408. Thoughts Misc: I

ed note: this is the first chapter (hopefully of many) I'm calling "Thoughts Misc" or "The Laziness of a Writer." Take your pick. Below, in no order are recent misc thoughts I've had with regard to The Story. Some may or may not happen. Some have happened in my mind, but will never be written, and so, for me, live as part of The Story and as such, perhaps, should be known to the reader. Likewise, from a literary point of view, I want to do something different, to follow no written rule of writing, and explore a path The Story has not seen. Hope you enjoy this interlude. Peace to all in the New Year to come.

John thanks Kyra for taking Ariel to Cait

He wonders if her ability is not a "child of the shells" deformity

He asks if he can visit with Cait too--Kyra says no, but she can take him to see her, only he will not be able to communicate or interact with her like Ariel did nor will she know he has been by

Cait's last moments torment John, his brain seared in the abject, senseless ugliness

Minute 7:28+ (Led Zeppelin's Achilles Last Stand) is the soundtrack of John moving with Kyra between realms (alt version would start at appox the 6:19 mark)

John asks Kyra "How did you guys survive 'The Pills,' You should have been dead."

Difference between the idea of something and the doing of that thing--would we want to do everything we fantasize about?

The idea of being a parent versus the reality of being a parent--where does self-delusion begin?

Trev dock story: girlfriend slaps him in the face

Kyra washes John's head and changes his bandages

Bravo comes into sight--Em asks Pinky to find ink and brush and she paints from Joy--still blind

Kyra asks Taren about Dr X

Kyra flashbacks to first using her "gift" on Hyneria

As Bravo comes into view, there is the idea of home, a return, and each member of the crew reacts differently--good and bad

The issue of who are the good guys and who are the bad guys comes up (Kulmyk/Arc'teryx)

Kyra reflects on having killed "the good guys" in what has been called "The Kyra Incident"

The idea of atonement--does one act from an idea?

349. Memorial Mountains

Taren exhaled a thousand thoughts, each a separate path into the mountains of memory as clear as twilight, and began to write. His quarters on the pod were cramped, almost cocoon-like, and the light seemed more luteous than on the command ship, which, he couldn’t say, either aided his recollection or simply colored it in warm hues of distance seen. He preferred to write longhand, he claimed for aesthetic reasons although many suspected privacy. Digital data, no matter how encrypted, was an invitation for prying eyes. Pen on paper, on the other hand, was as secure as the fire that burned them.

“Ten minutes to dock.”

“Acknowledged,” he responded, with the enthusiasm of a ill-behaved child waiting on his father to come home, his ears as attuned to the ticking clock as the child's to the sound of tires.

His hand trembled with remembrance past. Kyra, whom he would soon see again, was a being, a force, unlike anything known, and Arc’teryxians knew more than most. He had seen her anger first hand, the blood of his friends spattered on her albugineous face like speckled eggs writ large. Why she did not kill him as she did the others he could not say. She could have. She almost did. But at the last second, for reasons still unknown, she showed him mercy. Or, so it was written. In his own heart, his life ever since, had been anything but, and he wondered if she had known that the greater torture was in survivorship than in the quiet peace of the next world.

Words didn’t flow on paper as much as pain bled from his neurons, synapses forever firing with the throb of fate’s door closing one entrance and opening another. His movements, since that day, lacked fluidity, spontaneousness, or joy as the case may have been. He was seen, justly or not, as a pariah. He had failed to break the Hynerian. He had failed to protect his men. And most distasteful of all, he had survived. No one could think of a proper punishment, until now.

“Five minutes to dock.”

“Yes, yes. I’m on my way.”

Perhaps this is it, he thought. Perhaps this is where I (he) find (found) my (his) peace, he (they) wrote. Looking at the words on paper, they looked like something someone else had written, as if he were no longer of this world and those that hated him the most found their hate had exhausted itself in wishes and now that the event had occurred, that Taren was no more, they had nothing left. And so, for their own devices, they showed him the false mercy in death that high ranking failures receive in the pulpit of state eulogies.

The doors opened with their familiar hiss, as if they couldn’t be bothered, and the ramp lowered slowly in step to the surreal sense of slow motion Taren felt, as one might have on the walk from cell to maker. Everything sounded distant. Light seems faded, muted. There was movement all around but it matters no more than the falling of leaves to the autumnal wind. Taren felt as if he were watching a movie of someone else that looked like him. He stepped from pod to deck alone. His crew remaining onboard like townspeople watching from behind curtained windows as a doomed gunfighter took to the street. He didn’t blame them. His fate was not theirs.

126. Taren

Sweat dripped from Rog’s forehead. His knuckles threatened to tear through his porcelain white hands, robbed of blood from the strain of intense maneuver. By all accounts Rog’s piloting was nothing short of spectacular.

“Kyra, I can’t keep dodging these torpedoes all day. Got any brilliant ideas?”

“I don’t think you are going to have to,” responded Kyra. “We’ve got an incoming transmission. Emy, can you bring the vid to full screen?”

The crew stood and watched as a murky blue figure appeared on the main screen. The alien image and alien voice sparked fear. Thought flowed and adrenaline pumped.

“Kyra, our computers cannot translate whatever language this species is speaking or even tell us what species this is,” said Emy. “I’m afraid—“

“Bravo-Four-Zero. You are in violation of Arc’teryx space. Prepare to be boarded. Resist and we will destroy you.”

The bridge got quiet. Just a few seconds seemed like minutes before Von spoke. “Seems we don’t have to worry about translating. Our friends appear not to be ignorant savages, or at least not ignorant. Kyra, may I escort you to the bay?”

“Anyone have any other ideas?” asked Kyra.

“If we let that thing onboard, we might as well just bend over. I for one ain’t, well . . . . I say we make a run. I dodged their torpedoes, I think I can—“

“Rog, we have no significant external defenses. We have no weapons. Our craft is not built for speed. And, we are in uncharted territory with no idea where the vortex has taken us. I don’t think we have a choice," said Von.

"I beg to differ. Did you see the way--"

"With all due respect Rog, if those torpedoes were meant to destory us, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

“I agree. Emy, transmit our welcome. Rog, stay here, you’re more valuable at the moment on the bridge. Von come with me. Keep all comms open,” said Kyra. “Watch your fear, don’t resist it. We may need the energy it brings to the table.”

Inside the bay, a small craft appeared more so than landed. Silver with bluish and purplish hints of scorched metal, neither Von nor Kyra had seen anything like it. Six figures emerged. One tall and rather dignified in his bearing, one shorter and wearing what appeared to be a cloak with only his cool purplish eyes showing from under the hood and four that looked like the armed escort. The tall one moved forward.

+My name is Taren. I trust you are Kyra?+

[editor's note: the + symbol used instead of quotes signifies non-verbal, mind to mind, communication]

Categories: Story, Kyra, Rog, Von, Emy, Taren, Arc'teryx