Writing in the Sand Read online

  “Years without incident here while everyone back on Earth kills each other... and now this,” he muttered, half to himself.

  He was not looking forward to breaking the news to the families. Forced into those conversations on a regular basis was another reason why Don had come closer to the capital.

  “So what the hell was it?” he demanded, already feeling a temper threatening to escape his control. He looked around the room waiting for one of his staff to tell him. To conjure the answer out of nowhere, almost.

  “We don’t know.” Anderson sounded ashamed to admit.

  “You don’t know?” Don immediately regretted his accusatory tone. His staff had only been dealing with long-range space traffic again for roughly six months now. An eleven year travel ban to and from Earth meant no tracking approaching ships for the same length of time. It had left skills in that department a little rusty.

  “There was no transponder information and the pictures from Satellite One don’t offer much in the way of identification.” Anderson fiddled with a few switches and pulled up the footage on the big screen.

  All Don could make out was a shadow. It appeared cylindrical, although at this distance it was hard to tell for sure. Shown in stop motion, the shape rolled towards the vulnerable two-man listening station moments before the images burst with a menacing white flash.

  “I see what you mean.”

  The uncomfortable silence was broken by one of the fresh-faced juniors timidly offering an explanation.

  “Do you think it could be one of those British colonial ships? Their government has been talking about coming out here for some time.”

  Annoyed by the suggestion, Don challenged the young man.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Chad, sir.”

  “Well, Chad, do you think you might reconsider what you just said?”

  “I... don’t underst--"

  “Because if that was a British ship that just smashed this planet’s first line of defence out of the sky, do you have any idea what sort of mess we’d be in?”

  “That doesn’t mean it couldn’t be true, sir,” said Anderson.

  “Don’t you think I know that, Bob? I just want these night-shift guys of yours to understand the significance of a suggestion like that. Can you imagine what Alida Harmon or, heaven forbid, Lothar Stangl would do if they heard such a claim? Just be careful what you say without evidence, kid. You know what they’re like.”

  Looking to Anderson for reassurance, Chad had a stab at explaining himself.

  “Well, judging by the speed at which it was travelling it had to have been a ship, not a missile,” he said.

  “Why’s that?” Don asked.

  “Well, it arrived on our scanners travelling at such high velocity that it could only have done so after a slingshot manoeuvre around the sun. Admittedly, the speed could indicate a fired weapon of some kind, but the fact that it survived the impact with Satellite Three suggests it was more likely another craft.”

  Don and Anderson slowly raised their eyebrows at each other. Chad continued, buoyed by their reaction.

  “So, to me, the incident looks to have been an accident, a collision between two manned ships. The strange thing is, if it was anything sent by the Atlas Nations, from the US, the Europeans or the Australians to any of their colonial cities, it would have been on the flight register. And there would have been transponder information too.”

  Chad was right about that. Since the end of the war on Earth and the lifting of the travel ban, everything that arrived in New Boston airspace did so under scrupulous security procedures. If the rules were respected.

  “The only other viable faction is the British,” Chad concluded. “They’re not exactly trying to do colonisation by the book right now and it’s all their government has spoken about over the last few years.”

  “How can an economy as busted as theirs can afford colonisation?” Don asked Anderson. “Everybody knows Whitehall’s been talking out its ass for years.”

  “Well, they claim to have made significant cuts in other areas recently,” Chad added. “Maybe they were just hiding more than we thought.”

  This kid’s been reading too many left-wing conspiracy theorists, Don suspected. Typical of someone his age.

  “You like your British politics.”

  The underling blushed, nodding in the affirmative.

  “I studied British history at university, sir.”

  “I see... But if this British space ship of yours had a pilot and a cargo of budding colonists, why didn’t he change his course? Are they declaring war on us?”

  “I guess... I don’t know... Unless of course he couldn’t change course. If he was incapacitated in some way?”

  “Either that, or it was a deliberate act,” Anderson suggested. “A direct assault.”

  Don sighed.

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” he said. “Where this thing is now? We need to know if it’s going to hit another Satellite or attempt to land here.”

  “We’re not sure, but we do have a fix on its last known trajectory,” Anderson offered. “According to our long range scanners it left on heading 971.345.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Don mumbled, placing his forehead between his thumb and forefinger.

  “I’m afraid we double checked an--"

  “Did you triple check?” Don chirped as he massaged his temples.

  “Yes, we triple checked too.”

  “So it’s heading for Proxima B, then,” Don announced quietly. The room hit a complete stand-still.

  “It looks that way, sir,” Anderson replied nervously.

  “We haven’t heard anything from that planet in five years. Not since those failed colonial missions… Just what in the hell is going on here?”

  “Should we try to follow the object?” asked Chad, innocently.

  “I don’t think so,” scoffed Anderson. “Proxima B is the last place we want to go right now.”

  “No, maybe Chad’s right,” Don interjected. “We need to find out where this thing is.”

  Anderson froze, jaw practically on the floor.

  “Let’s not think about an expedition yet,” Don reassured. “I can’t imagine Stangl would allow us to use up that much Teslanium at a time like this. For now, let’s rig-up alternative surveillance and consolidate our borders. You leave the origin of that ship to me. I think I know someone who can help.”

  Buoyed by a sense of direction, everybody returned to work.

  “And Anderson,” added Don. “Get everyone out of bed. The whole department. Let’s start drawing up a reconnaissance mission to Proxima B. Just in case.”

  “Yes, sir,” his deputy replied, slowly turning pale.

  3

  James Brooks watched the survivors fighting on the beach, their stand-off set against the backdrop of an obliterated island vista. Tempers ran high and he didn’t have the confidence to break up the heated exchange. A handful was all that remained of Britain’s first ever colonial expedition and they quarrelled on the large rock overhanging the beach. Beaten, dejected and scared, they stood amid a collection of bashed-up crates.

  James scratched the cut across his nose and winced. He had no clue what any of the nearby equipment was supposed to be. The rare bundle that had escaped heavy damage from the crash appeared as alien to him as this planet itself.

  He looked out towards the sea. That blonde woman would have taken charge of this by now. She would have known what to do. But she must be gone. Either burned to a cinder in the Concord’s carcass or swept out to sea in what was left of it.

  There was nothing James could do about the position they were in. He’d joined this expedition to provide administrative support and economic structure. He laughed in his head at that statement and nervously ran a bruised hand through the mess of curly hair. Flecks of grit fell to the ground. Watching the survivors bicker about whose fault the crash was and what to do next, he wondered how any of his skills could ever be relevant in the wild. Knowledge of fiscal management would almost certainly be obsolete now.

  “We wait until we can speak to someone from the crew!” That was the voice of Ben, the tall blonde man who had offered to organise the collection of supplies. He’d briefly introduced himself to James when handing him a crate of vitamins earlier. Ben’s optimism was admirable but the other man was making a valid point.

  “They’re all dead, you fool,” he said through his mangy beard. “We might as well just take what we can before we all die.” Ben looked around at the others for reassurance. Nobody could bring themselves to disagree with the statement.

  James looked over at the brown-haired teenage girl who had been helping her mother on the beach, worried at what she was witnessing. Lingering on her innocent eyes, he noticed that each was a different colour. One brown and the other green. Her mother, conscious but dazed from a nasty head wound under dark tangled hair, held her close.

  “That’s a ridiculous assumption,” Ben replied in his well-spoken voice. “We’ve been here less than an hour and haven’t even worked out what supplies we have,” he added, gesturing to the boxes around him.

  “We’re on an uncharted planet, billions of miles from help and you think we stand a chance after what just happened?” There was anger and despair in equal measure in the bearded man’s voice. “Most of the people who were supposed to be building this colony are dead anyway. You really think we can continue the human race with what we have left? Just let me have some water.”

  Moving to block access, Ben grabbed him by the sleeve.

  “Get off me,” the man said as he wrestled free. A small tear appeared on the overall and, pulling himself back, a large portion of his sleeve ripped off.

  A collec
tive in-take of breath sliced through the air.

  Revealed was an arm covered with tattoos. Just below the shoulder, the largest tattoo showed a lion with a Union Jack flag in its mouth.

  Now we’ve got problems, thought James. This was exactly the type of person he had been hoping to leave behind on Earth.

  “Oh great. So you’re a racist as well as a selfish bastard,” said Ben.

  “Don’t worry Amos,” the teenage girl said to the dark-skinned man beside her, placing a hand on his shoulder. “The rest of us aren’t like him.”

  “Thanks Shermeen,” replied Amos quietly.

  Staring everyone down, the now-outed member of the Crusaders retorted: “And proud of it! You think I give a damn what you think of me?” There was another uncomfortable pause. “So, are you going to let me have some water or not?” This time there was a dare in his eyes, baiting Ben to physical action. The two squared up to each other.

  “Stop!” Came the shrill cry from the edge of the rock.

  Everybody turned to look.

  It was the crew woman. She was alive.

  ✯

  Harper could not believe it. The damned idiots. They were the ones that actually want to be on this godforsaken planet and here they were fighting with each other.

  The bearded man rounded on her.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he asked.

  “Trying to save our lives, thank you very much,” she snapped in reply, eyebrows curled in angry confusion.

  “Are you the one who went back into the ship looking for survivors, then?” he continued.

  “Yes,” Harper shot back, gulping in anger. As the group’s eyes bored into her, she felt like an insect under a microscope.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” asked Brooks, the cut on his nose still bleeding. He must have missed Harper’s glare because his timidity disarmed her. She took a second to collect herself.

  “Yes and no,” she responded, measuring her breathing. “I was able to get hold of the portable hard-drive on board the ship, so we know where we are…” Harper shuffled on tired feet and made up her mind. Lying was easier. “It’s not far from the planned drop zone. The important thing is we take stock of what we’ve managed to salvage, who’s alive, who isn’t, and then go from there.”

  Most of the group nodded. They had bought it.

  The man with the tattoos had further questions.

  “What happened to the captain? And the rest of the crew?”

  “Captain Case was killed in the crash,” Harper said. She wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing yet, given his decision to crash the ship. “The rest of the crew were positioned in the rear of the craft which broke off and smashed into the sea some miles out. They’re gone too.”

  “Are you the only one left, then?”

  “Yes.” And you’re stuck with me, Harper thought vindictively.

  “Great,” Zack shouted, arms aloft. “So the only people who survived your captain’s stupidity were a handful of women, the fat black guy who’s going to eat all our food and those two ugly assholes over there,” he finished by pointing at James and another man.

  “...And one snivelling little prick...” interjected Ben.

  “What did you say?”

  Ben bit his lip.

  “Hey, I asked you a question.”

  “I said: don’t forget the snivelling. Little. Pr--.”

  The punch cut off the final word. The bearded man caught Ben on the chin, who rolled with the punch and, grabbing his attacker’s shoulder, landed a retaliatory blow right on the upper lip. Harper dashed between them and held each man at arm’s length. Sensing an incoming blow, she reached for the hip.

  A whelp went up from one of the women.

  Harper pointed her pistol at the aggressor’s face. She had drawn it quickly, hand down, clip flicked, firm grip, aim. All in one motion. The target did not look as fazed as she had hoped.

  “What’s your name, scumbag?” She held his gaze.

  He spat some blood on her boot and threw a contemptuous look.

  “Zack.”

  “Right then Zack, you’re going to step back and do as you’re told.”

  “Who put you in charge? We’re not taking the orders from a bloody woman,” he replied, smug.

  Harper had been sent half-way around the universe and here she was still micro-managing tin-pot wannabe criminals. She was simply bored of people like Zack.

  “Speak for yourself, dick-head.” Ben chimed in, nursing the scrape on his chin.

  “Will somebody stop this bitch pointing a gun at me? Ain’t legal.”

  Harper chuckled rudely.

  “Legal?” She paused for breath. “Unfortunately for you, Zack, we’re billions miles away from anyone who gives a damn. Yeah, fine, I wasn’t the captain of this expedition. But Case and everybody else are dead, so that leaves me in charge whether you like it or not.”

  Harper did not like it much either.

  Zack stared down the barrel of the gun with gritted teeth. Then his eyes flickered from side to side, looking for support. There was none.

  “Well, I’m still not taking orders from a bloody woman,” he muttered, shrugging away from the group.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Harper said, waiting until Zack was out of ear-shot before holstering the weapon. “I know his type. He’s a piece of shit.” She clocked the teenage girl. “Sorry.”

  Guilt crept up on her. Harper knew exactly who was to blame for her banishment but out here on Proxima B there was no way to make them pay. The only people she could take her anger out on were these pathetic colonial hopefuls. But looking them in the eye, she saw their dreams of another life reduced to ash. Harper was the only one with half a chance of keeping them alive… if she could remember the first thing about leadership. It had been too long since Brixton.

  “Look, rather than fight with each other, let’s get on with sorting this mess out. I think it’s late afternoon, nearly evening, right now. According to the satellite surveys this place turns into a damned furnace by the early morning and we’ve got no shelter or fresh water supply yet. There were some Krichmar Tarps in the ship but their locator beacons put them several miles further inland after the crash.”

  Exhausted faces grew even longer. Harper’s stomach dropped an inch or two in response. Keeping these people in a good shape was going to be difficult.

  “I know a lot of you are in pain right now and are probably still in shock, but if we don’t act fast we’re not going to last long out here. Each Tarp takes two to carry so I need five volunteers to help me bring them back here.”

  “I’ll join you.” Ben was the first to stick his arm up.

  “I’ll come too,” mumbled Amos with very little conviction. Harper noticed he had half an eye on Zack and understood instantly.

  A lanky red-haired man and a sleek-figured blonde woman, of similar height to Harper, indicated they would join the trip before Brooks did too. Looking him up and down Harper wasn’t sure he was right for the job.

  “Are you sure you can manage? These things are heavy,” she said.

  He looked stung by her remark, but quickly shifted his expression into one of determination.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “If you say so,” replied Harper, scanning the remaining people on the beach. Drawn to an olive-skinned man she asked his name and what his job was supposed to be on Proxima B.

  “I’m Lucas. I was assigned for manual labour and voluntary law enforcement.”

  “That’ll do,” she said, giving him the thumbs up. Leaving a plasma-knife in his hands, Harper pointed towards the shoreline and said: “You make sure he stays away from those supplies.”

  ✯

  “So, that was awkward,” the tall ginger man said with a squeaky chuckle.

  The group was fifteen minutes into the jungle, carefully dissecting their way through prickly undergrowth. Harper spearheaded the expedition, leading them in single file. Occasionally she stopped, switching on the portable hard-drive to check they were still going in the right direction. The aroma of fresh vegetation was a welcome one. She was having a hard time shaking the stench of burning flesh. It had lingered in the nose and haunted her since the crash.

  Ben trudged his feet at the rear, a little trapped behind the slow-moving bulk of Amos. In the middle was the outspoken red-head, accompanied by the shorter woman who, Harper guessed from her well-toned waist, thighs and forearms, was probably as fit as she was.