Unbound Brothers Read online

  Unbound Brothers

  By

  Rob Rowntree

  Unbound Brothers

  Rob Rowntree

  Published by Fat Skull Books, 2013.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  UNBOUND BROTHERS

  First edition. June 23, 2013.

  Copyright © 2013 Rob Rowntree.

  Written by Rob Rowntree.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Unbound Brothers

  Chapter One | Jimmy

  Chapter Two | Conway

  Chapter Three | Introductions and Farewells

  Chapter Four | Ascent and Answers

  Chapter Five | Blue Sunrise

  Chapter Six | Doubts and Vortices

  Chapter Seven | Darkness and Light

  Chapter Eight | Secrets and Wreckage

  Chapter Nine | Something Found, Something Lost.

  Chapter Ten | Heavy Metal and Swiss Cheese

  Chapter Eleven | Cloud Decks and Decisions

  Chapter 12 | Mutinies and Misdirection

  Chapter 13 | New Worlds and Natives

  Chapter 14 | Weather and Watchers

  Chapter Fifteen | Languages and Lies

  Chapter Sixteen | Paranoia and Persuasions

  Chapter Seventeen | Worries and Welcomes

  Chapter Eighteen | Fires and Frustrations.

  Chapter Nineteen | Drawings and Ugly Cows

  Chapter Twenty | Journeys and Mutilations

  Chapter Twenty One | Escape and Sign Language

  Chapter Twenty Two | Freedom and Guilt

  Chapter Twenty Three | Wind and Wagons

  Chapter Twenty four | Wings and Warriors

  Chapter Twenty Five | Aeolian Cities and Doubts

  Chapter Twenty Six | Interrogations and Maslov’s Gift

  Chapter Twenty Seven | Deaths and Designs

  Chapter Twenty Eight | Dust and Memories

  Chapter Twenty Nine | Graves and Stone

  Chapter Thirty | Sacrifice

  Chapter Thirty One | ‘Something Wicked...’

  Many people had a hand in helping bring this book to life and without them I would never have had such a great adventure. Special thanks goes to Derek Fox, Sharon Kae Reamer and the late Colin Harvey. Also members of the great online critiquing group sffeditors, who really know how to kick butt.

  And of course, my wonderful family, my two boys and my wife, Dawn; they had to put up with a lot.

  Cover images courtesy of NASA

  Cover design DR graphics.

  Rob Rowntree lives and works in north Nottinghamshire with his wife and two boys. He enjoys writing genre fiction and his short stories have met with some success. Unbound Brothers is his first novel. Contact Rob at [email protected]

  ***

  Begin transmission.

  11/09/2354 07:45 GMT; Ident 1305-S, Abrams: Voicemail: Recipient Mountain Lodge Rest Home-Jimmy Abrams.

  Hi, Jimmy.

  Finally we have arrived. I thought there would have been more to say and wanted so very much to be able to describe the scene, the emotion, the raw energy and passion of the crew.

  But the reality of arrival has eroded some of the crew’s fanciful expectations and brought home to us the immensity of our mission.

  Conway’s navigation brought us out of blue-space seven hundred thousand kilometres from the Joshua Peterson’s last known position. After travelling five thousand light-years, that’s impressive. I think Shepperd and Gibson expected to see the old Deepship floating there, silent and vacuum-rusted. To a greater or lesser degree I think each and every one of us harboured that fancy. All except Conway, of course, who has his family secret, his information. We’ll see, but I’m guessing that subconscious notion is the reason for the over eager hopes.

  There’s still much to wonder at.

  If you could only see this place, Jimmy. We are around two-hundred light-years out from the Orion Spur. People say that the stars here don’t form a wall, but Jimmy, there’s a cliff here, an immense irregular barrier of shimmering stars and shadowed rents. It kind of confirms how small we are, Jimmy, how fragile. The Perseus arm lies in the opposite direction, a misty, smudged-snake, feebly lighting the darkness some six and a half thousand light-years away. I can’t quite believe we have travelled this far, and I piloted the ship.

  To think, Conway’s ancestor saw this – he and his crew were the first to reach here.

  Remember when I told you I had my doubts about the authenticity of Conway’s information? Well I still do; the fact that he’s being so melodramatic is driving me nuts, but just looking out at this vast mass of stars and knowing that the Peterson’s crew or their remains at least, may be out here does introduce a certain thrill. I always did like looking over the next hill and hills don’t get much bigger than this.

  Perhaps I’m not immune to the occasion after all.

  I’ll be in touch again after Conway’s briefing. Keep well, and as soon as I return I’ll drop by with all the news.

  Your loving brother,

  Alan.

  End transmission:

  Chapter One

  Jimmy

  07/09/2354

  Alan Abrams wedged his knees under his table as the airship descended and turned right; the worn seating shifted under his restrained weight. He smiled at those passengers seated across from him, hoping they wouldn’t notice his agitation. He maintained a hoped-for casualness and looked out of the panoramic window.

  Through light swirling snow, dim pinpricks of light peppered the gloom - possibly airfield lights. Further out, indistinct grey block buildings tumbled away from Broken Ridge’s Urban Transportation Grid, the grid’s Buckyrail a dull aquamarine against the white background.

  “Excuse me.”

  Alan turned as an overweight man in his late forties leaned across from the other side of the table. “Yes?”

  “Do you mind if I sit here? Airship flights don’t sit well with my survival instincts. I thought if I talked with someone, the distraction might prevent me thinking about the weather.”

  Alan stifled a laugh and agreed. Had the gentleman realised Alan’s current bout of irrational fear-of-flying, he may have thought to ask someone else. “No problem. Name’s Alan, Alan Abrams.”

  “Harry Gibson; and thanks.”

  Gibson, though overweight, obviously maintained some sort of fitness regime; his bulk was brawn, with thick arms and legs, a bull neck. Alan decided that his first impression might have been wrong. “So Gibson, what brings you to Broken Ridge?”

  They both laughed a little at Alan’s ‘do-you-come–here-often’ opening and Alan decided he might get to like the guy.

  “This and that, business mostly, nothing exciting, boss said it would do me good to stretch my legs and take in the beautiful outdoors. He actually said that, ‘beautiful outdoors’. Can you believe it? Like the whole planet is beautiful right and I’ve never been outside before. Sometimes I don’t think he really talks to his staff at all, he just uses a list of platitudes and stock euphemisms to direct his ‘people-traffic’. And you?”

  For a moment Alan froze. “Visiting a relative,” he said.

  “Oh right. You from around here?” Before Alan could answer, Gibson said, “Y’know I’ve never been this far north before. Done all my living around the Florida archipelago, some in old Texas.”

  The airship bobbled in a turbulent flurry of wind-borne snow, the wind howling loudly as it buffeted the airship’s outer shell. Alan dug his feet into the plush carpet and pressed his body back into the seat, all the while trying n
ot to look at Gibson’s tie which slowly inched out of perpendicular. Alan’s stomach gave a lurch, but he maintained a smile.

  Gibson had stopped talking.

  Alan felt Gibson’s stare, “Sorry, what was that?”

  “I asked what you did. Have you travelled?” Gibson appeared to be examining Alan’s neck.

  “Yes, I’ve travelled a lot. Seen places, stuff.”

  “You seem rather off-hand about it. If I could travel I’d try and remember every last detail. It’s not often I get away from work. What is it you do Alan?”

  “Deepship pilot.”

  “But... I thought as much. Your skin has that pallor about it. Only I wasn’t sure; couldn’t see the spore-ports.”

  “Quiescent, even I hardly know they’re there.” The lie came easily after so many tellings. “Yeah, and I know. Deepship pilot, seen it, done it; now unemployed and unemployable. That’s me.” As the airship bounced onto the runway he said through gritted teeth, “Call me the Last of the Deepship pilots.”

  “Perhaps you can buy me a drink some time and tell me about it.”

  “Sure, Gibson, no problem.”

  Gibson reached over and offered his embedded wrist-ident. They brushed arms and Alan wondered if he would bother. Better to forget the old days. Isn’t that what they said?

  ***

  By the time Alan left the terminal crispness lay over the snow-covered streets, the wind and snow flurries no more than noisy memories in quiet crystal air.

  He left Gibson at the shuttle stop. A firm handshake and a half promise for drinks saw him away. Alan, consigned Gibson to his memory as a temporary travelling companion, turned and headed towards the local Urban Transportation Grid station, the UTG. Every city, town and hamlet had one, a free public transport system, where ironically, you didn’t meet a soul.

  The sidewalk hummed as it took him and his overnight bag up and over the road, the moving walkway’s transparent shell giving a good view of the snow-moulded city below. Nothing moved outdoors save for a few readapted wolves and the odd ski enthusiast.

  In the distance, Alan saw billowing smoke rising from the pap-mines, Broken Ridge’s main industry. He remembered the smell, with its lingering taint of raw meat, its hint of petroleum - it kind of got to you. The air-conditioned enclosed sidewalk was a blessing. His grandfather would have said, ‘fossil fuels is dead and buried, just as they oughta be’. But a good source of protein is a tempting profit for somebody. Once animal welfare and freedom bills introduced certain rights, it had only been a matter of time before Petroleum-Adapted Proteins became viable. His father lasted twelve years as a miner; Alan Abrams had striven hard to ensure he never ended up there.

  On reaching the UTG platform, he ordered his baggage into a holding queue for drop-off at his hotel. Like the first and every subsequent visit, he took a bubble out to Mountain Lodge Rest Home. Jimmy came first. Always.

  Arriving moments after his request, the single seat bubble slid silently into the station. The opaque shell lowered to the platform’s edge and a rectangular doorway slid up to reveal a soft bucket seat and ambient lighting. Stepping in, he slipped into the chair, appreciating the warmth of the controlled, scented environment.

  With the door shut, the bubble moved off; wobbling as it rose to its hovering height.

  Immediately, Alan ordered the shell to transparent. Some people needed reassurance, needed to feel cocooned in a vehicle hurtling along a semi-conducting monorail. Not Alan. He liked to have a view, maybe because he half suspected his fear of atmospheric flight came from a deep-seated control problem. The fact that he could see what lay ahead with the bubble clear offered an illusion of knowing his course, gave him some sense of control. All crap really, but the view...

  Picking up speed, the bubble shot along an aquamarine rail ten meters above the ground. A white-on-white mosaic rushed by, the small city huddled beneath a cold blanket of fresh snow. Heading east and leaving town, the rail arched upward into dense pine forests; small ‘lay-bys’ punctuated the track ahead and Alan gripped the arms of his chair as the bubble dipped down and around, skirting over a spaghetti junction of tracks. Other bubbles danced by.

  Away from the city, the rail nicked through a cleft in a hillside and swung around the far side of the hill. Brushing his wrist-ident against the com-facilitator, Alan connected with the Rest Home. As the speeding vehicle zipped over snow stained with pap-shadow, Alan advised them he was on his way. They needed time to get Jimmy ready; it was only fair.

  Alan wondered how they would do that.

  At four hundred kilometres an hour, the blood-red pap-soot shadow quickly fell behind. Alan felt like he was flying, speeding towards and then above blanketed pine forest like some great bird seeking a roost.

  He sent a command, the shell opaque once more. The last thought disturbed him.

  Coming home to roost. Did he want to think of it that way? Born and raised not far from Broken Ridge, there’d been a lot of memories, many good ones, and the one bad one, the awful one. Sure he’d tried to run, get as far away as possible but Jimmy brought him back. Wasn’t it all about Jimmy?

  Selecting random views of star-fields from the bubble’s library, the opaque walls bathed him in distant light as he relived his guilt-laden nightmare. It was all about Jimmy. Later, the Rest Home called breaking into his dreams to ask if he would be staying for dinner. Pleased at the interruption, he thanked them and said he would. Cocooned, he sped on towards Jimmy.

  ***

  Mountain Lodge hugged tight against a steep incline, its seven domed buildings tightly packed around an exquisite park, the whole establishment smothering the small plateau it sat upon. The monorail branch-spur terminated in a small UTG station next to the main dome.

  Alan readied himself, aware the evening wouldn’t be easy. Jimmy needed the care they provided here, but financial-difficulties were the mother of ‘needs-must’; other choices were hard to come by. He didn’t begrudge them, but wished for the freedom financial security could bring. Find a job, a steady job, and get on with life, is what he needed to do. But for a man like him, Alan realised it might be a sacrifice he’d live to regret - something he knew well.

  The Lodge sported a huge angular lobby, smaller rectangular and triangular recesses puckering the ground floor like fractal growths. A refracting glass roof allowed rainbow light to illuminate a mezzanine running around the second floor. Corridors ran off the mezzanine towards other domes. Alan guessed it must be aesthetically pleasing to somebody; but it left him unmoved.

  In the centre of the lobby, a small raised platform sported a reception island, two receptionists surrounded by a faux wooden wall. Matching uniforms and hairstyles more than hinted at the corporate nature of the establishment. It promised to be a tough evening.

  “Mr. Abrams, it’s nice to see you again, sir.”

  Alan couldn’t place the face. “It’s nice to see you again,” he checked her name-holo, “Deborah. How have you been?”

  Now on more comfortable terms, she seemed sincere, explaining that her family had moved to Mexico.”Now that I’m free and single, life appears a whole lot better.

  Right then he didn’t need small talk, so not wanting to disillusion her, Alan said, “Is my brother ready to see me yet?”

  “Yes, he is, Mr. Abrams.”

  Alan noticed her fidget as she replied. “Is there anything else, Deborah?”

  “Well yes, Mr. Abrams, there is. Mr. Pickering requests the pleasure of your company at dinner. After you’ve visited your brother, naturally.”

  They can’t wait, thought Alan. Vultures, every one of them. “Thank you Deborah. Please tell Mr. Pickering I’ll be dining with Jimmy as I always do. Once my visit with Jimmy is concluded, I will pop by his office on my way out.”

  “Mr. Pickering did ask me to impress upon you the importance of an open dialogue.”

  “I’m quite aware of my obligations, Deborah.”

  “Mr. Pickering leaves for home around five.”<
br />
  “Then I guess he’ll miss me if he doesn’t wait.”

  Alan turned and headed to the nearest elevator.

  Stepping onto the open elevator platform, he turned in time to see Deborah redden as she stopped talking into her head mike. Behind her, something new caught his eye.

  A sculpture tucked into a trapezoid offshoot of the lobby reflected softened pastel hues of light. It reminded him of something, he couldn’t quite place.

  The upward elevator journey passed in a haze as he tried to recall the image he’d seen. The doors opened onto the mezzanine, forcing him back to the present. Perhaps the pressure of his current task fuzzed his mind. Must concentrate.

  Behind him an escalator led into a tunnel. Stepping on to the moving walkway, he headed for Accommodation Annex C.

  Much of the six-hundred meter journey passed uneventfully, the moving path sliding past soothing illuminated walls, his mind distracted by music from hidden speakers, the occasional overpowering aromas of flower-scent. All meant to calm and soothe, yet Alan found environmental stimulants annoying reminders of his brother’s predicament.

  Turning left, the corridor terminated at a small neat lobby of oak-panelled walls and potted plants. There were six elevators: Alan took the first available, which swiftly took him to floor five.

  Doors opened onto a quiet corridor with subdued lighting, several guests shuffled about. Alan politely manoeuvred around some of the slow-moving individuals, allowing them extra room in an effort to avoid contact.

  Jimmy’s suite lay at the far end of the corridor; not through choice, but as a result of several moves, and of course his status as the longevity of his residency. Faint music drifted through his brother’s open doorway, the theme tune to Cosmic Journey, Jimmy’s favourite programme.

  At the doorway, he hesitated, composing himself. He could see the holo-show playing on its flatbed, alien vistas and over-zealous actors. Out of Alan’s direct sight, Jimmy gurgled.