The Spiral Arm (episode 1, season 1)

  *

  It’s 3am and as expected I’m lying in my sleeping compartment wide-awake. I have been since we all went to bed three hours ago. Like a gentle breeze I can hear the collective breathing of my pod as they sleep peacefully. While I, on the other hand, have thoughts twisting around my brain like tentacles.

  I wish I could be like them. They seem so happy in their own skins that sleep comes to them like a friend, calming and soothing, telling them everything will be all right. I have no such friend. But it’s fine, that’s just the way I am, and I have to deal with it.

  Distraction is what I need right now. My mind keeps flipping back to my mom. I worry about her and I’ve made a pact with myself that I will not cry, but the sadness is overwhelming and I can’t stop thinking of her all alone back on Earth. The worry is going to end up killing me, if Sagan and his Betas don’t get there first.

  I visualize a box, no it’s more like a chest, like the ones pirates put treasure in. It’s heavy and wrapped in steel straps to strengthen it. I take all the emotions I feel whenever I think of my mom and put them in the box. Every happy memory of her goes in; from the clean soapy smell of her skin, to the way she used to play show tunes to cheer me up. Before I shut the lid I say goodbye to her and blow her a kiss. I hate doing this, it feels like she’s died and I’m at her funeral, but I know I have to do this. I have to harden my heart, otherwise I won’t survive and my worries will eat me alive. The lid closes and I see myself fastening it with an ancient brass padlock. It snaps shut. There is no key to this lock. Behind me lies a deep, deep chasm, so deep I can’t see the bottom. I drag the chest over to the edge and whisper, “Bye mom, I’ll never forget you. I love you more than anything.” I push the chest with both hands and it drops into the darkness.

  I push a tear from my eye. From now on my mom is gone. Wiped from my memories. I don’t know how long for. Will I be able to stop her from creeping back into my thoughts? Probably not. But for now that’s the way it has to be.

  I need to get out of here. Lying in bed isn’t going to help so I slide out of my bunk, trying not to make a sound and pull on my combat pants. Going barefoot seems like the best option; I don’t want my heavy boots clattering on the floor while I’m trying to be stealthy. Slipping into my T-shirt, I quietly leave my sleeping pod.

  There’s no-one around outside and all the lights have been dimmed in the mess hall. All I can hear is the low hum of the engines. We left orbit a few hours ago and are now heading to Kepler, hurtling through space at many times the speed of light. It’s the oddest sensation because the whole ship doesn’t feel like it’s moving at all.

  Stepping out of the door, it’s not far to get back to the main passage, and that too is empty. The red emergency lights are on, giving the whole place an eerie crimson glow. I have to stop my brain from getting too freaked out at the whole thing so instead I give it something to do. Remembering my way back is going to be a challenge, so I decide to memorize my steps, noting every time I turn left and right. I could just use the map on my new com chip, but I want the distraction of having to think.

  Eventually I come to a lobby with some wide metal stairs. There is a row of elevators next to them, but I figure it’s safer to take the stairs. I’m just about to climb them when I hear footsteps. I tuck myself behind one of the ‘A’-shaped pillars and hope whoever it is doesn’t spot me. Two marines on night duty walk past, their boot steps ringing out on the grilled metal floor. They’re talking about sports and complaining about how much they’re going to miss going to the games.

  Once their voices have died away I take the flight of stairs not making a sound. Reaching the next landing, it looks just the same as the one I’ve come from and I wonder where to go next. I head upwards, to see if I can reach the top of the ship. Flight after flight, I keep climbing, surprising myself that I can keep going without taking a break. Although, compared to the stairs in my accommodation block, this is a stroll. I count 80 flights until I can’t go any further. Looking back down over the edge of the handrail, I make myself dizzy. Just like the chasm I imagined earlier, I can’t see the bottom. This ship is a monster.

  I turn away before my head starts to spin. The landing on this level is narrower and there is only one door I can go through so I take it. All the passageways are narrow here and look a lot older than the rest of the ship. A faulty light blinks at me from the high ceiling. Judging by the all the dust and cobwebs nobody comes up here much. The passageway beyond ends in a set of double doors, which I tentatively open a fraction. My face is pushed up against the crack, checking if anyone is in here. The air smells old and musty, no-one’s breathed it in for quite a while. I decide to open the doors a little further and poke my head inside and take a glance around. It’s some sort of old theatre with rows of fold-up seats. I wonder if they put shows on here but there’s no holo projector and no space for a stage. At the front is a heavily armor-plated screen with big reinforcing bars running across it vertically and horizontally.

  I decide it’s safe to enter and I walk up and down the aisles trying to figure out what this place is for. After a while I give up and fold down one of the seats, which squeaks with age. Parking myself down, it’s surprisingly plush and I feel myself relaxing, knowing that I’m completely alone. I’m luxuriating in the solitude when there’s a clunk from under my seat. Leaping up, I pray I haven’t set off some alarm. I look closer at the seat examining it from every angle to see if there’s any clue to what I’ve done. Half of me thinks I should get the hell out of here and back to the safety of my pod, while the other half is curious to see what’s going to happen. Nothing is out of place and the seat looks completely normal. That’s when a deep grumbling sound starts up, like the hunger pangs of a giant. This is followed by a painful grinding coming from the front of the room. It’s the screen.

  Instinctively, I duck down, hiding behind the rows of seats. Have I broken something? It sounds like it. The din is painfully loud and I wince with every squeak and crunch. What have I done? It’s loud enough to wake the whole ship. Panic grabs me. I’m almost certainly in trouble. If I escape now, there’s a chance I won’t get caught.

  I’m about to make a run for the doors but my curiosity won’t let me. Slowly, I raise my head, peeking over the back of the chair I crouch behind. The source of all the noise becomes clear. The brutally thick metal screen has divided in two, vertically down the middle, and is sliding back at a snail’s pace. Both sides must be rolling back on metal rails that haven’t seen any grease since the ship was built. They’re moving so slowly I can only make out a thin slit of blackness beyond them.

  I sit back down in my seat, blissfully not caring that a night patrol may burst in here at any moment and drag me in front of Merox for being out of bed. I don’t care. I want to see what’s behind the screen.

  Finally, my patience is rewarded when enough of the screen parts and I realize what I’m looking at.

  I gasp.

  There in front of me, beyond a thick huge window is space.

  Stars whiz past in seconds and I see vast constellations off in the distance as they come into view briefly then disappear. Other stars seem to just hang there not moving. I must be in an observatory, but this one doesn’t seem to be for science, there’s no equipment, computers or telescopes. This is purely for pleasure. I feel like a tiny ant as the universe puts on the greatest show I have ever seen.

  My breath is well and truly taken away. There’s nothing more beautiful than these cosmic fireworks and my retinas are nearly overloading. I can’t stop smiling as nebulas and systems float past my eyes as if they are dandelions blowing in the wind. The effect is hypnotic, transfixing me and holding me captive. Gazing endlessly, my eyes go dry as I keep forgetting to blink.

  I have no idea what the time is or how long I have been sitting here. Whatever I have been through today and whatever I am about to go through in the next four years has been worth it for this.

  I’m reluctant to leav
e but I know I must go back. I stand up and slowly walk to the doors, not taking my eyes off the screen. As I reach the double doors I hear a click and whir of machinery. I look back and see the giant metal screens making their slow journey back into position.

  Step by careful step, I retrace my way back to Section One. All the way there, I have to stop myself from running after what I’ve seen. I’m bursting to tell someone about it. Would this be a good idea? Or should I be selfish and keep it to myself? After all, it’d be nice knowing I have a place I can go and get away from things and be on my own. Privacy is going to be in short supply, so maybe I should keep the observatory as my secret spot. But it seems too good not to share with the others. I won’t decide just yet. Let’s get the first week out of the way and then see whether having a hidey-hole is essential for my sanity.

  Within twenty minutes I’m back in Section One. My mouth, as usual, is wickedly dry. I decide to use the water dispenser on the other side of the mess hall rather than use the one in my pod and risk waking them up. I make a mental note to take water with me next time I go on night maneuvers.

  As I slurp from the tap, I hear the distinctive sound of boots on metal. A patrol is heading my way. There’s no way I can get back to my pod without them seeing me. I need somewhere to hide, fast. I try each door on the wall by the serving hatch but they’re all locked. The serving hatch has a pull-down shutter and I give it a tug. It’s not locked and slides gently up. Beyond is a large pristine kitchen with wide scrubbed metal counter and cooking equipment. I slide my butt onto the counter, flip my legs in and then pull the shutter closed. There’s a chance the patrol may come in here if they realize the serving hatch is unlocked, but the lock is electronic and there’s nothing to secure it with. The next logical step is to find a place to hide. There are plenty of cupboards I can fit in. As I glance around deciding which one, I realize I’m not alone.

  An old man in civilian clothes stands in the corner with a large tin in one hand and a spoon in the other. He has a bald head and a halo of curly grey hair running from ear to ear. There’s a walking stick by his side. His shocked face mirrors my own. Then he smiles.

  “This is awkward,” he says. His voice is like a grandfather’s should be, hoarse and gentle. “I’m Professor Nilson, pleased to meet you.”

  He puts the spoon down and extends a hand. I timidly shake it.

  “I’m afraid you’ve caught me red-handed, or should I say chocolate-handed.”

  He holds up the spoon which is covered in chocolate sauce. “I’m hopelessly addicted and the ration on board is woefully inadequate.”

  I stand there uncomfortably silent.

  “Oh don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t tell if you won’t. You’re not the first cadet to go wandering around at night. I do the same, quite often. But I don’t see any reason to tell Sergeant Merox about our night-time activities, do you? Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Wren. Wren Harper.”

  “As I said, could this be our little secret?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Would you like some?” he says, offering me the spoon.

  “Why not?” I take it and lick the back. It’s thick, gooey and intense. “Hey, that’s not bad.”

  “Yes, it’s thoroughly divine. Now you can see why I’m such an addict.”

  “Hey, don’t worry, we’re all addicted to something, I guess.”

  “True, true.”

  “Er, how come you don’t have a uniform?” I ask, polishing the spoon with my tongue.

  “I’m a civilian. I’ll be teaching you anything you need to know that is non-combat related. It’s quite a mixed bag. I’m part historian, part psychologist, part scientist and part agony aunt. So if there’s anything you need to know or have on your mind, I’ll try and help.”

  Something in his manner makes me want to open my heart to him about everything. The whole experience I’ve had from being selected out of the blue, to finding myself on board with over 50,000 would-be teenage killers. It must be stretching my psychological well-being.

  I decide now is not the best time, but at least I’ve made another friend. I think.

  “That’s good to know,” I say. “Well I guess I better be getting back to my pod.”

  “Yes, quite right, the kitchen staff will be here soon to start breakfast preparations.” He puts the lid back on the tin and carefully places it back on a metal shelf. Then he takes the spoon from me and cleans it with a hanky and puts it in his pocket. “Allow me to go first, if you will. I’ll make sure the coast is clear.”

  He hobbles to the door on his walking stick and I follow him. Scanning his wrist over the lock, it clicks open and he briefly pops his head out to take a look around. “Okay, it’s safe,” he says, winking.

  He allows me to go first and I jog back toward my pod. Before I reach the door I turn briefly to wave goodbye but he’s already gone.

  Chapter 7