The Archer's Paradox - The Travis Fletcher Chronicles (5 page)

“Come with us, we can repair your body and make your life worthwhile again.” Travis considered this; his life had hardly been worthwhile before the accident. Even so, he had no wish to leave this life, especially in such an ignominious fashion.

Who are you?
He repeated.

“I am Wingu Kanzul and…”

No!
Travis interrupted.
I know your names, who are you? More to the point, what are you? Where did you dream up those kooky names? If my body is so badly damaged, how come we’re talking, and what is it you want with me? Who on Earth are ‘The Originals’?
The questions, initially dammed up, burst forth in a sudden torrent. Wingu Kanzul waited patiently for the flow to ease.

“We are scientists and we are offering you the chance to breathe clean air again, walk again and be free of these arcane machines.” he gestured dismissively at the array of medical equipment with a disparaging wave of his hand. “In short, to live again.”

Is this some sort of new treatment? If you’re scientists, why aren’t you discussing this with the doctors? Even the nurse ignored you.

“We chose for them not to see us.” The male replied simply.

“This is getting us nowhere!” Xnuk Ek’s interjection was terse and irritable. “He cannot even comprehend the situation. Let us just take him now and you can debate later.”

“No, he must come voluntarily.” Xnuk Ek’ looked sullen but acquiesced. The male appeared to be the superior, while the female played the part of the impatient apprentice.

The drugs and dream theory played over Travis’ mind, then the sceptical salesman took over.

If you have the technology to fix me up, what’s in it for you? This sort of treatment is not going to come cheap. I’m sure it’s not available on the NHS and I can’t afford to go private.
The two visitors exchanged puzzled looks.
Are you asking me to be some sort of guinea pig? Maybe I am having problems understanding as Shunech said
- his pronunciation was atrocious and Xnuk Ek’s scowl took on a look of pure hatred -
but you are not answering my questions, so just tell me simply what you are offering me and what you want in return
.

“As I said, we are scientists.” The male repeated as if talking to a child. “We are from a star system some one hundred light years from here. We are communicating because you have a natural telepathic ability that we can hear.” Wingu Kanzul paused for a moment.

Continue
. The scepticism in Travis cut through the air between them like a knife.

“We want you to come with us. On the way home we will repair your body. It will be better than before the accident.”

Don’t bullshit a bullshitter! This ain’t Star Trek, there ain’t no Warp Drive.
Travis shot back. “Even I know interstellar travel is impossible in real life.”

“What you say is true with your level of technology but we do have the technology to travel between stars. The journey will still take approximately fifty rotations of this planet.”

Continue. What do I have that you want?
- Travis was still sceptical. -
There’s no such thing as a free lunch.

“We are dying. Over two thousand years ago there was a terrible war, only ten per cent of the population survived and many of those died later from genetic mutations caused by the weapons we used on each other. Our beautiful planets were turned into uninhabitable wastelands, and worse. A few saw what was happening and hid books, equipment, information, specimens of plants and animal DNA in secure bunkers. When it was all over, the survivors found these caches and began rebuilding the world. Now, more than two thousand years later, we are once again travelling the stars, we have conquered most diseases and there has never been another war.”

That all sounds very Utopian,
Travis acknowledged,
so what’s the problem
?

“A genetic mutation that is dormant in all our kind has started to become active, making us sterile. As each new generation is born, a higher percentage is born sterile. Our race will no longer produce children within five hundred years and we will die.”

Five hundred years is a long time, surely if you can fix me you can find a cure in that time.

“It is a very short time for a race that is only two thousand years old, and the mutation is irreversible. We know because we created it.”

Travis was perturbed by the man’s candour and the seemingly off hand way he described the imminent demise of his race. There was no hint of bitterness aimed at the legacy that had been bequeathed to them, just a deep and lasting sadness as the inevitable played out. Travis thought briefly about Earth’s flirtation with atomic weapons; no one had thought about the long term effects of these devices: radiation burns, cancer, sterility, and genetic mutations. Suddenly it all seemed oddly familiar and uncomfortably close to home. There, but for the grace of God, go I, he thought, if indeed there is a God, which he seriously doubted.

So why me? It seems a long way to come to find a cure.

“Before the war, we watched your civilisations evolve. We had a special interest in this planet because it was so close to our own and we wanted to explore our own origins. We have documents that show the very birth of the human species and your DNA is very close to ours. A simple operation will take a sample from your body that will then be used to modify the defective genes of our people.”

Travis paused, turning the conversation over in his mind.
I need to think about this
. He stalled. This was huge. Impossible and huge.
So far you’ve shown no evidence of what you tell me except for a couple of kooky names, weird haircuts and some very disturbing contact lenses
.

Wingu Kanzul nodded. “You have three days, for that is when they plan to turn off these machines.” Without a farewell they turned in unison and headed for the door. As they left his field of vision Travis felt something he could
not define. It seemed to hang over, rather than emanate from, Xnuk Ek’. There was something missing, something that should be said, something important, and it bothered her.

“Good morning, Mr Fletcher.” It was the turn of Nurse ‘Kylie’ today. Nurse ‘Kylie’ was slim with an outrageous perm that was the current fashion. Travis imagined her in a night club wearing a spangled nurse’s uniform, fishnet stockings and huge shoulder pads. Today was different; Nurse ‘Kylie’ was not her usual perky self. She usually hummed the latest chart hits as she worked, but today she was quiet and looked upset. Did she know what was going to happen to him or was it something outside work? Travis was frustrated; he needed to know but could not ask. She busied round checking his drips and so on.

Travis had not had a good night; his mind had been turning over and dissecting every aspect of the previous day’s events. He had been intrigued by his visitor’s mention of a natural telepathic ability. Was this why he had made such a good salesman? He did seem to have an uncanny ability to predict a client’s reaction and even write deals that astounded his colleagues. Then there was the incident on the train with the two business men. He told them to leave the carriage and they did. Was he also able to influence the actions of others, or was he just reaching for explanations where there were none? If it had been him who had been spoken to like that by a drunken yob, he would have twatted them, or at least complained to the staff. Was it some sort of instinctive reaction, or was he reading things into a simple situation? Did he really have visitors yesterday, or had his mind finally gone? Nurse ‘Kylie’ looked up from her work and caught his eye.

What do you think?
Nurse ‘Kylie’ began to look away.
No! Stay with me!
He shouted with all his strength. Nurse ‘Kylie’ held his gaze.
I think I am about to be abducted by aliens. If I am about to die anyway, should I go with them? Am I crazy?
Nurse ‘Kylie’ blinked and the connection was broken. Her work finished, she headed for the door. She paused, turned round and gave the pathetic form on the bed a long hard look.

“At least one of us is.” she whispered, shook her head and left.

Time passed with interminable slowness. Half of him wanted the three day wait to be over so that he could find out the truth, the other half wanted to stop time because if it was all just a hallucination, he didn’t want to die. His mind would not let go of the recent events. Questions rattled around his brain, desperately looking for answers that could not be found. He cried long and silently in frustration and fear. His imagination took hold and the visitors became faceless beings waiting to ‘beam’ him away to perform nameless and painful experiments. Nurse ‘Kylie’ came and went, but pointedly would not look at his face, no matter how much he willed it.
If something did happen, it must be connected to eye contact,
he mused, and braced himself for the merest hint of a gaze.

It was the third day. Travis had not slept, he was exhausted and afraid. There was no nurse, she was late. The nurse was never late. If he had a watch he could set it by her. The minutes ticked by. Eventually three men came into the room with Dr Lota. No one said a word; they just looked at the patient and the dials of the assembled machines. A faint shimmer passed into his field of vision and there, at the end of the bed were the two visitors. Wingu Kanzul looked at him dispassionately whilst Xnuk Ek’ regarded him with a disdainful look, but there was something else that he could not quite put his finger on.

“It is the third day and we have returned as we agreed.” Travis didn’t remember actually ‘agreeing’ to anything but he let it go. “What is your answer?” The room suddenly became totally silent; the low hum and occasional beep of the life support machines that had been his constant companions for so many weeks had stopped. The assembled doctors were still taking notes and ticking boxes on their clip boards.

Travis felt no immediate change to his body but blind panic took over.
Ok! It’s a deal! Now get me the fuck out of here!
He screamed.
I don’t care where or how, just
do it
.

“Good enough.” They turned to leave.

Where are you going?
Panic still gripped his mind. They turned to face him again.

“First you must die.” they turned and left.

WHAT!

They passed Nurse ‘Kylie’ as she stood at the door, without her registering their passing. Sorrow and pity creased her face. She came over and held his hand, even though he could not feel it.

“No-one should die alone.” she whispered, looking straight into his eyes.

Thank you.

“You’re welcome.” she smiled and kissed his forehead.

I’m frightened, I don’t want to die.

“I know.”

He suddenly felt very tired, his vision began to blur. He saw faces from his past swimming before him, mostly looking at him in a disapproving manner, just as they had most of his life. Was that it? Is that all he had achieved, a disapproving look? What was to be on his head stone? He came, he saw, he left? His impact on the world was so immeasurable that no one bothered to measure it? Was it all a hallucination after all? Was his mind just clutching at straws? So … impossibly … tired … nauseous … too … weary … to … panic … grey … black …

The door chime was soft but persistent, coaxing The Journalist out of a very deep sleep. She never was very good first thing in the morning, but add a couple of bottles of wine, at least forty eight hours without sleep and a major culture shock. This was not a good way to start the day. The door chimed again. She sat up, her mouth tasted as if she had slept with someone’s big toe in it and her hair felt like coconut matting. She looked around, trying to remember where she was. The bedroom was small and sparsely furnished. There was a door through to the washing facilities and one to the cabin’s living area. All the furniture was moulded out of the same material as in the bar. She noticed, slightly apprehensively, that she was not touching the bed, but was actually floating some millimetres above it, yet it held her form perfectly. No wonder it was so comfortable. She swung her legs over the side and stood up. She was still wearing the same clothes she had on when she began this bizarre adventure and was even still wearing her TV makeup. She realised she had no recollection of ever getting to her quarters. She remembered there were the Arcturans, there was some dancing, some turquoise coloured drinks and then a haze. Again the door chimed. She walked through to the main living area. There was a desk area with a computer terminal and the few personal effects she just happened to have with her when this all began. A large rectangular porthole displayed a myriad of stars, bringing reality back to her like a bucket of cold water and showing that they were no longer under the power of the Compression Drive. Just how long had she been asleep? A sofa and two armchairs eased out of the floor as she entered.

“Yes?” she queried in the general direction of the door. It obediently slid open and Cat entered. She looked The Journalist up and down and her lip curled in distaste.

“I am to take you to the bridge.” she snarled without greetings or preamble and turned to leave.

“Wait!” Cat turned. “I need to wash and change.” Cat sniffed the air and her features screwed up as if encountering a bad smell, she motioned to the washroom at the back of the little bedroom with a small impatient gesture. The Journalist took a step then turned on an impulse as she remembered a conversation last night, and faced Cat. “You don’t like me, do you?” Cat paused for a moment, her visor fixed directly at The Journalist. She began to feel as if she had made a mistake, her heart thumped in her chest.

“No.” Cat said finally, a tight smile betraying her enjoyment of the other’s discomfort.

“Why not?” she had started this conversation so she might as well see it through. She did not trust Cat but she had to find out the reason for her animosity.

“You betrayed my friend. I made a promise to her a long time ago that I would never betray her and I hold myself to that promise even in death.”

“No,” she was horrified at the suggestion, “that’s not …..” she saw Cat’s jaw muscles tighten, and her teeth showed in a wicked grin, The Journalist turned white, a leaden lump lodged itself in her guts and she felt sick. She could not live her life having to watch every word in case she said the wrong thing. She had made the biggest mistake of her life forcing herself on this crew and there was no way out. There was so much that was new and strange to her here, where to be accused of lying was considered dishonourable and would end in the death of the liar or the accuser, where she was regarded as the alien, where her thoughts and emotions were on show to anyone who cared to look. How did she ever dare to hope she could fit in? Once again, she felt the great gulf between herself and her new surroundings. She felt small, powerless, and a long way from home, only this time The Mercenary was not here to bolster her. There was only this alien, who she felt would prefer to break her neck given the slightest provocation. She hit rock bottom. This needed to end now. She made a radical decision to call Cat’s bluff and stared her straight in the visor, her distorted image staring back at her, wide eyed and afraid. “If I called you a liar now, would you kill me?”

“Without hesitation.” The reply was instant and without inflection or emotion.

“Would it be quick?” The Journalist trembled, wrong decision but too late to back down.

“I must formally challenge you to withdraw the accusation, prove it or defend it. If you withdrew it you would lose all honour in the eyes of the crew and you would become invisible to them, the rest would be up to you.”

“Suicide?” she gulped.

“That would be a course of action, yes. I would suggest putting on a weapon, removing the locator badge you were given and taking a walk. The sentinels would fry you within fifty paces. You can borrow mine.” she added helpfully, holding out her hand which contained a small device. It was jet black, not much bigger than her hand, delicately shaped with a short stubby barrel. It had no apparent moving parts but its deadly purpose was obvious.

“You are enjoying this, aren’t you?” The Journalist challenged, her voice trembling and belying her uncharacteristic bravado.

“Yes.” Cat admitted candidly. “If you could prove it then my life would be forfeit to you. If you cannot prove it but still stand by the accusation, then you must choose to defend it. You would be dead before you saw me move.” she raised her right hand and, to emphasise the point, razor sharp claws extended about three centimetres from the end of her slender fingers.

All colour drained from The Journalist’s face; fear gripped her insides and twisted them in knots and she felt as if her knees were about to give way. She was on the edge now and it was too late to turn back. “Would that satisfy your grief at the loss of your friend?” she asked, desperately holding back the tears which made her voice quaver.

“No, that will always remain, but her honour would be satisfied.”

Tears rolled down The Journalist’s cheeks as she looked straight into Cat’s featureless visor. She was near to hysteria with fear. “Then do it,” she sobbed, “but please believe me when I say that I had no intention of putting any of you in that situation. I had no idea what was being planned. Star was the most beautiful and loyal person I have ever met but I had no idea she would sacrifice herself in such a way. I am so sorry.” she paused and drew in a very deep breath, possibly her last. “Cat, I am not responsible for Star’s death which makes you mmmmmph!” In a move faster than lightning Cat had placed a small, delicate hand firmly over The Journalist’s mouth and pushed her roughly against a wall. They stood for a long moment, their faces millimetres apart, The Journalist’s eyes, wide with fear, reflected back at her in a distorted image.

“Never,” Cat hissed, “speak of this again.” and kissed her on the cheek. She removed her hand and sat down in a relaxed posture on the sofa. “I suggest you get ready. Would you like some breakfast? I believe that is the customary first meal of the day in your culture.” she finished lightly. The Journalist’s mind reeled and ricocheted around her head. She staggered into the shower cubicle, vomited heavily into what she assumed to be a toilet bowl, and collapsed on the floor sobbing.

This is getting you nowhere
. The thought pricked the back of The Journalist’s mind some minutes later through the emotional chaos. You have just faced down the single most dangerous person you have ever met in your miserable life, and won. Did you win, or did you just survive? If you won, what was the prize? She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. Her mind played back the scene again and again, trying to piece together what had happened. An image of herself lying on the floor with Cat standing over her body with those claws dripping red blood came unbidden to her mind. She managed to reach the toilet bowl just in time and retched heavily again. Yes, she had won, and the prize, it seemed, was to have gained the trust of a potentially dangerous enemy. The crisis was over, now what? A shower, yes, a shower would be good. At least she would have a few minutes to think. Once again she had proved herself ill equipped for this life, but she had survived one major crisis, a number of small crises and her first shipboard party. She had survived each situation and learned valuable lessons, but if this much can happen in the short time she had been aboard, what lay ahead for her?

She rose to her feet and investigated the bathroom, the mental turmoil had abated somewhat but recent events still troubled her. It was a simple cubicle with no plumbing or furniture. The facilities, as with all other furniture, moulded from the same material as the floor. The toilet bowl still bore witness to her recent distress, but there was no apparent means of erasing the evidence. As she contemplated this simple problem, the bowl melted into the floor. There was a pause of a few seconds and it oozed out again, completely clean and ready for use.

She disrobed. Having nowhere to hang her clothes, she dumped them unceremoniously on the bathroom floor. There were no controls in the shower cubicle but she had noticed that the ship seemed to anticipate her needs, so she stood expectantly. There was no water but she felt an agreeable tingle all over her body, light danced around her and she felt herself suspended by an unseen force. After no more than thirty seconds the feeling subsided and she felt totally refreshed - and even a little aroused - her hair felt perfectly conditioned and there was not a hint of odour.

She left the shower cubicle and noticed that her clothes had disappeared, but hanging from the wall was a yellow jumpsuit with matching shin length boots. The jumpsuit had a diagonal opening from the neck at the right shoulder to the left waist and was at least three sizes too big and over a metre too long, the boots were similarly oversized. This was obviously some sort of practical joke or initiation ceremony, she thought to herself.
Ok, I’ll play along.
She climbed in. At the bottom of the opening she found a small hard bubble in the material. Pulling this bubble up closed the opening until it reached the shoulder, then across the shoulder where it matched exactly with the beading around the
neck. The suit suddenly shrank, not skin tight but enough to hold her body shape. The boots reacted in a similar fashion. She admired herself in the mirror. Ok, so yellow was not her colour, but not so bad all the same.

Just then a smell caught her nostrils, familiar, tantalising, no she must be dreaming! Eggs and bacon? She ran to the living area where Cat was sitting nonchalantly at a table which had since appeared, replacing the sofa and chairs. On the table sat a full breakfast spread of eggs, bacon, tomato and fried bread. A steaming pot of tea sat in the middle, the unmistakable aroma of Earl Grey, toast, jam and a jug of fresh orange juice. The smell was divine.

“Please sit,” Cat indicated a spare chair, “I hope this is correct as I did not have much time to research the ritual.” Cat was grinning broadly in palpable pleasure at The Journalist’s reaction.

“It’s perfect. Thank you.” Suddenly realising that she had not eaten anything for over two days, she tucked in with abandon. Cat watched. “Please eat with me.”

“No thank you. My dietary requirements are different to yours.” The Journalist nodded, remembering the first time she had met the odd trio in her apartment. Tea and biscuits. Her attention came back to the present. This was not the same person who only a few minutes ago had offered to shred her body with just as much pleasure.

Pushing the empty plate away, she nursed a cup of tea. She needed some answers, and her recent victory and a full stomach gave her courage.

“Would you really have used those on me?” she indicated Cat’s hands, the claws retracted now and almost invisible. She had noticed before that Cat’s fingers had no nails like a human hand, but she had not questioned the difference at the time. Cat contemplated her hands; the claws slid out then back again making The Journalist shiver involuntarily.

“No,” said Cat, “they are a relic from my ancestry. It is considered barbaric to use them as weapons and it is normally considered vulgar to display them in public, please accept my apology.”

The Journalist nodded. “I suppose they are the reason he calls you Cat.”

Cat cocked her head to one side and contemplated her hands. “He has problems pronouncing names in other tongues.” she shrugged. “Mine is more difficult than most and I was a different person then. A different life.” she finished after a contemplative pause and a small smile.

“I get the impression that our recent argument was orchestrated and I was manoeuvred into it.” she was not angry but the thought had crossed her mind in the shower. No matter what her journalistic training taught her about finding the truth, self-preservation should have stopped her offering herself up as a sacrifice.

“Yes, again I must apologise to you. I used a technique on you to stimulate your actions and to act on your thoughts and fears that you would have normally suppressed.”

“Why?”

“Your motives are unclear and I needed to know.” the alien replied.

“That’s the second time someone has said that to me since I came on this ship. Could you not have just asked me?”

“No, our recent dealings with you Earthers have shown me that you never say what you think. I had to make sure you said what you really thought.”

“Did you really believe me to be responsible for Star’s death?”

“Yes.” Cat replied simply.

“Do you still believe so?” The Journalist nibbled a piece of toast to hide her fear.