⚠️ Content Warning

This episode contains depictions of self-harm and psychological distress.

Chapter 16 - William talks

War? Do you think I don’t know anything about war? Do you honestly feel that nearly a millennia in space and we have grown naïve about war? We know about war. We know about squabbles. We know about invasions. We know about defence. We know that the best way to avoid war is to not have it. To talk. But people won’t listen.

We know about war. We have had many wars. Over the century alone, we have had about ten collisions of opinion. It is nasty. You get a whole world in which to have wars. We have confined spaces, corridors, rooms. If a bomb is hidden in the room, anyone inside dies when it goes off. People in the rooms next door die or get badly injured. I’m sure you can guess the rest. 

Gas in ventilation systems, targeted at specific rooms. I have my own oxygen tank in my room. I have to supervise its refilling from my own private supply everyday. That, too, is continually checked and monitored and guarded. And the guards are guarded. It’s terrible. 

The main supplies are under extreme supervision. The whole ship could die if that was poisoned, but now the poison gas comes like a bomb, positioned in ventilation shafts. A bombs’ position is crucial, and its effect is only in the immediate area. But they too are ruthless. 

What if you block the exits? Then, when you run in to a room with a dangerous weapon, people have nowhere to run to, and that is the end of them. 

But you ask, why is there such a war? When your considered greatest enemy is humankind, why destroy your own? Factions grew onboard almost immediately. After a generation or so, the people growing up who had not faced the massive propaganda campaigns to get  people off the planet, a group started forming that wanted to go back home. They were not to realise the dangers of staying, that within only a few generations, life on Trasconia would simply become unbearable. 

Conditions were already worsening by the time we left, the temperature causing seas and polar caps to evaporate, building up the cloud cover and blocking in heat.  Suffocating pressure that will soon crush anyone who stands on that planet. Already we had moved underground, creating a life only of walls and ceilings. But that precious oxygen will only be poisoned by other gases created in such heat. And never could we push away our star, its wind corroding our ozone and bathing us in its sweet solar wind of radiation. We lived our life then as we do now, confined. But at least Trascon was our very own. 

Unease was settling in. Knowing that they could get back to Trasconia within a matter of decades, they wanted to go back, to see the world that they came from. Knowing that Trasconia was a relatively short distance away, they wanted to repair the damage we had caused to our ecology. Granted, we did not always care greatly for it, but compared to the sun, the ecology paled in significance. I hate to say that, but it’s true. Earth citizens will find that too, no doubt, in a few millennia. You see, you love your stories of life on Mars, yet your scientists look to Venus, with an atmosphere much like your own, to find life. Never has Venus had life, but it’s a reflection of what Trascon is almost and what Earth will be in a fraction of our sun’s life. And when, no doubt , we shall have to move on again. 

Culture had not yet adjusted to life in space, and quite frankly, it wasn’t going to. We still had many films and pictures from Trasconia. At that time, it broke the hearts of the older generations who had left Trasconia, and it amazed, astounded and created such strong feelings of (an imagined) home, a sentimental home, amongst the people who had never been there. They could only ever see these landscapes on film, of this limited view within a picture, and they wanted to see the world for themselves. 

I know that feeling so well. I hate to see life packaged like this, when I could be outside. But then, I had a different expectation. I was of the generation that knew it was going to get off at the next stop.

Culture was not ready to let go. Many religious practices were still performed. And among the religious wing, sparks really began to fly. Although there have been many, many religions, those with similar beliefs, even after vicious years of wars, started to slowly merge together to create super-religions. These had larger numbers of followers and were therefore able to gain greater political power. But back in space, these religious authorities, who were all too happy to come along for the ride, turned around and started preaching about how we were turning our backs on our gods. 

By now, this is a few generations on. By leaving our planet, we are rejecting it, we are rejecting our gods too, for they created that planet for us, and it is not up to us to decide whether or not we should leave. For them, if the gods choose to destroy us, then they should destroy us. If we can prove ourselves worthy enough, then we shall be saved. 

It is actually quite interesting, this debate, as you can see the way that religion evolves to save itself, to pull itself out of trouble. It was only when it became realised that the sun was going to have the destructive power that it has that the sun became a major focus of attention. For some religions, the sun became the heaven, that when you die, that’s where the soul goes, to this magical place, that has all this power, that helped to create and spawn life on Trasconia, and that is where life will return when it dies. Another belief is that the sun is a god, and that this god is returning to the Trascon world to rule first and then to judge. Factions grew between the two groups, the Religious that wanted to leave and return. And the Runners that wanted to carry on. To find this new world that we can claim.

But this does not alleviate my worry. I should not be concerned with the past, but the present. I’m pacing backwards and forwards, not paying much attention to what anyone else is saying, which is probably for the best, as no one can say anything of any real importance right now. Our fighter Smoovs should have spoken to us by now, or done something by now, but they have not. We have had no word from them for the last half-hour, or so. Nobody knows where they are. People have offered suggestions, reassurances, that because we are not used to transmitting radio messages in an environment as dense the Earth’s, that the radios have packed in. That does not console me. Neither does the fact that, regardless of communication, they have not returned.

“Where are they? What are they doing?” I speak out loud, to no-one in particular. But I want answers now. I point at someone nearby. It is an entirely random point, but it happens to fall on my Second in Command. The boy panics and just says the first thing that comes to mind.

“They must have been delayed, Supreme Master of Everythingness.”

I really have to cringe. “Delayed?!” the cringe turns into a scream. “Doing What!? Their orders were simple. They were to go down and find out the answer to whether or not the humans would surrender. Make them if they had to!” I try to calm myself down. “Of course, they won’t, but that’s humans for you.” 

The fuck squirms. I can see it on his face. If he had a gun, he would shoot himself right there and then. He can see it on my face. If I had a gun, I would do it for him.

“Maybe…” says another voice, it comes from Skernajj, cutting off when he realises I am looking at him. “I don’t know, Sire,” he finishes.

“They kept in contact on the way. They got in contact to tell us that they’d arrived. They should have got back in touch by now, telling us how the humans have reacted. They should have told us they were on their way back by now.” I say this calmly, but I can feel my eyes popping out of my shaking head as I restrain myself.

The Second in Command, the Security Chief, Yertjuk, or whoever he is, decides he had better say something to try and get rid of the embarrassment of earlier.

“Maybe they’re just unavailable.”

“Unavailable! How can they be unavailable? They’re in the front row seats, for crying out loud!” 

This is like a badly written play, by a comic that has no comic talent. Someone is having a laugh at my expense. 

I excuse myself. I try to leave through the doors, but they don’t open for me. It’s always the small things. And I snap. From my standing position, I quite literally jump at the door, hurling myself with force, smacking my head into it. I kick and punch the door, punch myself, head-butt the door again. Harder. Someone restrains me. I’m about to turn on them before realising they are there to help, that I’ve gone over the top. The doors are opened, I go into the toilet. I stand there facing the mirror. 

I remember what it was like. When I was doing my training, you’d be asked questions. You’d be prepared, you’d have done the reading, you’d have made notes, but the question would put you off. You wanted to answer, so you’d open your mouth, and out would come the weakest, half-garbled (as you realised what you were saying) answer, and you would want to kick yourself afterwards. I almost broke out into tears a couple of times after my mind frustrated me. My mind takes a bit of time sometimes, but I know I’ll get there in the end. I guess, no, I know it’s just the same situation for them. They are as stressed as me. They don’t know the answers because nobody knows the answers. I need to calm myself down. Think through this properly before I act. I’ll get there in the end. 

I take off my top. I look at my arm. It is scarred. I reach into my pocket. I have a knife in there. My fingers clench it as I bring it out. It is a portable knife, therefore I can fold it away. It is just a plain knife, has none of our traditional barbs on it, just a practical, portable knife which is currently resting on the surface of my arm. I place it in a slightly better position. Then I just look at it. My heart seems to get heavier as I wonder why I need to do this. I think I am slightly afraid. I will not hurt myself, I won’t really harm myself. It is more of an empty gesture. A gesture to say that I cannot satisfactorily go through the day without doing something wrong. Yet a part of me still, just a tiny part, thinks that I’m afraid. In order to satisfy that negative feeling, I apply pressure to the knife and pull quickly back. Calculated and lacking feeling, this gesture is not enough. Watching the tiny trickle of blood, I rip again, and again and again and again. This time letting it out. I hate myself. You are a cunt! Fucking die you fucking freak! Twat! Die, Die! 

And as I watch the skin open and the holes fill with blood before spilling down my arm, adrenaline pumping through my body, anger spreading slowly through my body, bringing it satisfaction, satisfaction to see my own blood. But it is more than that. It is redemption, revenge against myself for being a cunt. It deserves to be there, has to be there. My arm is brown, covered in its own blood as streams join, forming rivers, eventually rolling off my elbow onto the floor below. And I lick the blood, tasting how metallic it is. I put my mouth over one of my cuts. And I suck. I suck the blood into my mouth. In the mirror, I can see my stained teeth as I bring my mouth away. My arm growing awful prickling sensations where the blood has been sucked out. Now it hurts. Now I feel pain. Now I feel I am.

It helps me to take away the problems of the outside world. I can internalise problems, so that I hate myself and not others. It doesn’t help me in the long term, but I’m in charge of so many people. I can’t continually wreak my vengeance on them. My problems out there still exist, obviously. It won’t be until we know what has happened that they’ll go away. Or intensify. But for now, if I can stop getting angry at everyone else, stop putting pressure on everyone else and leave that for me, then at least we might be able to make some headway. I wonder whether or not to be sick. I stand in front of the basin, not sure. I feel a little weak and nauseous, so I decide to rid myself of those feelings. I feel much better. I feel ready to go back out, after mopping up my arm.

My absence has been of some use. The radio control operator has decided to step in. Rather than wait for my orders, he has been re-attempting to get contact with the missing Smoovs. I enter on his fifth attempt.

“Smoovs one, two and three. This is Mothership. Please report.” The radio operator waits for an answer, but nothing comes. I wonder if he actually knows what he’s doing. I don’t think I know any more. He tries again. “Ships one, two and three. Please come in.” He gives up and looks to me. He looks as tired as I do. “They are not answering, O Amazingly Wonderful One.”

I nod. He looks down. That was his moment of potential glory gone. 

“Sorry, Lord,” murmurs the radio operator. 

“Well, what can have happened to them, then?” I ask.

Second in Command, Security Chief Yertjuk has another good idea. “Maybe they were attacked.”

I burst into laughter. This is actually a great fear of mine right now. I guess the laughter is to disguise that, but I go along with the pretence anyway. “Almost certainly!” I believed, I honestly believed that the bullets the humans would have fired would have had no effect, due to the shields our Smoovs are equipped with. These shields are just as necessary for entry into an atmosphere as for defensive purposes. But though they got to Earth safely, I just hope that the shields weren’t affected in any way.

In my absence, Skernajj has also been useful. Returning to his monitors, he has been examining his charts in detail.

“Hang on, Sir.” He fiddles round with a few of his controls. On the big screen a vague outline of a country appears. There are three flashing dots, static, in the lower right corner of the country. “Look here, on the screen, the three Smoovs are still there, they have not disappeared. But get this, this is interesting. When we zoom in,” the outline of the country slowly turns into outlines of streets, “we notice that there are two Smoovs there in London, where we sent them, whereas, ten miles away, we quite clearly have the third Smoov moving away. But it’s moving linear, across land, rather than vertically. It is not coming back. 

“Now, when we first saw those three dots, they looked static, that is because, we had zoomed so far out, that for the dots to make a movement, they have to make a significant movement where they are, tens, if not a hundred miles, at a time. But here, where we are closer, and the ratio is much smaller, we would expect to see those dots moving, as the movements made by the Smoovs could be greatly decreased in order to make a significant difference to our screens. 

“Those two dots are not moving, because the Smoovs are not moving. Whereas, eleven miles away, we can see this dot is moving, because the Smoov is moving. Where, we don’t know. But the puzzle of what’s going on becomes much greater. They are not dead. They are certainly not all dead. But they have not made contact, and we are not getting through.” 

Shut up.

“But that’s impossible.”

“Unless they were defeated, Sir,” says the cunt Yertjuk, with a hint of smugness. 

“But how come there’s still one left, hmm? I say that we send out another Smoov to find out what is happening. And to make sure that we do, I will come personally. Number two, you are in charge of the ship when I leave. Skernajj, you are with me.”

Yertjuk and Skernajj speak together. “Aye, O Magnificently Magnificent One.”

Personally, my fear is this. The ships have never been flown in an atmosphere before. That they suffered damage on entry. That in their weakened state, they could be overpowered. Why send only three, though? Why only to one place? Why not more? I didn’t think about it. Was I trying to be fair?