The High Wild is a passion project based on my love of Space-SF TV shows and fugitive-on-the-run stories ...
Part 1
Way out here in Space you know you're in trouble, the worst kind of trouble, when the ship's crew look as bad as they do right now.
Jezuz Chrizt, I've seen Deathball teams near the end of the ninth period, five men down and broken, look in better shape than these wasted specimens gathering in the ship's galley. Every crew member sags against something for rest, faces whitened by the hoarfrost of their own frozen breaths while their eyes stare either crazy-wide or sleepy-thin, depending on inner temperament and which drugs they've been using to keep themselves awake for all this time.
Over the sound of our misty breathing the ship creaks and groans as she tumbles through Space, crippled in a battle we just barely survived. The charge attractors on the hull have been damaged so we're running on emergency power, everything hushed and gloomy. Even now, the ship is still bleeding air and heat into the vacuum. That's why the atmosphere is so cold and stale and why I'm wearing all of my clothing, three pairs of socks on my feet and a hoody pulled over my head, my numb hands pushed deep in my pockets.
For fourteen hours straight, the surviving crew-members of the Stares At Strangers have been working non-stop to save the ship from dying around us. But by their grim expressions now, here under the wane, flickering emergency lighting, I can tell that we're still on the knife edge. We might really all die here.
No wonder their stares are so mutinous.
They've gathered here at the comm-requests of the captain, who they blame for this fine mess that we're in, and who has chosen to make her stand in the centre of the room right under the skydome of stars. Captain Mayday has one hand tucked into an armpit while the other holds what's left of my smoking joint, her lean body propped against the long dining table as she stares at the crew without a hint of concession; like she's the one who has the right to be pissed in all of this. Above her head the stars drift with the turning of the ship, obscured by coils of blue smoke.
'Well then,' Mayday begins, but falters as she takes in the faces of the surviving crew one by one. When the dark-haired woman meets my eyes, I see her inner tensions running just below the surface. It's obvious what she's about to say is going to throw a bomb into everyone's laps.
'We've got good news, and we've got bad news. Let's get the bad out of the way first. We still can't stop all the leaks. Pretty soon we'll be out of air.'
'Fantastimo,' says the ship's apprentice pilot with a toss of her hands. The only pilot we have now.
'You mean you didn't call us here for some grub?' complains Mansun, the big ex-merc responsible for ship security.
Captain Mayday draws a long inhalation of smoke without taking her eyes from the crew. Exhales with all the impatience she can muster.
'We don't have time to fuck around here. Let's talk about what we need to do.'
'What's to talk about?' rumbles Mansun. 'We got options?'
If we do, the captain obviously doesn't like them. Mayday tightens her mouth and stares down at the dining table before her, where a collection of green cubes is arrayed side by side like a row of square melons.
I peer closer, seeing a hose and mask sprouting from each cube. They're breathing apparatus of some kind.
I count seven cubes in all.
The captain's stare is shiny-hard now. From under my hoody I watch the scene in silent fascination, curling my toes against the living carpetgrass that covers the decking, knowing a defining moment when I see one.
'Our only option is to use the emergency air-gel pacs. If we put ourselves into hibernation and sustain a full burn, we should make it to Aldephi before the pacs run dry.'
'So why all the drama?' asks the apprentice pilot, Hourly.
I don't like the way the captain hesitates. I wish she'd stop hogging that joint and pass it back to me.
'Because we lost half the emergency airpacs in the decompressions.'
She means back when we got our ass kicked during the running battle with the law. But I'll get to that, eventually. 'We have seven pacs remaining, though one of those turns out to be a dud. It's nearly dry. So we only have six working pacs, for a compliment of seven.'
Now there's movement. Now there's some life in the crew again. Suddenly faces are turning to look at me; the uninvited passenger, the seventh guy on the manifest.
'The supercargo isn't crew,' Mansun declares as he glares at me from across the room, and I get a sudden bad feeling in my guts, like I've just gone from being a spider on the wall to someone's dinner. 'If you're telling me we don't have enough air for our passenger here, well, that's just too bad.'
'That isn't what I'm telling you,' snaps the captain. 'I'm telling you there are six working airpacs, and seven of us. Now we need to decide what to do about it.'
Near the back of the room, a stooped and shaggy-haired figure clears his throat. It's Bodhi, the ape manimal. Master gardener, deckhand, ship's philosopher. 'You said there was good news?' asks the modified ape in his gruff voice, and beside him I spot the young stowaway, Alt, standing as mute as always.
'Yeah,' answers the captain. 'We still have a good fifteen minutes left before we have to start using the airpacs.'
'Well that decides it,' growls Mansun, and the big merc shocks everyone by pulling his stun pistol from its holster.
Before anyone can react he marches right up to me with his gun aimed at my face, moving fast for all his bulk.
Oh no.
'Hey hey hey!' shouts Mayday and others as he presses the barrel hard against my forehead. But my hands are already in the air, and I'm backing out through a doorway at the cold metallic insistence of his prods.
Continues in Part 2 ...