuttle. She holds grudges? she said somewhat alarmed. I can’t spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.

No need to look over your shoulder, The Mercenary replied in a conciliatory tone, Cat will be facing you and will tell you exactly what will happen to you, and why.

And that’s supposed to make me feel better? she started feeling very anxious and possibly a little hysterical. This was a huge ship with enough deck area to cover a small city, but Cat was The Mercenary’s left hand, as Star had been his right, so it would be impossible to avoid her, and The Journalist was no fighter.

Cat will leave you alone unless you give her reason not to, but you need to be aware of her animosity towards you.

I still don’t know what I…

The Mercenary held up a hand to signal an end to that topic of conversation. Why don’t you ask me if I ever married?

The Journalist took a long swig of wine and a deep breath, determined to follow this up later. Did you ever marry?

No, I just never got around to it. Just as well really, he replied.

So, you were enjoying your life. What happened?

**********

Travis?

Yes Mum? Travis broke off the conversation he was having with his brother and sister, and leaned across the aisle, giving his full attention to the small, grey haired woman opposite, looking even more diminutive in the oversized seat.

Do you think they would mind if I had another cup of coffee? she asked, indicating the two uniformed shapes slumped sullenly at the far end of the carriage.

Mum, you are sitting in a First Class carriage for which I have paid LOADSA MONEY, he leaned forward, leering whilst waving an imaginary stack of banknotes, and their only purpose in their pitiful little lives for the next few hours is to satisfy your every wish, when you want it. If you want coffee, you shall have coffee! he finished with a flourish. He put two fingers to his mouth and whistled shrilly. Oi! Coffee, here, now! he demanded, beckoning the attendants over. And don’t forget the biscuits! The two hostesses scowled at him. One finally got up and stomped off to find the trolley.

Do you have to be so coarse? chided his mother. He smiled back, patted her cheek and kissed her on the forehead.

So, you reckon this computer thing is the game to be in, do you? Alan, his brother, leaned over the intervening table in earnest.

Look at me, Travis answered, spreading his arms to emphasise the statement. I left school at sixteen with three ‘O’ Levels with crap grades to my name, and I’ve bummed around in dead-end jobs for years. Then I blagged my way into a computer sales company. These new Personal Computers were just starting to take off. Two years later and I’m earning more money than I know what to do with. The best part is, is that it’s self-perpetuating, he exclaimed, beaming broadly.

What do you mean? queried his sister Lucy.

People just love new technology. He leaned forward as if taking his audience into his confidence. They want these Personal Computers because they think it’ll free them from being held to ransom by their big, lumbering, expensive computer departments. He sat back and smiled expansively. No problem! I’ll sell half a dozen to a big company as a taster. They suddenly realise that they don’t know how to use them, and their computer departments won’t - or can’t – help. So I sell them training.

Ok, but you can only sell so much training, can’t you? Alan challenged.

Yes, but when the users get better and start getting results, everyone wants one! I sell more, oh and of course they all need training, he waved his arms expansively. Then there’s the extras like printers, software, paper, forms, disks, and don’t forget the maintenance and support contracts. You can’t lose! The hostess arrived with the coffee. Bring me another vodka! he demanded.

I think I’ll have another whiskey while you’re at it.

That’s the spirit Dad! Travis leaned over to his father, who had just woken up in the window seat next to his mother, and winked. His mother tutted and looked apologetically at the hostess. The hostess glared at them all and stomped off. His mother gave them both a pained expression. It’s all right Mum, I’ll give them a decent tip when we leave.

Make sure you do, she chided wagging a finger, You’re so sharp you’re going to cut yourself one of these days.

Yeah, it’s running in the 2:30 at Aintree he completed in a stage whisper to his siblings, who sniggered appropriately.

So, where did you meet…? asked Lucy, indicating the sleeping form next to Travis.

Siân? he finished, Cute, isn’t she? We’ve been seeing each other on and off for a few months.

That’s a lifetime for you, Lucy exclaimed in mock surprise.

I know, he lowered his voice to a stage whisper again, I think this might be the one. She goes like a train and doesn’t whinge if I don’t call for a week. We met in a night club, I asked her if she wanted to ride in my big red Beemer and she was all over me like a rash.

"Mum’s right, you are getting coarse. Are you sure she didn’t give you a rash?" Lucy replied.

Prude, he pouted.

Now tell us what really happened, interjected his brother.

No, it’s less fun. Travis tossed down the rest of his vodka and whistled shrilly to the hostesses. More vodka!

Alan changed the subject. So, how much has this little jaunt set you back?

Not your problem, brother of mine. The vodka was starting to take hold, and Travis’ words were starting to slur ever so slightly.

Your money is always my problem, he said sullenly. You have every immediate relative sitting in this carriage, Alan pressed on, that’s twenty-eight people, including ‘other halves.’

Good job we only have a small family then, isn’t it?

Yes, but why? You never did explain properly.

Truth?

Yes.

One hundred per cent?

Yes.

I need a drink. He downed the shot in front of him. More vodka! Never mind, just bring the bottle! he demanded, and waited, collecting his befuddled thoughts until the drink arrived.

Ok, the truth. He took a deep breath and paused theatrically. The truth is that for more than five years, I’ve sponged off each and every one of you at one time or another. He held up his hand to head off the impending protests, not that there were any. I borrowed money and never paid it back, I’ve lied to you, cheated you, I’ve turned up at stupid times of the night, pissed out of my brain and demanding somewhere to sleep. Hell, Alan, I even borrowed your car without your permission and piled it into a wall, with no insurance!

You bastard! Alan exploded. I didn’t know that, I thought it had been nicked!

See what I mean? Travis replied, spreading his hands to emphasise his point. I went on a five-year arsehole spree. Didn’t you think it was strange that I was in hospital about the same time, with cracked ribs and a broken leg?

I bought you bottles of wine and cigarettes! Alan said peevishly. You told me you’d been mugged. Fuck, I even gave you money!

Lucy giggled behind her hand.

Did you know about this? Alan glared accusingly at his sister.

No one told me, but I put two and two together; your car stolen and smashed up, Travis in hospital and a total arsehole. she said, counting the points on her fingers.

Humph! Alan sat back heavily with his arms crossed.

I suppose I was jealous because you all had better careers and jobs than me, and I was using you to fuel a lifestyle I couldn’t afford, Travis explained, apologetically. Anyway, he continued, since I landed this job I have re-evaluated myself, and I am trying to make up for the past five years. I earned a whacking bonus last month, and I am spending every last penny on my family, partially to say sorry and partially to say thank you.

Thank you? Lucy asked.

Yes, not one of you ever said no to me or turned me away, or indeed turned me in.

Never knew you’d smashed my car up. muttered Alan.

You think that’s bad? Don’t mention to Grandma about her Victorian china tea service. The two looked aghast. "Like I said, don’t ever mention it, I have little enough self-esteem as it is."

Travis heaved himself to his feet and stumbled to the front of the carriage. His progress was slow going, partially due to the occasional and unpredictable lurch left or right as the speeding train hit a bend or abnormality in the track, and partially due to the excess of alcohol in his blood. Once at his destination, he faced down the carriage with feet apart to steady himself and whistled long and loud.

Can I have everyone’s attention, please! he shouted at the top of his lungs, like a marketplace barker opening his stall. He waited for a second, running his hand through his unruly locks that refused to stay in the fashionable cut of the time. Everyone stopped talking and turned to face the unsteadily swaying man, including two businessmen at the far end who shook their heads in an exaggerated expression of displeasure. Travis caught their eyes and held them for a long moment. If you don’t like the noise, you can fuck off! He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. At least I’m spending money on this train, and not just trying to fiddle my expenses, like you two tossers. The next carriage is nearly empty. He continued to hold their gaze for a few seconds before breaking off. The two men exchanged a few hushed words, closed their briefcases and moved off.

Ladies, Gentlemen, family, friends of family, Siân had woken up and peered bleary eyed over the back of her seat, thank you for availing yourself of my hospitality. I hope you are all running up a huge bar bill, and remember that this is just the start. He spread his arms expansively and nearly plunged headlong to the floor as the train lurched to the left.

You’ve not said where we’re goin’, a voice boomed down the carriage, or why. All I got was an invitation that said, ‘pack for a weekend an’ t’ bring nae money an’ a car will pick us up.’

Why are you here then, Pat? Travis leered back.

I were intrigued; t’ Black Leach of t’ family sayin’ t’ bring nae cash, this I gorra see! Other members of the family nodded in agreement. Pat had a reputation for straight talking. He was a big man with a huge chest and a broad Yorkshire accent. Standing in excess of six feet tall, he dwarfed Travis by a good head.

Pat, you’ll never make a diplomat, Travis laughed.

Nay, but thee’ll make a reet good orn’ment fer t’front of me wagon if’n thee fucks us over. Other members of the family nodded vigorously.

Alan and Lucy already have some of the inside gen, ‘cause I’ve had a few drinks and can’t hold my tongue. The rest of you will have to wait until tonight for the full story. However, you have my solemn promise that there will be no ‘fucking over’ on this trip, except between consenting partners. he winked lewdly at Siân, who blushed furiously and ducked down into her seat.

For your information, Travis continued, we are making for the highlands of Scotland, where I have hired a castle for the weekend. You are all invited to play golf, walk hills, drink scotch, whatever you want, and there will be no bill to settle at the end. All will be revealed after the banquet tonight. he finished, spreading his arms expansively again. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a sheaf of brightly coloured booklets. I have brochures for you to devour. With that, he made his way down the carriage, stopping at every table to leave one or two brochures, pointing out points of interest depending who was at the table. There was a trip to a lace maker for the grandparents, sailing boats or fishing on the loch, secluded walks for the teenage cousins with partners or for parents. The hostesses shuffled behind, refilling glasses, leaving fresh bottles of wine, and dispensing snacks. As he passed Siân, he took off his jacket and tossed it to her. She folded it neatly and used it as a pillow.

By the time he reached the end of the carriage, the mixture of vodka and the unpredictable swaying of the train was starting to play havoc with his equilibrium. As a precaution, he ducked into the toilet and sat down. His head was spinning a little too much for comfort. Maybe shouting down the carriage had not been such a good idea. It was still only eleven in the morning, and shouting before lunch was never a good idea, he decided.

A sudden jolt shook his body and threw him off the toilet, face first into the wall. He lay crumpled on the floor for a moment with his trousers around his ankles and blood pouring from his mashed nose. He struggled to seat himself, oblivious to the pain and blood, before realising that the toilet pan was now at ninety degrees to its normal position, and he was sitting on the door to the corridor. It was then that his hearing caught up with his sight. A terrible screeching rent his ears, like thousands of fingernails being drawn down hundreds of blackboards, while dozens of malevolent dentists advanced with huge drills, whining shrilly. Another jolt and the side of his head impacted with the crazily hung pan. His senses reeled, half-blinded by a curtain of blood issuing from a new wound above his right eye. Panic gripped his whole being, he tried to scream but he heard no sound. Time slowed to a crawl. A new mix of sounds grew in volume and intensity, like a non-stop motorway pileup, where vehicle after vehicle inexorably careered into the melee ahead. Then it was Travis’ turn as a steel girder passed inches from his face, and ripped away part of the roof, which was now the wall, and the wall, which had become the roof of the stricken carriage. Another jolt catapulted him through the tear. His body somersaulted slowly in the air until he was head down and facing his point of departure. He dispassionately watched as the train receded from his view. Then he stopped in mid-flight. The wrecked train continued its drunken journey while Travis hung in mid-air, watching it go. He looked up, to the ground, which, as if it had just noticed him, suddenly rushed to greet him. The pain stopped as blackness enveloped him.

Chapter 2

The Moon was now behind them, and the ship was well clear of the gravity wells created by the planet and its satellite. The fusion engines had accelerated the ship to its optimal cruising speed of around 200 000Km/s or 66% of the speed of light. As the ship accelerated, the RAM scoop had to be gradually reduced in size to compensate for the increased drag. Although the fusion engines could be pushed further, the law of diminishing returns would take over and the ship would start burning more fuel than it gathered, due to the increased drag and reduced RAM scoop size.

The party atmosphere and air of excitement continued to grow in the bar as all eyes turned to the void in front. The fusion engines were throttled back, and the RAM scoop reduced to a mere one hundred kilometre radius. The lights in the bar dimmed enough to accentuate the view outside.

The Mercenary looked up and faced the front of the craft. Do you like firework displays? he