Tag Archives: short story

Podcast – Scarlet’s Web – Episode Twenty Two

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Scarlet’s Web is the fourth chapter in the life of Scarlet Rose Parker, Tumblr veteran, lover of pizza and Harry Potter-obsessed teenage magician.

In episode twenty one of Scarlet’s Web, Scarlet met a ghost. He offered to help her escape, but in a shocking, surprising twist, lied to her. She brought him back to life and in return he freed her from the room and set off to kill the heads of the Council…

Written, read and produced by Michael Cairns.

The next episode will be available to download next week. Happy listening.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download

The Last Man on Mars – Guest Post from Saffron Bryant

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I have the pleasure today of welcoming the wonderful Saffron Bryant to Cairns Writes. She’s adding to the trove of stories here with a sobering tale of loneliness and disease. Cheery Stuff 🙂

Keep reading afterwards for the blurb and details on her fantastic new release, Survivor.

Survivorsml

The Last Man on Mars

Randor stood, his entire body rigid, one hand raised in salute. He saluted for half an hour, just as he had done every morning for his entire life. He stood on the observation deck. The starlit sky spread out before him. The cold emptiness of space greeted him. He stared out past the thick glass, past the metal tunnels, past the red dusty planet and into the great beyond.

The mechanical alarm sounded once and he allowed his hand to lower back to his side. He stepped away from the observation deck and walked through the narrow metal corridors.

There were so many of them, it was like a rabbit warren spreading out in all directions. Of course the designers had expected the tunnels to be filled with people. The plan was for a brand new human colony. How that dream had died.

In his free time Randor had gone back over the news headlines and the reports from half a century before. There had been a lot of hope in those reports, a lot of dreams.

MARS COLONY PLANTS FIRST SEEDS

BOLD EXPLORERS SET FOOT ON MARS

FIRST MARTIAN BORN, ONE YEAR AFTER COLONISATION

Even fifteen years ago the outlook had been bright. Communications with Earth came in every day, albeit delayed by a few minutes depending on the time of year. But that was before.

Randor jogged down the corridor and ducked into the main communications room. Seven chairs sat empty alongside the equipment. They spun in circles as Randor walked past. He sat down on the only chair not covered in a thin layer of dust.

He held down the red communicate button and spoke into the microphone. “This is Randor of Mars Colony One, calling Earth Force Major.”

He waited for a few moments. Static beat at his ears.

“Repeat, this is Randor of Mars Colony One. Earth Force Major do you read?”

He fiddled with the dials and held down the speech button again.

“This is Randor of Mars Colony One, calling Moon Colony Alpha, do you read?”

Randor repeated the ritual five times, just as the protocol dictated. He had gone through the same routine every morning for the last seven years and in that whole time he hadn’t gotten a single response.

Next on his schedule was breakfast. He walked into the mess hall. Rows and rows of empty tables and chairs soldiered across the room. Each setting was an exact replica of the one before. The only thing which distinguished them now was the layers of dust.

Randor walked across the room and pushed his way into the kitchen through the swinging doors. A faded sign read ‘authorised personnel only’, but hey, who was going to stop him? He went straight to the frozen rations. He took the time to look over his options. There wasn’t really any point, he knew the stock by heart, but it was part of the ritual.

“Bacon,” Randor said. He often spoke out loud to himself. It helped remind him he was alive and not some lonely ghost. He grabbed hold of the packet and threw it into the auto-cooker. The machine whirred into life and internal lights flashed on.

Bing.

Randor reached in and took out the well-cooked bacon. He carried it with his cutlery into the mess hall and sat down at his favourite chair, the only one not covered in dust. It was in the corner of the hall, backed against the wall with a full view of the rest of the room. He only ever felt safe if his back was covered.

He breathed deeply and the smell of the meat wafted up his nostrils. He smiled at the sensation. He took out his knife and fork and went to work.

“It is recommended that vegetable matter is added to your diet,” the mechanical voice piped up from Randor’s wrist. The monitor kept track of his health, eating habits and exercise. It hadn’t saved any of the others.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going to the garden after this,” Randor said.

He scoffed down the rest of the bacon and took his plate into the kitchen. He flicked on the water and washed the single plate before laying it on a rack to dry, alone.

Randor walked out of the mess hall and down another set of corridors which eventually opened into a garden. Glass panels faced the sky allowing the sun to light up the plants. They were descended from the original stock taken from Earth fifty years before when the colony was first begun. Carrots, potatoes, lettuce, all grew in the Martian garden. Of course they’d been modified, allowing them to thrive with less sunlight and drier soils.

“Water on,” Randor said as he walked down the aisles of garden beds. In response the irrigation system jumped to life and water trickled onto the plants. His eyes ran over each section, ensuring each tiny pump was still working. He leaned over and plucked a carrot from the ground. He chewed on it as he walked the rest of the garden.

Everything was in order, which meant it was time for his daily exercise. He went to the gym and jogged around the running track. His legs felt good as they pumped in time and carried him around the large trail. It circled most of the colony and had open windows looking out on the planet.

Randor sucked in a deep breath and enjoyed the burn in his lungs and muscles as he pushed his body to go faster and faster. Without the pain it was too easy to think while exercising. Too easy to reminisce and remember days gone by. Much better to push to the very extremes and keep his brain occupied.

Randor’s feet pounded on the track. Sweat dribbled down his face and the blood pumped through his veins. The outside planet blurred past as he ran. His human muscles, adapted over millennia for Earth, carried him at extreme speed in the lower gravity. People said (when there were people to speculate on such things), that a person returning to Earth from Mars would be bedridden with the sudden fatigue of higher gravity.

He sprinted around the track for an hour, the exact recommended daily dose of high intensity exercise. Once finished he headed to the showers. The warm water trickled down his face and back. It splashed over his muscles and washed the sweat away.

He felt good after the shower, invigorated. According to the colony’s schedule he had free time. He hated free-time. What was a man supposed to do for fun when he was trapped all alone? The only living thing on the planet? Possibly in the galaxy? His face tightened as he pictured the next two hours. They were completely empty; no way to distract himself from the loneliness. He would rather chew on rusted nails than face the haunting solitude that was free-time.

Still, ritual dictated that he follow the routine and the routine said it was free-time. Randor walked through the hollow colony until he came to the common room. There were chairs and couches set up around tables. There were games and shelves of books. He walked over to the bookshelves and scanned the titles. They were the same as yesterday.

“Read it, read it, read it,” he said as he moved his finger along the spines.

He gave up and walked over to the games cupboard. There were chess boards and decks of cards, Monopoly- Mars Edition and all manner of other games. The computers had games on them too but he’d already beaten them all… twice.

He could have listened to music but he hated the way it sounded like other people, other voices. It reminded him of an old riddle; if music plays in a Mars Colony and no one’s there to hear it, does it make a sound?…

He pulled out a deck of cards and took a seat by the window. He gazed out of the glass at the red surface of the planet as he shuffled.

Randor dealt two piles of five cards, placing the second pile in front of the empty seat opposite him.

“How was your run today Eiran?” Randor said as he picked up his cards and looked them over. His voice echoed around the empty room.

“Mine was good too,” Randor said.

There was silence for a while as Randor considered his cards and then laid a queen of diamonds face-up on the table. He waited for a few moments, staring at the empty seat opposite him.

“It’s your turn Eiran, I wish you wouldn’t get so distracted.”

Randor got up and walked around the table. He sat in the empty seat and picked up the second hand of cards. He studied them for a while.

“I’m not distracted, I’m thinking,” he said. “Besides, you’re one to talk; I saw Hera staring at you earlier.”

Randor placed a seven of spades on the table, laid the cards down and returned to his original seat. He picked up his hand and his eyebrows drew together.

“There’s nothing going on between me and Hera. I don’t know why you always think there is.”

Randor ran his hand over the cards before finally laying down a ten of clubs. He sat back in his chair and glared at the empty space in front of him. The corners of his mouth turned down in a frown. His foot rapped on the floor and his finger tapped on the arm of his chair. It felt like hours.

“Goddamit Eiran, it’s your turn!” he said and shot to his feet. He threw his hand of cards at the empty chair and stormed away.

Randor was still fuming as he exited the common room and headed for his sleeping pod. His ears and cheeks were burning with the heat and anger flowing through them. Eiran could be so frustrating! The way he never had his turn, the way he always talked about Hera… the way he was imaginary.

He slumped down onto his bed. Another hour of free-time and then it was dinner. According to the roster he was on star-watch tonight. He let his eyes drop shut and drifted to sleep.

 

***

 

When Randor woke and had dinner he went to the observation deck and sat on the hard floor. He gazed out at the stars. They were so cold. They taunted him from the safety of the sky.

He hated sitting here by himself, it made it too easy to think, to remember, but it was part of the routine.

Everything had gone wrong seven years ago.

He’d been down in the deep, patrolling the under-colonies. At the end of the shift he’d gone up into the colony proper and he’d found nothing. No one walked the corridors; no-one was in the mess hall or common room. There were no voices, no communicators. He’d run from room to room calling out but no one replied. The only sign of habitation were piles of clothes scattered through the rooms and hallways.

Initially he’d thought it was a practical joke, at least for the first hour. After the first day he was pretty sure it wasn’t a joke but he held some hope. After the first week he was curled into a corner of the mess-hall. He chewed his fingernails down until they bled. Tattered pieces of skin hung from the ends of his fingers. He’d taken to pulling out his hair, one strand at a time.

Then he’d found the routine.

The routine was pinned to every wall, handed out to every citizen; it was what had kept the Mars Colony running through famine and despair. It helped him survive. He clung to the strict, logical instructions like a lifeline.

Two weeks after finding the colony abandoned Randor tried to communicate with Earth and with the Moon Colony. All he received was silence. Neither of them responded. It was like the entire galaxy had gone away and left him behind.

He’d tried to access the video feed, to watch what happened, but it required a security password. He’d spent days typing combinations into the terminal screen. So far he hadn’t found the right one.

So here he was, seven years later, following the same routine and staring up into the same empty sky.

***

 

The next morning Randor stood to attention on the observation deck for thirty minutes with his hand raised in a salute. The time used to be spent on daily updates, the Human Anthem, a message from the President. Now all that was left was Randor with his lonely gesture.

Afterwards he went to the communications room, brushing past the empty chairs.

“This is Randor of Mars Colony One, calling Earth Force Major,” Randor said, his finger pressed firmly on the communicate button. He paused and listened for a response. Static met his ears. He opened his mouth to repeat the call when a crackling voice replied.

“Mars Colony One this is Earth Force Major. Urgent code red, Halucin Acute Virus outbreak. Millions dead. Isolation methods failed. Infected persons frozen en route. Do not o-” the airway went dead.

Randor’s heart was beating a hundred times a second. His ribs vibrated with the force of it and he felt his chest rising up to his throat. His face and neck were hot and blood surged around his body. He sucked in lungfuls of air but he couldn’t get enough.

“Earth Force Major! Earth Force Major! Do you receive?” Randor spoke furiously, his finger pushing so hard on the button it threatened to sink straight through the metal desk.

“Mars Colony One this is Earth Force Major. Urgent code red, Halucin Acute Virus outbreak. Millions dead. Isolation methods failed. Infected persons frozen en route. Do not o-”

“Computer, make contact with that speaker. I want him to hear me now!” Randor said and looked up at the main console which ran the colony.

“Error, communication impossible. Temporal impairment.”

“What does that mean?” Randor said, he gripped the arm of his chair; his knuckles were white.

“Message dated seven years ago, temporally impossible to regain contact,” the computer’s voice replied.

“Seven years,” Randor whispered.

This was it; this was what had happened all those years ago.

For seven years he had been left in complete silence without a single explanation. Until today.

“… Millions dead. Isolation meth-”

“Silence it unless another message plays,” Randor said.

The panicked voice cut off and Randor was plunged back into silence.

The Halucin Acute Virus. But that was just a lab experiment… All the nations and the independent colonies had sworn never to use it.

Someone had used it.

Randor wracked his brain, trying to remember everything he could about the virus. His mind was completely blank.

“Computer, give me a summary on the Halucin Acute Virus.”

“The Halucin Acute Virus or HAV is a synthetic disease designed to destroy human life. It was designed in 2035, the new alternative to nuclear war, but was banned by the United Nations and the United Colonies. The virus travels from host to host through the air and dies within minutes without a living host. Victims are vaporized due to extreme replication of the virus.”

Randor held his head in his hands. It was all so clear now. The Halucin Acute Virus was released. It spread through Earth and got into the frozen humans being sent to Mars. The cryo-chambers would have slowed the viral replication until they were defrosted and then BANG. The entire colony is wiped out in less than five minutes; leaving nothing behind but piles of dirty clothes.

The cargo ship arrived while he was down in the deeper tunnels. It was carrying the infected cryo-stasis bodies. A-tissue, A-tissue we all fall down.

Randor slid from his chair to the floor. He stared at the air in front of his face. His mouth hung open and a trail of saliva slid out of the corner and ran down his chin.

If the virus already wiped out Earth then it would have taken the Moon Colony. That meant one thing; he was the last human. His neck tingled. The sensation spread down his spine. The silence of the Colony grew louder until it was pressing in on him like a physical force.

He imagined the sheer infinitely of space. He pictured himself as the only human left amongst all the emptiness. He couldn’t breathe. His throat closed and he heaved to get air. He coughed and hacked, the force of it sending speckles of blood out onto the floor.

He fell into heaving sobs. His tears joined the blood. He would be alone for the rest of his life. He would never find love, he would never have friendship. He would never have a family of his own and when he died the entire of human history would die with him.

“No, no, no,” Randor whispered. He stared at the legs of his chair. His eyes glazed over and another line of spittle slid out of the corner of his mouth and dropped to the floor.

He collapsed to the ground. His cheek landed in a pool of blood, spit, and tears. He lay still, catatonic. It could have been for a minute, it could have been an hour, it could have been a day; time didn’t matter anymore.

By the time he swam back to consciousness his limbs and back were stiff and the cold had seeped through into his bones. His eyes stung with the tears he’d been shedding and his empty stomach growled.

He pushed himself to his feet and looked around the communications room. For the first time he saw the dirt and dust collected on the machinery. He saw the broken light which flickered in one corner of the room. He noticed the captain’s chair which had been empty for so long that the leather was peeling away.

Randor stumbled away from the empty room. He couldn’t think straight. He clung desperately to a single idea. He had to get away. There was nothing left for him here. He had to move, had to leave.

He went to the loading bay.

It was a massive room which extended out in all directions with a high ceiling. There were several ships pulled up in the bays, each a different size. Closest to the main door was a ship he hadn’t seen before. It was dark grey with the Earth Fleet symbol stamped onto the back. The door to the ship was still open, a gaping dark hole which beckoned to him.

Randor turned away from the ship and walked down the rest of the bays. He counted the ships as he went along. Four in total. Four ships abandoned in the Mars Colony Hangar.

“Four,” Randor whispered and his eyebrows drew together. “There should have been five.”

He wrapped his consciousness around the idea. He forced himself to focus on it; it was the only string still holding him to his sanity. He strode over to the nearest computer terminal and searched the hanger log. The entry door marked each ship as they came and went.

“Five,” Randor said, his eyes scanning down the list of names and times. “Come on, five.”

The second last entry was The Herald, which was the Earth ship, the one carrying the infected bodies. But then there was another. A ship left the hangar after The Herald arrived, five minutes after.

“The Beacon,” Randor said.

The Beacon had left the hanger after The Herald arrived. What if they were safe inside their ship at the time and they saw the disease spreading? What if they got out in time?

“They could still be alive,” Randor whispered.

His fingers feverishly tapped against the screen to find the calling code of the ship. He sent the call and leant against the wall. His heart was beating furiously and his head ached with hope.

“Please. Please be alive,” he whispered.

“Please!” He clenched his fists at his sides and desperate tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes.

We all fall down.

 END

 

If you enjoyed The Last Man on Mars then you’ll love Survivor:

When everyone runs, who will stand?

Nova is a new recruit to the Jagged Maw: an elite bounty hunter guild.

During a routine collection, she finds herself dragged into the middle of an alien uprising.

The Ancients, merciless beings set on reclaiming the universe, have only one person left to stop them: Nova.

She must battle the Ancients, time, and her sanity, in order to stop the annihilation of the human race.

Fear the hero who has nothing left to lose.

 

Limited time, special offer price of $0.99 at http://www.amazon.com

 

SaffronPic

 

Saffron is an author, artist, and scientist who loves all things science and science-fiction. She especially enjoys writing thought-provoking stories that stay with people long after they’ve finished reading. You can learn more about Saffron at www.saffronbryant.com.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Survivorsml

The Climb

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I’m not sure what to call this story. It doesn’t really fit into any of my normal genres, but I quite like it. I hope you enjoy it and have a fabulous Christmas 🙂

 

There is a place, high in the mountains, where the women don’t go. The men claim no woman has been there for a millennia. They boast of their place to anyone who will listen. They speak of it in hushed, prideful tones, ignoring, as men are wont to do, the lack of dust filling the corners and the fresh, cool water that awaits them when they finish the climb.

But the women of the tribe are clever as well as industrious, so Histat remains a man’s place.

The mountains in which the tribe lives are vast places, of angry grey rock and trees that grow tall and majestic. On their slopes, the mountains are dark, the sun kept at bay by the forest. But climb above the tree line, and you find the rock.

The rock sprouts like another plant, stabbing fiercely skywards and challenging all but the most brave of the tribe. More sons than the women like to remember have fallen from those awkward slopes to their death. Edges sharp as razors await the unknowing hands and crumbling shelves invite climbers only to toss them to their doom.

The mountains are not friendly places. But the tribe has lived here since the moon was young and it knows no other place. And Histat is here also.

On this morning, the sun is bright enough to pierce the canopy and wake the paddock of goats. Their bleating drags Terril from his bed and he stumbles out into the cold air. He scoops his stick up from beside his parents’ front door and smacks it against the edge of the paddock. The goats quieten and cast their weary, grumpy eyes his way.

It is a look to which he is well used and so ignores it, marching past them to the edge of the village. It is a short walk. A path winds away, heading up the mountain and, as he has done every morning for the past six months, he peers up it and tries to still the twisting in his gut.

Today, it is worse that usual. But today, at least and at last, the waiting will be over. He thinks of going now, before the rest of the village is gathered to watch, but without the blessing of the headman, his journey would be wasted. So he returns to his goats, gives them water from the gourds hanging high in the trees, then kindles the fire pit.

The village creeps into life as the sun warms the earth. Down here beneath the canopy, the people feel little of it. The shade is constant and the smell of damp and mulch clings to the air. Terril’s mother emerges, ruffles his hair and strolls away towards the women’s place. He wonders, as he has often done, why the women’s place is only a few short steps from the village and not at all dangerous to get to.

His mother is the strongest person he knows, yet she has only to travel to the end of a short path and she arrives. He has seen the women’s place. It is almost as much a rite of passage as what he will do today. It isn’t much, not at all what he has been told of Histat, but the canopy is missing there and his mother will even now be stepping into sunlight and letting it bathe her skin.

There are some in the tribe who climb to Histat on days like these. The warriors of the tribe, for whom the climb means nothing and who know the secret ways up the mountain, go there and lie in the sunshine until their skin warms like an oven and the cool of the shade is stripped from them.

Soon, he will be able to do that too.

One by one, the men of the village emerge from their houses and gather around the God’s tree. They haven’t begun chanting yet, but they will soon. It will take Terril all day, on his first trip, and the sooner he begins, the sooner he is a man.

He scampers back into his house and eats breakfast as quickly as he can. The aching in his stomach makes every mouthful a chore, but he will need strength. He feasts on seeds and berries and the remains of the previous night’s bird, until he knows if he takes another morsel he will be sick.

The chanting begins. Terril looks longingly at his loin cloth, wishing he could feel the familiar security around his waist. Everyone will be out to watch him climb. Aliya will be out to watch him climb and his manhood will be on display. It hangs between his legs for all to see and his face begins to warm, sun or no. It looks pathetic and small.

When he returns to the village, he will be a man and no longer pathetic. He will claim her then. But right now, he is a boy and he doesn’t want to leave the tent naked. He has seen others come out with their cloths on and every time, the elder rips it from them and the village laughs as they try to cover themselves.

So Terril takes a deep breath and marches from the tent wearing only what his mother gave him when he came into the world. That and the stains of berries on his fingers and lips. He notes the nods as he strides to the God’s tree. With a simple gesture, he has won his first respect. Aliya is there and her cheeks colour as she sees him, but she doesn’t look away and when he meets her eyes, she smiles.

He is looking forward to the claiming.

The elder speaks, daubing his forehead in ashes from mother’s fire pit. He has heard the ritual more times than he can remember, but now every word strikes him as a spear, plunged into his flesh. Every word prepares him for what lies ahead, even though he knows every day spent scrambling up the mountain has been preparation, even though there is no real way to be ready for today.

In what feels a far shorter time that usual, the elder puts a hand into the small of his back and pushes him from the circle. Terril glances back at his mother and father and sees only pride in their eyes. He has been a good son and a useful part of the tribe. When he returns this night, his parents will have completed their duty and become part of the elder circle. His pride will mingle with theirs when he sees that.

He strides from the clearing to the beginning of the path and pauses. He will not look back, but he wants to. He wants to see the faces that are his world one last time. He sniffs and walks from the clearing.

 

The path sidles back and forth, moving ever upwards, but taking its sweet time about it. Terril is satisfied. So far, the climb is far easier than he has been led to expect. Indeed, it is no climb at all, but rather a stroll like he might take any day with his goats.

The path steepens and his skin is covered in a light layer of sweat. The sweat draws flies. This is no different from any other day, and his hand settles into its easy pattern of swatting and flicking, over and over. Terril begins to recognise the tiny creatures that assail him, giving them names as they take off and land, take off and land.

The paths steepens further still and he is no longer with his goats. By now they would be bleating a harsh complaint and turning away. But he goes on.

The sun is higher. Not yet above him, but moving closer. Even in the shade, the temperature is rising. His palms are slick with sweat.

The path steepens and he finds it easier to use his hands as well, hauling himself up, digging into the dirt. His toes stick in and his nails are ingrained with the dark soil that forms this part of the mountain. Now he is climbing. Now he is truly on the man’s trail and he can feel it, like a sickness climbing up from his stomach.

There is no turning back. Some have. Some boys reappear in the village by midmorning, shaking their bowed heads and trying to hide the tears streaming down them. Their parents do little to hide their own tears as their son is clothed and driven from the village.

There are other villages further down the mountain. The valley is filled with weak people and it is to those the banished will go. Some find succour, others their end on the tips of spears. Their names are remembered, but as people who were once of the tribe. They are not mourned, except, perhaps, by their parents, who will never join the elder circle.

Something catches Terril’s hand and he is pulled back to the present. He stares at what he knew he was going to meet, yet is still shocked by. Before him lies rock. It emerges from the soil like it’s trying to escape. And it climbs skywards like the trees that now lie behind him.

The shadow still falls here, but as Terril stares up at the face, he sees the sun and knows he will soon be in it. From here, to his left and his right and before him, he can see only solid rock, like the wall of the Elder’s hut.

Terril has asked questions. He has pried and prodded and queried and listened, but none speak of the secret ways. Those ways are known only to those who have climbed to Histat. And so he will climb.

He runs a hand over an outcrop of rock and feels the spikes and sharp edges. He is prepared for this, also. Six months ago, he left his shoes in his house and hasn’t worn them since. The soles of his feet are leather, worn hard by the roots of the great trees. But they twitch and curl up now as he feels the rock.

Rock cuts leather.

He finds his first handhold and pulls himself up. His feet follow suit and as they leave the soil, he gasps. He is climbing. He is climbing for Histat.

Slowly but surely, Terril moves up the face. It is sheer, but the rock offers more handholds than he could possibly need and the ascent is simple. He moves from the shade into the sun and with the glorious warmth, his childhood begins to slough away.

He quickens his pace, energy racing through him at the thought of what lies ahead. They told him the climb was difficult. They told him it would be the hardest thing he had ever done, but it isn’t. He wonders, for a moment, whether they were lying. Is it all a deception to convince the women of their worthiness?

A grin splits his face in half and he climbs even faster. His hand reaches up, but there is no rock. He has reached the top. He hauls himself up to the plateau and over the edge. And stops.

Before him lies a shelf of rock, a hundred metres deep and covered in razor sharp rocks. And beyond it lies another rock face, climbing skywards so far it blocks out the blue. He has not reached the top.

He sucks in the warm air and wipes sweat from his forehead. It is a meaningless gesture, for as soon as it is gone, more appears.

His foot splits moments later. He rests it too hard on one of the rocks before him and it cuts through the skin. He hisses and sits, but the rock is just as unforgiving to his naked buttocks and warm blood trickles down the backs of his legs. When he stands, he feels the light touch of the flies as they gather around his arse and his feet, sucking greedily at his blood.

He takes a breath, closing his eyes and shutting out the yellow sun and the blue sky and the grey rock. But the red blood refuses to go and his breath quickens. This is nothing. He has sustained wounds like this many times over.

He opens his eyes and takes his next step. He finds a gap in the rock and rests on his good foot, giving the wound a chance to relax. But the face is getting no closer. He could spend a day crossing the razor field, but night would throw him from the face as surely as if he threw himself. And he must be home before nightfall, if he is to become a man.

So Terril marches across the razors like they are the soil on which he has spent his childhood. His skin splits again and again and behind him he leaves a trail of crimson footprints. The pain subsides soon enough, though he thinks it might be numbness rather than strength on his part. His feet feel huge and cumbersome, like the wooden mallets they use in the village to drive stakes into the ground.

He is almost at the face when his left leg gives up and he stumbles and falls. His knee strikes the rock and the skin comes apart like the skin of an orange thrown to the floor. He shouts, finally giving voice to his pain as the flies find a new place to settle. He watches absently as the bloody mess of his knee turns black with buzzing insects. He swats at them and they scatter, only to return moments later.

He is sitting, and though putting weight on his arse makes tears spring up in his eyes, he takes a moment to inspect his feet. His leather skin looks like a tomato that has been left too long to ripen, ripped open in strips. The blood has tried to scab, but his movement keeps the wounds open.

He can’t feel much beneath his knees, and he knows that to climb again he will need to. But he has no choice. The sun is high above and beats down on him like an angry mother. But when it is gone, the cold will use scorn and shame instead, and he would always rather the beatings.

Terril stands and approaches the face, looking for his first hand holds. But there are none. This cliff is as flat and featureless as the last was rugged. As his eyes acclimatise, he finds tiny ledges, no wider than his fingers, and it is to these that he goes.

The first lift is the hardest. He sets his toes on a ledge low down and pushes up and every wound splits apart. He screams and finds no shame in it. Inch by inch, he lifts himself off the floor until he is holding himself up with arms and legs. He raises a hand to the next ledge and pushes again. This one is easier, if only by the tiniest margin. He looks down and realises he could have jumped this far from the floor.

A sob escapes him, so he puts his hand up and pulls once again.

The ground slides away beneath him, but it is like watching the sun move in the sky. It happens, but the movement is so slow and so torturous, that at times he doesn’t believe it is happening. But he has seen something that gives him hope.

Terril has found blood, caked into the ledges. The others came this way. Perhaps, mingled in the dusty red mixture, is his father’s blood, from his ascent twenty years ago. It is this thought that sustains him.

He speeds up. He can do this. The pain is now a dull ache that has reached his thighs. Of his toes, he knows nothing, but somehow they cling to the rock and propel him upwards when he asks them to. The sweat runs in tiny streams, down the small of his back and pooling in the holes made where his arms meet his shoulder blades.

He longs for the shade. He longs for his bed. He longs for Aliya’s eyes, gazing into his as they promise one another all the things they will do once he returns from Histat.

His foot slips and in that moment, all the promises are tossed into the wind to fly away down the mountain. His body jerks as his weight slams through his wrists to his fingers.

He is going to fall.

The wind tugs at him, as greedy as the mountain for his blood. The razor rocks wait below, patient as ever. He didn’t see the blood on them, but then his eyes were trained upwards. Time stops.

He knows the blood is there. He isn’t the first who won’t return. The mothers break, some of them, and their husbands send them away to the lower villages. But the fathers are broken sometimes too.

He will not see his parents break.

He will not have to sit above, in heaven, with the failed warriors of his tribe, and watch them crumble. His fingers are iron, locked into the rock and his feet are once more finding holds. He pushes up and somehow, he is moving again.

One hold after another. The wind fades into the background. Aliya fades into the background. The world fades, until it is just Terril and the rock, in a battle that has existed since his people first climbed.

His hands are bleeding now. He didn’t notice when the skin first split, but the sweat is red and caught beneath his finger nails. He holds on with one and shakes the other. Tiny drops of himself flutter away and are caught by the wind. He is sharing himself with the mountain, but it will not take him.

One hold after another. The sun is turning his back to leather and the salt is drying on his shoulders, cracking anew with each foot he rises.

One hold after another.

His hand lands on air and the shock almost sends him tumbling down. Then it strikes flat rock and his fingers find a hold. He pulls and his belly slides across the edge of the rock face. Then he is lying flat, the sun welcoming him to the summit. He cannot let go.

The laughter builds inside him and peals out, snatched away by the wind. He does not miss it, it carries more than a hint of madness. He cannot let go, despite being flat on the ground. He will not fall if he lets go, but still his fingers cling to the rough stone.

He is at the top. He blinks and stares at his hand. One by one, his fingers release their hold. It is harder than the whole climb, but finally he takes his hand away and waits to fall.

Gradually, like an old man rising from his death bed to greet his final day, Terril stands. The wind buffets him, but he will not fall. He is a man now.

He stands atop a plateau, far larger than he’d have believed. To both sides lie rock, but straight ahead of him is a building. His first thought is to wonder how they got the materials up here to build it. His second is that there might be water in there.

He starts to run and his legs laugh at him and send him tumbling to the ground. He picks himself up, oblivious to the blood running down his knees, and stumbles into the building. It is small, made of the same yellow brick as his home, and within is one simple room.

In the centre of the room is a table and upon it is a jug and a wooden cup. Terril fills the cup and drinks deeply. The laughter that bubbles up is far saner and he lets it comes, bathing in it until his mind is washed clean. A cloth sits behind the jug and he uses it to wash his knees and then, with eyes slitted closed against the pain, his feet.

Eventually, he drops the blood-soaked cloth to the table, takes a final sip of water and steps from the building. The sun is well past the roof of the sky and looking to its bed. He nods. He has time. He is a man, now, but his village will not know, if he is not back before the sun sets. His father promised him an easier route down. Now he must find it.

There is dust up here that the wind, despite its best efforts, has failed to scour from the rock. His feet are soon caked in it and the blood is soaked up. By the time he finds the path down, they are barely bleeding at all.

 

I’m taking a few days off from the blog, but will return on January 1st with a video and my exciting plans for 2015. It’s going to be an amazing and busy year. Watch this space. 🙂

Podcast – Scarlet’s Web – Episode Eleven

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Scarlet’s Web is the fourth chapter in the life of Scarlet Rose Parker, Tumblr veteran, lover of pizza and Harry Potter-obsessed teenage magician.

In episode ten of Scarlet’s Web, Scarlet and Red found skinny Scarlet. They also found an annoying man who froze their limbs, chucked them in a van and sent them off to be tried. But when Martin who isn’t Martin appears, Red thinks the trial is already over…

Written, read and produced by Michael Cairns.

The next episode will be available to download next week. Happy listening.

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Five Minutes – A Sci-Fi short story part 2 of 2

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Jimmy stalked from his apartment, went down three floors in the lift and out into the Hov park. Rows and rows of Hovers were parked up, each with its own signature flash or embellishments. Jimmy’s was black. Entirely black. It matched his clothes and was easy to find in a line of Hovers, which was the point.

He pulled out, dropped into the low lane, and settled back. He’d ask nicely and if things didn’t go to plan, he’d introduce the gun. Five minutes was all he needed, surely Sutton would see that.

A few minutes later, he dropped out of the Loop and into the Undercity. The streets were slick with grease and he drove closer to Sutton’s place this time. The evening traffic was building above and he didn’t fancy finding out if the rumours of rain were true. There was a chance it would feel like real rain, but he doubted it. He wouldn’t know one way or the other, and it would feel like a betrayal of Grandpa even pretending.

He stomped until he found himself outside Sutton’s door and took a deep breath. It opened to his touch and he crept down the corridor. He didn’t know why he was sneaking, the two flashing red lights made it quite clear he was being watched the entire way, but it didn’t feel right being brazen.

He knocked on the door, realised he was holding his breath and let it out. He took another and held it long enough to decide Mr Sutton had left the office. He raised his fist to thump again and the door opened.

‘Jimmy.’ He’d never heard his name used as an insult. He sucked air in between his teeth and pulled a smile up from somewhere.

‘Mr Sutton, I know it’s late, but I was hoping we could talk.’

‘I thought I had made it quite clear what my conditions were for further conversation, Jimmy. Do you have the cash?’

‘Not as such, I—’

The door slammed closed. At least, it tried to, but somehow Jimmy’s boot was in the way. It bounced open and Jimmy followed it in. Mr Sutton glanced over his shoulder as he paced across the room and sighed. ‘Jimmy, this really isn’t the right way to be going about things.’

He made his way behind his desk and sat. Jimmy didn’t need to see his fingers to know he’d pressed the panic button. He located the hidden door moment’s before it burst open. He was already moving and the first guard was met with three stiffened fingers in the throat.

The man went down, flapping like the netted birds the street kids caught, and Jimmy put his boot on his face as he stepped over him. The second guard was only slightly more prepared and his gun was halfway out of his holster. Jimmy caught his arm, pulled it and the gun out, then snapped the wrist so the gun was pointing straight at the man’s gut.

‘Fire away, please.’

He was relieved when the man made the wise choice to drop his pistol. He pulled the arm back out, drawing a whimper of pain from his assailant, then spun him round and rammed him face first into the wall. He dropped beside his fellow and Jimmy finished it with a kick to the head.

He turned back to Sutton, cracked his knuckles and pressed his hands flat against the desk as he leaned over it. ‘Five minutes. That’s all.’

‘You know, you do your squad a great disservice.’

Jimmy clamped his teeth together as his breath hissed in and out of his nose. Arrogant, stupid son of a bitch. ‘You don’t know anything about my squad.’

‘I know you served. I know they won’t be proud of you.’

‘My men can’t be anything. They’re dead. Which is what happens to you if you speak about them again.’

Something in his tone drew what he thought was the first genuine response from the prick the other side of the desk. Mr Sutton rose, fanning his face with one hand, and indicated that Jimmy should follow him.

A narrow door behind his desk slid open and Jimmy paced behind him into the darkness that lay beyond. The tunnel was long and lit only by the occasional red light sunk into the wall. ‘What’s with the dingy lighting?’

‘The children don’t like it.’

‘Children?’

Mr Sutton stopped and Jimmy only just stopped himself from bumping into him. ‘What do you actually know about my machine, Jimmy?’

He hated the way he kept using his name. No one used your name that much, but this guy couldn’t get enough of it. ‘It allows me to see the future, whenever I choose, wherever I choose. Right?’

‘Almost right. But yes, that’s close enough. What do you know of how it works?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Well, you are aware no doubt that I operate slightly separately from the law. In part, that is because time travel has been banned and despite this not actually being time travel, it is close enough to cause concern in certain areas.’

‘Yeah, doesn’t bother me.’

‘Good. The other reason I remain underground is that power for my machine comes from Loopers.’

Jimmy sucked in a breath that suddenly tasted stale. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Yes, it gets most people that way. Loopers. The government uses them up and tosses them away.’

‘It doesn’t toss them away. It gives them retirement and believe me, I’ve seen the films. I wouldn’t mind retiring where they go.’

Mr Sutton barked a laugh that somehow managed to sound posh. ‘You believe them? You fought in the wars, how can you believe anything anymore?’

There was something in the way he said it that gave Jimmy pause. It almost sounded like Sutton had been there as well. Jimmy sniffed and decided to play along. ‘What do they do, then?’

‘Once they have extracted all their wonderful, mysterious power, they dump them in sink estates down here, in the Undercity. Trust me, I’ve visited them. They are as far removed from the retirement homes you’ve seen on the videos as you can imagine.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Believe what you want, Jimmy, I don’t particularly care.’ He carried on, gesturing to the walls around them. ‘Most Loopers leave the service with enough power to carry themselves along. Very occasionally one may be able to handle a Hoved. They can’t be used in the big Loops anymore, but they have power. Most just want something to do.’

‘So you use them?’

‘Of course. Why do you think it is so expensive, Jimmy? For every trip my machine makes, I have fifteen or twenty brain dead Loopers on my hands needing somewhere to live after I’ve burnt their sorry little brains out.’

Jimmy raised his clenched fist in the darkness, preparing to smash it down on Sutton’s head. But if he brained him, he wouldn’t get to see the future. The snooty bastard was relying on that and calling his bluff was almost motivation enough to do it. But he shoved his hand deep in his pocket and took a deep breath.

Mr Sutton nodded slightly, just the silhouette of his head visible. ‘So you see, I give them meaning, if only for a short while. And afterwards, they don’t know any better. They don’t know anything, really.’ He chuckled as he came to a halt before a door. His hand fit snugly on the pad and it swung open. In the light that came from within, Jimmy glanced back down the corridor.

Through the glass walls, he saw shapes. Kids, some barely out of nappies, crammed into beds. Loopers, every last one of them dumped by the government, used up and spat out. Was Sutton telling the truth? It was hard to know one from the other, these days.

He turned his eyes forward and followed Sutton in. His soul was curling up inside him, but it was already burnt and battered, so what difference would this make?

Inside stood the machine. It reminded him of the flight packs they’d used in the first war. This was smaller, but it still had the massive wings stretching to either side and what it lacked in rockets, it made up for in wires and blinking lights. It was made of metal struts, clamped together with black plasticam bands.

Sutton turned to him. ‘You do understand, you won’t get away with this?’

Coming from anyone else, it would have sounded like a cliche. From Sutton, it sounded like fact. ‘I may operate outside of the law, but I have plenty of support from people in power. If you go through with this pathetic action, you will owe me fifty credits and I will take them from your flesh.’

Jimmy thumbed his nose. ‘Yeah, well, maybe you will and maybe you won’t. What happens now?’

Sutton raised his eyebrows and gestured to the machine. ‘Please, get comfortable. I will need the date and place.’

Jimmy settled himself on the seat and stretched his arms out to either side. Straps emerged from the wings and wrapped around his arms, clamping him in place. He would have felt vulnerable, but his feet were still free and Sutton had retreated to a console on the other side of the room.

‘June 17th, 2213, Apartment 1274, Blue Sector.’

Sutton nodded, humming as he tapped in the information. ‘This may hurt a little. Most people come back with a slight headache, but nothing major. I also need you to read and agree to this small disclaimer.’

Jimmy looked at the pad in his hand and shook his head. ‘Give me the headlines.’

‘Very well. It says that any actions you may take following your trip are in no way the responsibility of myself or my machine and that any attempt to blame me for anything will result in you getting sued all the way to the Undercity.’

‘Yeah, fine, whatever. Just do it.’

Mr Sutton was smiling as he pressed the button. In the next instance, he was gone. His head felt like it was being put through a press, every hair being dragged out and his cheeks pressed so hard against his teeth they stung. Then the world slammed back into focus and he was staring at himself sat in his apartment. He was alone, watching some inane football game on the Screen.

He watched himself watching and waited. Nothing happened. His future self leant forward, shouted at the Screen for his team to sort it out, then slumped back again. More nothing happened.

Where was Malisa?

He realised with a sinking feeling that she could be anywhere. She could be out at work. She could be in the bedroom. She could be in the frigging kitchen. She could be anywhere.

‘SUTTON?’

There was no answer. The clock above the Screen read 10:04. Late for football, but it was June, they started late some nights. He watched, eyes flicking back and forth between his future self and the clock.

10:07

10:09

‘SUTTON!?’

It was more than five minutes. A movement to his right made him turn and stare. All he saw was his apartment, just a little more tatty than before. Another movement behind made him spin around. A shape, larger than he, vanished into the wall. The wall rippled and swam before his eyes. He took a deep breath and rubbed his temples.

On the Screen, the other team had just scored. His future self pulled himself out of the sofa, flicked the screen off and wandered towards the bedroom. Jimmy held his breath as the door opened. Malisa’s voice floated out. ‘You coming to bed now, sweetheart?’

Jimmy beamed as his future self replied in the affirmative and took his first step into the bedroom. Then he stopped, and for a brief moment, flickered, like a hologram when the battery stops working.

‘SUTTON? Come on, you bastard, take me back, I’ve seen enough.’

Silence. His future self flickered again and winked out of existence. He heard a gasp from the bedroom, but a movement behind made him spin. This time, the shape came with claws.

 

The next story, Protection Racket, will be here Thursday 18th December

 

Podcast – Scarlet’s Web – Episode Ten

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Scarlet’s Web is the fourth chapter in the life of Scarlet Rose Parker, Tumblr veteran, lover of pizza and Harry Potter-obsessed teenage magician.

In episode nine of Scarlet’s Web, Scarlet and Red left her dimension and traveled back to rescue Skinny Scarlet. They found a hanger filled with prisoners, but the men there were talking about a cull and Scarlet didn’t think they meant cows. Then one of them pulled a gun…

Written, read and produced by Michael Cairns.

The next episode will be available to download next week. Happy listening.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download