SWNOVELS Chapter CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Van never shared with anyone, the life he had led in the years between leaving Thosisa and captaining the Bessie Fontaine. It was something he wished he could remove from his history. He had done well to bury it, considering how much it had changed him as a person; he was always able to drown out the memories through one means or another.
He had escaped the planet of his birth by hitching a ride with a passing freight driver, who had landed to perform routine repairs while on a long-haul delivery. Van’s lack of experience off world left him at a disadvantage, not least of all because of his naivety when it came to strangers. The freighter was transporting a shipment of slaves to an auction and Van soon joined their ranks. He was beaten, chained and sold at a discount.
From there he toiled, tirelessly as a lap-dog and ‘personal bather’ to the Candovian War Lord; Emperor Miskavoch the Unkillable. The Emperor was known throughout the Galaxies as the cruellest dictator in the cosmos. He would eat his enemies after battle, dead or alive. He would devour any who opposed or disappointed him, slaves and subordinates alike. Van’s job was made even worse by the tyrant’s genealogy. The Candovians are a race of gelatinous, blob creatures that have a solid acidic membrane covering their entire body. Their digestive system dissolves matter, ingested through their mouths, then excrete the waste material through the pores of their membrane. This meant that Van had to spend every minute his master was awake, scrubbing his humungous frame while wearing a tattered, leather loin cloth and shackles. The corrosive fumes had permanently affected his sense of smell, dulling it for all time.
Van only had the stamina to keep up this task for a few hours at a time. Whenever he tired, the lash of a whip on his spine would remind him that he had no right to be exhausted. This became his life, he often dreamt of death and had even once tried to provoke being eaten, but his master seemed to take great pleasure in watching his unending suffering.
For years, his only respite was while his master slept. It was the 7 hours each night that Van cherished more than anything in his whole life. In his sleep, he was free. He could dream of a better life; a life that wasn’t devoted to a callous monster. It was the one sign he had that he was still a person. He was not granted a name in his waking life, referred to only as ‘slave’ or some other dehumanising moniker. Monotony, however, was slowly breaking him.
Around about the fifth year of his enslavement, a horrific truth revealed itself to him. Van had often wondered what would happen when he grew too weak to do his job. The answer was worse than he could possibly imagine. During one of the Emperor’s many leisure trips, he had gone to a battle arena in the Dwingeloo galaxy. All the slaves aboard the Imperial Command ship were terrified about heading to this place, but they were all too afraid to discuss exactly why that was. Van was soon to discover the source of their reservations, when he first accompanied the Emperor to an event.
The arena was like a gigantic stadium. Stands swallowed the light from outside, providing seating for billions of spectators. In the centre was a sunken area, the size of a large town. The high walls and floors spattered with blood stains, old and new, in a variety of colours. Huge holo-screens hovered above the arena floor, flashing images of gladiators and bear-sized, furry beats killing unarmed slaves. The Emperor took a seat in his private booth, the crowd cheering his arrival. A siren blared out, signalling the start of battle. An announcement came over the PA. Van didn’t understand, the translator implant the slave owners used only allowed slaves to understand the language of their master. It was how they kept rebellions to a minimum. The crowd fell silent as a platform descended from the sky. On board it was a small army of the people that had been shown on the monitors, not a moment earlier. The platform reached the ground and the warriors stepped off. Another announcement echoed through the stadium followed by the roar of the crowd. The warriors saluted their fans. A second platform was lowered down, this one covered with terrified slaves, panicking and pleading with the spectators, who were now booing and jeering at them.
The platform neared the ground, then tipped, dumping the petrified slaves on the hard ground. Holographic projectors around the arena flashed to life and rendered an artificial labyrinth in the sunken ground. A klaxon horn sounded and the combatants began to run around frantically. Several slaves were killed quickly by environmental traps in the maze. The screens showed all the gory action up close. Van was forced to watch as people just like him were chased down and violently killed for the entertainment of billions of anonymous onlookers. He tried to close his eyes, even choosing to focus on his work, rather than look at the horrific spectacle happening less than 100 yards from him. The blood curdling screams of his kin folk dying cut through his concentration like an ice pick stabbing his ears.
He endured this hour after hour, day after day, week after week, until he couldn’t take it anymore. Then, he snapped.
A month into the Emperor’s stay, Van had stopped sleeping. He had become so traumatised by what he had witnessed in the arena, that he dared not close his eyes as every time he did; he saw the faces of those slaves dying over and over again. He had lost his only sanctuary. On the fifth sleepless night, his desperation finally overcame him and he knew what he must do. Being an acid based life form, the Emperor had to avoid alkaline elements, a strong enough dose would destabilise his body, killing him. Fortuitously, the wide array of different species that flocked to the arena, meant that a lot of diets needed to be catered for. This led to the kitchens carrying a large array of wondrous and potentially deadly ingredients.
Van crept from the slave quarters, which was ostensibly a room full of sleeping bodies, and made his way into the kitchens of the arena. There weren’t many guards, as every slave there was too afraid of the consequences of being caught, and the ones that were around were drunk or sleeping. He silently searched through each cupboard in the warehouse sized cooking area, until he found what he was looking for; powdered beryllium. He took a small parcel of the metal powder and stashed it in his loin cloth, then snuck back to the pile of huddled slaves, in the quarters. He curled up with his fellow pieces of property and spent the rest of the night, plotting how he would administer the fatal toxin. He knew the minute the Emperor died, he would be killed, but that no longer bothered him. Any fate was better than the one he was living.
The time finally came and Van was summoned to his master’s private chambers. He palmed the parcel of beryllium and emptied it into his sponge bucket, mixing it into the cleansing oil. He soaked it up until the sponge dripped freely, then placed it to the amorphous blob’s flesh.
The next few seconds were like a blur. The moment the beryllium touched Miskavoch’s skin, he let out a thunderous roar and grabbed Van’s right arm, flailing him around by the elbow. His body was billowing foam like a slug covered in salt. He began to deflate. He cursed at Van, then thrust his captive arm into his melting mouth. The pain of the acid dissolving his flesh and the shock of what was happening, caused him to pass out. When he awoke he found himself chained to a wall in a dungeon. What had once been his right arm was now a blackened stump. He screamed in terror, why hadn’t the guards killed him? Had the Emperor survived and asked that he be prepared as an entre?
He didn’t have to wait long for an answer, once the guards had seen that he was awake, they came in, carrying a hot poker. They branded him with the symbol of an arena slave and tossed him onto the lowering platform. The crowd yelled angrily as he was dumped onto the arena floor. His image was magnified on the floating screens, underneath it read a caption; KING SLAYER. Van saw this and panic spread through him like a neurotoxin. He realised that with the Emperor dead he now wanted to live. However, because the Emperor was dead, he was now finally allowed to die. The irony was crushing. Looking around him, he saw that he was alone in the arena, that was except for the large group of unnamed soldiers walking towards him. They reached him and the first one threw an armoured fist into his face. The crowd cheered and the onslaught continued. A second soldier joined in and began beating the life out of the one-armed Van. Then another and another, soon ten or more battle-hardened soldiers were unleashing Hell on his body. They had to hold him up so that they could get a good shot. He began to lose consciousness, when one of the soldiers leaned in close. “You don’t get to die yet,” he whispered softly in Van’s swollen, bleeding ear, “We’re gonna have fun for weeks.” Then he plunged his thumb into Van’s right eye, popping it like a grape. Van screamed in agony and passed out.
He awoke unable to move. His remaining eye could barely open and he was choking on his own blood. He knew he would die in agony before the soldiers could bestow any more punishment. He cried with happiness and tried to inhale the blood flowing down his windpipe. He let the cold embrace of death take him into its bosom. He was at peace.
The next thing he knew he was opening his eyes into a clean, white room. Just like his childhood bedroom on Thosisa. Only, it wasn’t that room. That room hadn’t existed for years. The whole domicile, in fact, had been recycled to build a larger building to house the growing populace. So where was he? What had happened to the arena. He looked down at his right arm. His stump had been bandaged. He looked at his skin and found that it was revitalised, the pale, malnourished hue he had become accustomed to was now a healthy colour and was also clean. He sat up and looked to the window, the sun was too bright for him to see out, but the light didn’t hurt to look at. A small table next to the bed had a glass of water and a plate of hor dourves sat on it. Van lunged at it like he’d never seen food before. They were delicious and surprisingly filling for their size. It had been so long since he had tasted food that had, well, taste. Every bite was like a symphony of flavour. All his worries about his surroundings drifted away, replaced by the eager tingle of his taste buds. He finished the snack-sized treats and licked the plate clean. He sat back against the wall and closed his eyes, engraining the taste of the wonder food in his memory. During his time in servitude, Van had given up on the idea of ‘heaven’, but he was sure that if it did exist, he was there now.
He rested for a while, cherishing every second before he woke up from this dream. He breathed deep the scent of freshly cut grass that somehow filled the room. He hoped he would never wake up. He heard the quiet “shush” of the door sliding open and opened his eyes. In the doorway stood a tremendous figure, a vast lab coat adorned his 6 foot 5 inch rotund frame. He wore tweed trousers, jelly sandals and a pale green shirt. A mustard stained tie was poking out from the huge white beard that extended past his chest. It was hard to tell where his wild beard ended and his wild hair began. The top of his head was bald, showing a polished dome of orangey-brown skin. A pair of spectacles, with multiple extra lenses attached, hung over his bulbous nose. A delighted smiled beamed from beneath his facial hair, nestled below the warmest eyes Van had ever seen. He couldn’t explain why, but he felt safe with this stranger, as if he knew the man would never harm him. The man spoke;
“Hello Atlas,” he said, still smiling.
“H-Hello?” replied Van, feeling a little disarmed.
“Oh, my goodness, you prefer the name ‘Van’, don’t you.” The man looked devastated at the thought of offending him, “Well, Van, My name is Professor Bluxx Zeelkreg PhD, BcG, MsC, BYOB. Esquire, but you can call me ‘Professor’, or ‘Bluxx’, or even ‘Zeelkreg’, but never ‘Zee-Zee’, I’m not a whore. So, how are you feeling?”
“I- I’m fine, thank you,” said Van sitting up, “Where am I and how did I get here?”
“You’re in my home. As for how you got here, I don’t want to overwhelm you while you’re still recovering. Speaking of which, I’ve made you a new arm. Still working on the eye I’m afraid.” The Professor reached into his massive coat and retrieved a limp right arm. He raised it up and brushed away the pocket lint clinging to the skin. He held it out and Van took it, cautiously. The Professor smiled, “I’m sorry to say that you can’t attach it just yet. You see, my dear boy, you damaged that stump of yours pretty badly. It needs to heal up a bit more before we can stick the new one on. I do hope you’ll manage well enough until then.”
“I think I can manage and again, thank you. But, why did you help me?” asked Van.
“Follow me, I’d like to show you something,” said the Professor, turning to the door, “there’s a robe on the chair, here.” Van pulled on the soft white robe, as best he could with only one arm and joined the Professor at the door.
They left the room and entered a hallway. Unlike the room he had woken up in, the walls here were decorated with renaissance era fixtures and large oil paintings of regal Old aliens, which bore a striking resemblance to the Professor. They weren’t very regal in there subject though, most of those portrayed had an expression like they weren’t ready to be painted. They seemed to be preoccupied by whatever they were holding in their hands. Various assortments of small, china figurines sat atop antique wooden cabinets. As they made their way down the hall, the archaic decor gave way to other time periods, creating a veritable time line of aesthetic choices. Even the doors were mismatched. Wood panel gave way to sliding doors, all the way to a force-field in a door frame. Eventually they reached a large door, which looked as though it would be more at home in a steam punk novella. Enormous, brass gears were entangled across its front, giving the impression of a vault door in an eccentric billionaire’s mansion. Van was 40% sure he was going to find a swimming pool of gold coins on the other side. The Professor walked up to it, cleared his throat and in his most polite voice asked; “Excuse me, door, would you mind awfully getting out of the way.” The gears began to turn as the door opened away from them.
They passed through the open door. Inside the room was a sight more beautiful and terrifying than Van had ever seen or would ever see again. It was both infinitely awe inspiring and devastatingly saddening at the same time. Strings of light wound around the centre of the room. Countless glowing orbs flickered into life and faded out, over and over again, orbiting the gossamer threads that passed through them. He began to see patterns in the luminous tangle. He could tell which orbs would fade next and where another would come to life. These were events, moments in time, represented in a visual medium. He knew if he continued to watch, his heart would break, but the beauty of the joyous events kept him transfixed.
Van suddenly realised that the Professor was hugging him, he knew this was an odd thing to do, but it was also exactly what he needed at that moment. He had been through so much, he had lost everything and had never been allowed to grieve. He collapsed into his host’s embrace and wept. Tears coursed down his cheeks and soaked the kind Professor’s dense beard. He howled in anguish at all he had witnessed, clutching at the white lab coat for comfort. Screaming out his agony until his throat could no longer make a sound. What had he done to deserve such an awful life? Had he brought it on himself, had a minor accident as a child really earned him such an existence? Then it struck him, this was why this generous stranger had shown him this room. It really wasn’t his fault. The visualisation of time had just now shown him that; the Universe was based on chaos. The wicked didn’t always face justice and the good didn’t always prosper, but that was ok. Because, he now knew that for every bad event there is a good one. The whole of existence worked on balanced chaos. His personal choice was what led to his incarceration but things might have gone differently if he had chosen a different freighter. It was chance that had landed him in chains, not an informed choice or some cosmic retribution. This man had not only saved his body, he had also saved his mind.
For the next few months, Van learned how to live again. He and the Professor became close friends. They worked to repair an old ship that had been abandoned in a loading bay. The Professor’s home was a massive space station built in an asteroid, deep in the heart of a gas nebula. Van found the view calming and often retreated to a window when the memories of his former life wouldn’t stay quiet. He had nightmares every time he slept, for the first couple of months. But, whenever he awoke in a fit of sweat, he would find the professor propped up in a chair, watching over him. The kindly benefactor was like a father to Van, he helped Van choose a path for his life to take, always asking him what path would make him happiest. They would watch intergalactic television together and argue over stupid points, which always ended with laughter and reconciliation. The good Professor was quite eccentric and used his personality quirks to avoid answering any questions about himself or why he had chosen to save Van. He would even dodge questions as to how he had accomplished his rescue. The only clue he ever gave as to who he was, other than what his name was, came on Van’s last night in his saviour’s home.
After nine months, the two men had finally finished repairing the ship that Van would be taking with him, on his path. They had retired to the banquet hall, which the Professor used as a dining room. Despite the decadent room’s tremendous size, the dining table was no bigger than the table of a booth in a diner. It looked so peculiar, situated as it was beneath a 40 feet wide, diamond chandelier. The two men drank and joked long into the night, celebrating the completion of their nine month long task. Once inebriation had truly set in, Van found himself feeling somewhat conflicted. He had lived with this man for nine months. A man who had given him so much and never asked anything in return, and yet he knew nothing about him, aside from his name. He never wanted so much to know who had saved him from a gruesome death, but all his efforts to discover more, had been met with deflection. He didn’t even know what species he was. But this was his last night, dammit, and he would get an answer to at least one question. He drained his glass and wiped his mouth clean, it was now or never.
“Professor,” he said, looking at the table top, “I owe you so much and I know I’ve got no right to ask anymore from you, but, I want to know something and I need to ask you to answer me honestly.”
The Professor put his glass down on the table and looked at his guest’s bowed head. “Look at me please, Van,” he said calmly.
Van raised his head and met the Professor’s gaze. His golden pupils looked like they were holding back a great sadness. He stared into Van’s eyes, “Are you sure you want to know?” Van nodded silently, “Very well then. I am a member of a race called ‘Galaxians’. We are an ancient people who many believe don’t even exist.”
Van stared for a second, was this just another ‘dodge’, or was this just more of his eccentricity? “Ok,” he replied, “Thank you for telling me.”
“You’re quite welcome. Now, have you decided what you’re going to call your ship yet?” asked the professor, adopting his former jubilance.
“I’m far too drunk to name a ship,” replied Van, refilling his glass from the self-refilling bottle, on the table.
“Nonsense,” the professor exclaimed, “Now is the best time to christen your vessel!”
Van laughed, “Ok then,” he said, “I’m gonna call it; The Bessie Fontaine!”
“WHAT?!” asked the Professor incredulously, “why would you call it that?!”
“I don’t know!” announced Van and the two friends fell back in fits of drunken laughter.
The next day, Van was all set to head out into the Universe. The Bessie Fontaine was loaded up with supplies and the engine was fully charged. He joked with the Professor like it was any other day, but both of them were saddened to be parting. Van could not stay there though, it was time for him to start his own life and the Professor would never deprive him of this. Before he boarded the ship, the Professor embraced Van in a loving hug, just like he had on his first day. Van hugged him back this time. Using his new prosthetic arm to embrace the man who had given it to him. The mirthful alien relinquished his grasp and stepped back, wiping a tear of joy from his eye.
“When you visit me in future, and you will visit again, take it easy on me, won’t you?”
Van felt confused, but simply smiled and said; “Sure thing, Zee-Zee.”
“Well, I never,” said the Professor, pretending to be offended.
Van boarded his ship and turned on the ship’s AI. They set out from the landing bay as the Professor looked on and waved. As they left the hangar bay, the nebula faded from around them and with it, the Professor and his space station. They were in open space now, it was time for Van’s life to start again.
“And that was it,” said Van, “He never said anything about my new arm being a fucking fusion cannon.”
“I call ‘bullshit’,” said Dallas, raising his hand.
“WHAT?!” replied Van, “I just shared the darkest part of my life with you and you call ‘bullshit’?! Fuck you, dude!”
“No, no, no, not that bit,” replied Dallas, ignoring the offense he had caused, “I mean about how you were saved by a ’Galaxian’. They’re a myth! My dad used to tell me stories about them, when I was growing up. They don’t exist. So, you’re full of shit.”
“Can you provide evidence of our claims?” asked Yukimi.
“What, now you don’t believe me either? Some friends you are.”
Yukimi let out an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes at Van. “Very well,” she said, “I suppose I did get the answer you agreed to give, let’s just move on for now. We have a lot of work to do if we are defeat the Commander.”
Van and Dallas looked at each other. They had assumed that the plan was to hide for the rest of their lives and pray that the OEO never found them. Did this woman really think that they could take on, not only the OEO themselves, but Zeffross and the soda zombies too? This was madness. They began to giggle.
Yukimi sighed again, “what is it now?” she asked, dreading the answer.
“Yukimi,” said Van, still chuckling, “we’re not taking on the known Universe. How can the three of us possibly defeat what’s looking for us? No, what we should do now is just find somewhere to hide. Maybe the place we’re going is alright, we can start our new lives when we land.”
“There is a way that we might stand a chance if we-“
“I’m gonna have to stop you right there,” interrupted Dallas, “whatever you’re planning to say next, save it. I’m with Van on this one. Harmony was always going on about how nice her planet was and how they’re all kind and shit.”
“Well, if she held herself in the same regard then we might not exactly be welcome there.” Stated Yukimi, “besides, we cannot, in all good conscience leave the Universe to fall apart!”
“Look, book-worm, take it from someone who’s been around the Universe; some things just fix themselves. You’ll see, this thing’ll just run its course.”
“How can you be so wilfully ignorant?!” Yukimi cried, “Problems don’t just fix themselves. We are in a position to actually do something. It is our obligation to act!”
“Alright, alright,” said Van, waving his hand, “I’ll tell you what; if it turns out we aren’t safe on this next planet, we’ll try to save the Universe. However, if it turns out that we are safe there, then you shut up and we all live happily ever after. Deal?”
Yukimi thought about his proposition. Given the scope of the OEO’s reach, the odds were in her favour, but it was by no means a ‘sure thing’. Reluctantly, she nodded in agreement. They would be landing soon and she wanted to rest before that happened.