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Friday, 20 December 2019

The Mothership By Robert Scott | Full Short Story Read Online

Al couldn't spot one free seat in the whole pub garden. It was Friday afternoon on a lovely July day. With the bank holiday weekend, it felt like Christmas but with better weather and less stress.

'So, it's going to be like Meet the Parents?' Kevin asked.

Al thought for a moment. 'More like Meet the Parents One at a Time, with the divorce,' he said. 'Ana's going to stay with me and Dad. Then, I'll take her to see Mum and Bob on Sunday.'

'A fun weekend for you then?'

'No reason why not – I think,' said Al. 'Dad's finishing work early to get the house presentable. And they should get on all right – except Mum and Dad, of course. It would be good if it went well. It really would.' Al nodded to himself and remembered his drink.

'How's your dad doing?' asked Kevin.

'All right. Still working too much. And there's lots to do with the new house. He's still into the garden. Sorry, Kev, I've got to take this – it's him.'

Al jumped up and headed towards the road to get away from the crowd, but just hit more noise from the traffic. So, it was one of those shouty calls.

'That was quick,' said Kevin.

'He sounds panicky. I'd better go back. Do want to come?'

The pub was on a corner of a junction, where the commercial

part of town turned residential and then continued to the suburbs. That's where Al's dad had his new place; a 1950s two-bedroom semi. A downsize from the old family home, but all he could afford after the split. As they walked and talked, the streets were starting to fill up with rush-hour traffic.

'What's up with him?' asked Kevin.

'My mum calls it "weed psychosis".'

||2||

'I thought he was more a couple-of-pints-after-work man.'

'No, it's his new lawn - the weeds - they're driving him mad. It comes and goes, but he sounded bad on the phone. He dreams about them - or rather he dreams about "it".'

'It?' asked Kevin.

'Yes, the "Mothership", he calls it. He thinks there's one weed spawning all the others and he just needs to find it. Like on Alien, he says.'

'Yes, but the monster in Alien is the mother, not the mothership.'

'You're right. He does like that film, but yeah, he got that wrong.'

'It might be part of the psychosis.'

'Quite possibly.'

As Al and Kevin went through the side gate to get to the back garden, they heard a loud 'Bloody Hell'.

The gate creaked open and slammed shut, but Al's dad didn't turn around. He was kneeling, crouched over, with his back to them, stabbing at the ground with a garden hand fork.

'Bloody Hell!'

'I'm not sure that's how you're supposed to use one of those, Dad,' Al shouted over.

'They wouldn't let him on Gardener's Question Time,' whispered Kev.

'Can we come over, Dad?' Al shouted.

'Yes, just don't go near the mole-hill bits.'

The lawn was small, square and mostly green, although it didn't have much grass. Weeds covered most of it. Dotted all over, were little holes with piles of dark soil next to them. The largest version was almost dead centre. The garden looked like a model of the pyramids at Giza.

'Oh, hello there, Kevin. Do you know anything about weeds, lad? This one's not much help.'

ALSO READ : Death By Scrabble by Charlie Fish Short Story

||3||

'Not really, Mr P. No. Have you tried Google?'

'Sod Google - it's a JCB I need.' He scanned the four points of the garden. 'To find the source,' he muttered.

'Can't you use weed-killer?' Kevin asked.

'I never have, and I probably never will,' he said, lowering his head. 'That's due to twenty-eight years of living with Al's mum. She's a hippy. No toxins on any living thing.' He held out a handful of what looked like rocket or dandelion. 'She'd probably want these little bastards buried at sea on a burning raft.'

'Are you sure those are weeds, Mr P?' asked Kevin.

After dinner Ana and Al went down the pub. When Kevin arrived, Ana had her head down, a finger in one ear and purple hair falling about her face.

'She likes phoning a friend to ask about stuff,' Al explained. 'This one's a marriage counsellor.'

After introductions and drinks-buying, Ana delivered the report.

'Beatriz says it sounds like transference. Your dad's transferring his anger with your mum onto the weeds in the garden. That's the mothership thing. You need to sort out the problem in the garden before he can move on.'

'So, you just need to dig up the garden,' said Kevin. 'Like your dad said, get a JCB.'

'Yes, but there's going to be nothing down there,' said Al.

'I don't think that matters too much,' said Ana. 'Beatriz said it's just about getting the rock off his back.'

'Or getting the Mothership out from under the garden,' said Kevin.

Al looked at Ana. 'We're going to need some help.'

'I could make some calls,' said Ana, smiling sweetly.

||4||

When Al and Ana got back after their drinking and planning, Mr P. was still up. They tried their pitch.

'I don't like it,' Mr P said. 'I don't want people round here with metal detectors or scanners or diggers. I can do it. Or me and you, Al. And Kevin. And Ana, too, if she wants to join in.' He smiled at Ana.

There was an enormous cracking sound and the windows lit up in two white flashes, like car headlamps going on and off. Then came loud booms of thunder. Raindrops started battering the window, sounding more like hail. The perfect July day had turned into a perfect summer storm.

Al woke mid-morning. He pulled back a curtain. The windows were all steamed up. Ana stirred as he rubbed a hole to see out. The storm had blown through, leaving a sky of half-cloud, half-blue. Something below caught Al's eye.

'Oh God, Ana. You've got to see this.' He helped her up.

They knelt on the bed, with their elbows resting on the windowsill. Al opened the window to get a better look.

'Madre m'a,' said Ana.

They got dressed and ran downstairs. The French windows in the dining room were wide open. Al's dad was sitting on a chair facing the garden, not moving. The sunlight was streaming in. Al sat next to his dad and Ana stood behind them.

Maybe it was a trick of the light; a northern European version of a morning heat haze. A warmish vapour - if not quite tropical steaminess - clouded what should have been a clear view onto the garden. Perhaps there was something about the angle of the sun or the way the rays fell through the tree canopy bordering the garden that lit the whole place up in that strange way. Or maybe it was the reflections glimmering in the rainwater-filled holes that seemed to double the number and size of the weeds. Or perhaps it was too much booze the night before. But the lawn seemed to have been transformed into a tropical jungle.

||5||

There were more and bigger weeds, and also some were either floating or growing in the puddles. It was still mostly green, but there seemed to be other richer tinges of colour; orange, red and yellow.

'What's that smell?' asked Al.

'Mango?' suggested Ana.

'I had mango chutney with the curry last night,' said Mr P. He sounded tired. He folded his arms. 'You can get your people round. Whatever.'

Al nodded to Ana, and she went upstairs for her phone.

By mid-afternoon Kevin's pal was splashing back and forth over the lawn with his metal detector, like he was trying to cut the weeds with a strimmer. There were questions about why a metal detector was a good idea, but it seemed to be moving things in the right direction at least.

'Why the headphones?' asked Mr P.

'He's listening for the seven sounds,' said Kevin. 'The seven sounds of Hell.' Nobody laughed.

'Who's next if the sappers don't find anything?' asked Mr P.

'It's my friends, the archaeologists,' Ana said as enthusiastically as possible. 'They're quite keen to have a go since we're so near to the ancient stuff.'

Kevin's pal took his headphones off and shook his head. 'All that rainwater helps the signal, but no, nothing much.'

Ana's archaeologists arrived with their Ground Penetrating Radar scanner. It looked like a trundly old lawnmower and kept getting stuck in the potholes.

'You're going to need bigger wheels,' shouted Kevin.

They went in decreasing circles towards the centre, navigating the terrain as best they could. Two people were pushing it while watching the readout on a little screen. The third guy, the Professor, shook his head. No one felt like asking why. When they finally got to the centre, where the biggest hole full of water was, they went around a few times. They had a brief inaudible chat. The Professor smiled approvingly. The tension was mounting. Everyone came out to hear the news.

||6||

'Yes, we think there could be something down there. It's a bit blurry but it looks like an octopus, if that helps.'

'Yes! I knew it.' Mr P. punched the air.

The archaeologists took off their muddy shoes and went in to join Kevin's pal for takeaway pizza.

'What's next?' asked Mr P, rubbing his hands.

'We're waiting to hear from the botanists. Ana sent out some photos.'

After beer, pizza, coffee and much playing with phones all round, Ana finally said,

'I've got some news from my friend in Cardiff – they think it's a … I can't pronounce that. They think it's from Borneo.' She continued reading from her phone, translating from Spanish. 'They say it probably escaped from someone's collection.'

'Can plants escape?' asked Kevin.

'They say, kill the roots. Dig it up. Get the roots and it should go.'

'Kill the octopus,' said Kevin.

Al put his hands on his hips. 'To the final stage, then. The digger.' Ana, Al and Kevin looked at each other.

'What's the problem?' asked Mr P. 'We've got a digger, right?'

'Yes, we can get one round here tomorrow,' said Al. 'The bad news is, Dad, our person with the mini digger is Bob.'

'Which Bob?' asked Mr P. 'Oh, no.'

On Sunday afternoon, Bob sent round his digger and two of his workers. Mr P. left loads of food and drink on the dining room table, then went out 'for a walk'. Everyone from the day before turned up. The digger hammered away until it didn't look like a garden anymore. It was noisy and not much fun to watch. An hour later there was a massive hole in the garden. The digger had scooped up a pale-brown root that did actually look like an octopus; especially as it had fallen upside-down out of the digger bucket. Bob's employees looked like game hunters as they stood either side of it. Al phoned and described the scene to his dad, who didn't say much.

||7||

'I hope the turkey's all right, Ana,' said Mr P. 'I'll have to get a bigger one next year.'

'I think the baby'll still be on milk then, Dad,' said Al.

'You've been doing your research, son. Very good.'

In the corner of dining room, sitting on an unusual eight-legged table, amongst a group of Christmas cards and family photos, stood Ana's framed photo of the garden. With the light that July morning, the scene looked more like something from a hundred years ago, rather than a few months. And it didn't look like your typical suburban back garden.

Outside, the lawn was covered in snow. A few sparrows pecked at the feeder and a pigeon hoovered up what they spilt. Below the birds, the garden slept. All the seeds, spores and roots hibernated, waiting for the promise of spring and new growth.

बचपन (बचपन के सुखी दिन) | Bachpan (Bachpan ke sukhi din) | Hindi Full Story by StoriesNBooks

Dhruv Dixit 1-2 pages , hindi

बचपन के सुखी दिन , जो कभी नहीं लौटेंगे ! क्या कभी कोई उसकी स्मृतियाँ भुला सकता है ? उसके बारे में सोचते ही मेरा मन आज भी उल्लसित हो उठता है, आत्मा में एक नूतन ऊंचाई का अनुभव होने लगता है।

याद आता है , किस तरह दिन भर की उछल -कूद बाद हम चाय की मेज के इर्द - गिर्द बैठ जाते थे। काफी देर हो चुकी होती थी, दूध और मिठाई के बाद आंखें नींद में मुंदने लगती थीं, किन्तु फिर भी हम अपनी कुर्सी पर बैठे रहते थे। सुनने का शौक दबाना असंभव था।

Also Read: प्यासा कौआ | The Thirsty Crow | Pyasa Kauwa Short Story In Hindi

लेकिन नींद से मेरी पलकें भारी हो जातीं और दूसरे ही क्षण मै सुध-बुध खोकर सोने लगता। आधी नींद में ही लगता कि कोई अपने कोमल हाथों से मुझे छू रहा है और मैं जान जाता कि यह माँ का स्पर्श है।

मुझे उनका प्रिय, परिचित स्वर सुनाई दे जाता है - अब उठो, अपने बिस्तर पर जाकर आराम से सो जाओ। मैं अचानक जाग जाता हूं। माँ मेरे पास बैठी है और मुझे छू रही हैं। मैं उनकी गंध को पहचानता हूँ, और दोनों बाहें उनके गले में डाल देता हूँ। फिर ऊपर अपने कमरे में जाकर मैं संतों के चित्रों प्रार्थना , हे प्रभु, माँ और पिताजी को हमेशा सुखी रखो !

प्रार्थना के बाद हल्की , उल्लास - भरी और उज्जवल-सी भावना घिरने लगती है। एक के बाद एक सपने आते हैं। वे सब धुंधले और छुईमुई - से जान पड़ते हैं - लेकिन उन सबमें निर्मल प्रेम और असीम सुख की आशा भरी होती है। क्या बचपन की वह ताजगी, बेफिक्री, प्यार की भूक और आस्था दुबारा कभी लौट सकेगी? प्रेम में उफनती प्रार्थनाएं कहाँ हैं ? हमारी ज़िन्दगी के सबसे सुन्दर उपहार - भीगी , कोमल , भावनाओं में उमड़ते आसूं क्या हमेशा के लिए खो गए ?

Red, Yellow and Purple by Andrea Smith | Full Short Story Read Online

Dhruv Dixit 5-9 pages , english

'Court rise.'

Judge George Witnesham entered the court. Shrouded in red and topped with a slightly tatty wig, he's one of the most senior judges here. For senior, read old. Cadaver-like. But no less sharp for that. Not one of the dodderers the media like to tell you run our justice system.

Of course, I'm part of that media conspiracy. Journalist, boy and man, as my first editor would have said. But strictly local news. None of your sensationalist muck-raking for the tabloids. Sitting on the press bench, notebook in hand, shorthand at 120 words per minute. Twenty-odd years of cases, from the leader of the council being done for dangerous driving to terrible stories of family violence. But rarely a murder. And never a defendant I actually knew.

I say knew. Used to know, really. Peter Edwards lived in the same village as me when I was a kid. Same street. We lived on what was known as the new estate - one-and-a-half roads, built a few years before I was born. And Mr Shelley lived there too.

We all knew Mr Shelley. Bachelor. No job. Always around. To us he seemed ancient - but actually he was little older than I am now. He was one of those men adults were uneasy about. If I was walking past his bungalow with mum, she'd pull me close, away from his line of vision. He always seemed to be looking out of his window. And we were all warned to 'leave Mr Shelley alone' or 'don't go bothering him', though we never knew why.

And then one day there were police outside his home. We'd seen a police car there once or twice before, but this time there were lots of police. Several cars, lining the road. Activity as people went in and out. There were a whole load of us boys on our bikes - I was about eight by then and the youngest by two or three years. We were just circling, like a flock of curious birds. None of us seemed to be curious enough, though, to actually ask what was going on. I think at one point a

policeman suggested we moved away, but we just continued circling.

||2||

I must have realised what had happened the next day. Mum always read the local paper, and there on the front page was a photo of Mr Shelley. And though I can't remember the exact headline, I know it included the word murder.

The courtroom's neither old and imposing nor new and stylish. Typical 1960s functional architecture. It lacks the old fashioned grandeur of the nineteenth century courthouse in the next big town - all wood panelling, carving and heraldic shields. And it isn't big and airy like the new regional court - grey and white with a massive glass atrium and toughened glass separating defendant from courtroom.

No, our court is strictly practical. Lots of wood - but plywood. Padded benches - but with cheap plastic covering. A balcony for the public gallery, which is at least testament to the locals that they don't chuck missiles at defendant or judge. And press benches on one side; you have to twist round to see the judge and the dock. Most of the time us reporters are head down, scribbling away, but even if we had been face-on to this defendant, we'd have barely been able to see him.

Peter Edwards was a little older than me - three years maybe. He'd been in that flock of circling boys outside Mr Shelley's house when it happened. He was skinny, scruffy, quiet. Brown hair - never tidy. He often had bruises on his arms and legs - but then a lot of us lads did. Mostly from falling off our bikes or out of trees.

Neither of us were ever quite part of the gang. We were both on the periphery. I was a bit young. He was a bit, well, odd. He never joked with the other boys. I can't ever remember seeing him laugh.

Seeing him in court was a bit of a shock. Were there really just a few years between us? His face was turned down, looking at the floor, almost hiding from the rest of the room. But I could see enough. He was gaunt, grey, wrinkled.

||3||

That summer of 1981. Seems so long ago. I suppose it is - more than thirty years. But there's an unreality about it. Like a story. I can remember colours more than specifics. Yellow - the sun, the cornfield at the back of our house. The crunch of the stubble under foot after harvest. Purple - the lavender in our front garden. That beautiful fresh aroma - not like my grandma's 'toilet water'. Red - the bricks of our little identikit bungalows. Fresh strawberries picked from our garden, the juice dribbling down my chin.

And feelings. That sense of being happy - carefree - that long summer holidays bring. It's probably only a dream of what it was like: it was probably mostly grey and wet and smelt of the local chicken farm. But in my head that summer before we moved into the town was yellow and purple and red and supremely happy.

Our road was a cul-de-sac - no cars driving through. The only time you saw them was when the dads left for work in the morning or arrived back in the evening. We used to play football in the road. Well, the bigger boys did. I tended to run up and down and try not to get in the way. Sometimes one of them would bring a portable stereo and blast out The Jam or Blondie, until one of the mums came and gave us a different sort of blasting.

Peter and I were both only children, so we'd often end up playing together. I'd forgotten that. I suppose we'd been quite close, really. But when you're that age and you move away, you make new friends, and forget the old.

'My lord. The background to this case is this. On September the first, 1981, the body of Mr William Shelley was found at his home address in Buttercup Way, Tingwell. He had suffered a single stab wound to the stomach.'

The prosecution laid out the detail for Judge Witnesham - no jury. This was the sentencing - these days a guilty man's rarely sentenced immediately after conviction. A fistful of reports have to be prepared to help the judge understand the sort of man he's dealing with, and by the time they're done, it's so long since the judge first heard the evidence, it has to be outlined again.

||4||

Until Peter's arrest I hadn't thought about Mr Shelley for years. Decades. We'd noticed he hadn't been at his window for a couple of days - that was unusual - but it was the milkman who raised the alarm. When, on the third morning, he was delivering Mr Shelley's gold top and the previous two pints were still by the front door, he peeked in the window. And as he couldn't see anything, he went round the back.

The door wasn't locked. The smell must have hit him first - it was a hot summer. Maybe the milko thought it was the rotting ham joint on the table, covered in flies. But that wasn't the only thing the flies were interested in.

Back in the early 1980s there was no such thing as DNA evidence. Even so, everything from the crime scene was safely filed away by the police, in case it was of use at a later date. Then, a year or so ago, a cold case team was assigned to Mr Shelley's murder, and found signs of urine on his clothes - not his. They put the DNA details into the national database - and up popped Peter Edwards.

He'd been in and out of trouble almost from the moment I left the village. His list of antecedents went on for pages, right back to when he was a minor. Shoplifting, bit of burglary, theft from handbags. Nothing violent, though. But his DNA was on the system and it proved he was at the scene. And he did nothing to deny it.

I'd spoken to the copper leading the case before the hearing - off the record. When they arrested Peter, he'd seemed unsurprised, but didn't admit to the killing immediately. He'd stayed silent, eyes fixed on the floor; just as he was now in the dock.

Finally, his solicitor had a word with him in private. The police then returned and questioning resumed.

'Did you do it?'

Peter gave a slight nod of the head without raising his eyes, like a naughty child. They took that as a confession.

||5||

As for motive, the prosecution said Peter had intended robbing Mr Shelley and when he didn't have anything worth taking, my childhood friend had stabbed the man and urinated on the body. Peter offered nothing to contradict their version of events.

But I really couldn't imagine Peter doing that. Seeing him in court, he barely looked strong enough to pick up a knife - let alone wield it against another human being. And as a boy?

We had been close. Over the years that had faded from my memory. When the big boys went off for a cycle ride, out of our village, Peter stayed behind with me. Mum wouldn't let me go beyond the end of the road.

We played football in his back garden. I don't know where his parents were. His dad must have been at work - not sure about his mum. She didn't socialise as much as the other mothers, in and out of each other's kitchens for coffee. She and Peter were quite alike. Neither could look people in the eye. Except Peter with me.

I think he'd have loved a younger brother. He was pretty good with a football and tried to teach me - but I just couldn't get it. Sport has never been my thing.

Sitting in court I realised we were probably in Peter's garden the day it happened. In fact, as I sat there listening to the evidence, I started to wonder if I was his alibi. Stupid, of course. I mean, he'd confessed. Sort of.

Thinking back to what must have been the day, I could remember him trying to teach me to score a goal. He was keeper - and the two apple trees were the goalposts. Whatever I did, I couldn't get past him. My body language gave me away. And I just didn't seem to be able to boot it hard enough. And I tried. But it just didn't come naturally. And then finally I really did manage to give it a good kick - and it went sailing over the hedge into the garden next door. Mr Shelley's.

||6||

'My lord. The defendant does not deny his responsibility for Mr Shelley's death. But we would like to put forward a number of mitigating circumstances for what happened. In particular, Mr Shelley's attraction to young boys and his inappropriate behaviour towards them.'

Peter's barrister was speaking. And now I knew why the adults were anxious about their neighbour. Mr Shelley had a habit of being rather too friendly with some of the boys. Inviting them in for fizzy drinks and crisps, expecting something no child should be asked to do in return. It seems one or two told their parents - and while Mr Shelley was never charged with anything, the police had dropped in to give him some 'advice'. The defence barrister explained that Peter had been a victim of Mr Shelley's unwanted attention.

'Look what you've done!' Peter was slumped on the ground, head in hands. 'Now I've got to go round there and get it.' Slowly he got up and trudged towards the gate.

The memories were now creeping back. In court, the barrister was describing how Peter had gone to get the ball. But I was back in 1981, back in Peter's garden.

'That's okay - I'll go,' I called, as I ran past Peter and out of the gate.

I rang Mr Shelley's doorbell and explained that our football had gone over the hedge. I'd thought he'd be angry. Petey - I remembered I used to call him Petey, not Peter - had gone all white and wobbly at the prospect of going round. But Mr Shelley was all smiles.

'That's okay, come in. Would you like a glass of Vimto…'

The hallway was dark. Doors all shut. He showed me through to the kitchen. In the middle was a smallish table and on it, a wooden board with a ham joint and large carving knife. Mr Shelley was still smiling at me - but somehow I knew it wasn't a normal smile. It wasn't like your teacher telling you you'd written a good story, or when mum was pleased I'd tidied my bedroom. There was something else. Something I didn't understand. His eyes. They weren't nice.

||7||

'No, thank you. I'd just like to get our ball back, please.' I made for the back door, but he grabbed my arm.

'You are a nice, polite little boy, aren't you? But there's no hurry.'

He tried to lead me back into that dark hall. But I felt like there was a monster lurking there. I tried again to get to the door, but somehow he got both my arms behind my back, pinning them tight with just one of his big, rough hands, the sausage fingers of the other one forcing my face upwards. This wasn't like being punished by dad when I'd been naughty. This was weird. I didn't have the words to explain how it felt. I still don't.

His face was close to mine now. His breath was hot and smelly, like when you put damp socks on a radiator. And his free hand… I didn't understand what he was doing. But I knew it was wrong and I didn't like it.

'No!' I had to stop him. Had to. I kicked. I bit. I squirmed and wriggled and fought. And then I was free.

But I knew it wouldn't last. I grabbed the knife.

'No, no, NO.'

He kept coming. He wasn't going to stop. He had to stop. Had to.

And then he was on the floor. There was blood on the knife. On the floor. All over Mr Shelley. I looked at him lying there. Smiling. Laughing, even. And then he sighed. Long and deep and final.

Petey was at the door. And I was shouting. Screaming. When had I started screaming? It had seemed like everything had happened in silence, but the noise must have brought Petey running.

He was beside me. He was shaking. His face was a colour I'd never seen before. Sort of grey. His mouth hung open, just like the man on the floor. He looked and looked and looked. His face seemed as big a mystery to me as Mr Shelley's.

||8||

My senses were coming back to me. It smelt like a butcher's shop, but with an added acridness that was coming from Petey. A trickle of wetness had made its way down his leg and had formed a golden puddle at his feet.

We stood there, silent now. Finally, he spoke, quiet and slow.

'Give me the knife.'

He took it and wiped it thoroughly with a mauve tea towel, then dropped it onto the floor. I looked down. Red and yellow and purple.

And then he led me back to his house.

That night mum asked me why I was wearing Petey's clothes. I said I'd got messy. I don't think she questioned anything else. She and dad were busy packing for the house move. They had other things to think about.

All this filled my head as the judge passed sentence. I didn't hear a word. I just stared at Petey. He'd come to my aid then and he was doing it again. As the judge finished, I found myself standing. I wanted to say something. I wanted to shout: 'It wasn't him! It was me!'

But I just looked at Petey. Helpless. Again.

And he knew. For just a second he looked straight at me and smiled. It was weak and sad but it was definitely a smile. Just for me. That childhood bond, that fraternity - it was still there. He was my big brother. Looking out for me. Putting me first.

And then they led him away.

Happy Birthday Patrick by Christopher Adams | Full Story Read Online

Dhruv Dixit 5-9 pages , Christopher Adams

He'd slept out of his covers again and woken up cold. The room was only just coming round and the old man was always up first, naked and sleepy and thin.

Numb vibrations built into an even roll of whooshes and sweeps. Yesterday's air sucked out, tidied and smoothed for re-use. Then came the brightness. Soft pale washing over the crew quarters and notice boards, swilling in loose sheets and dirty clothes. Machines clicked and fizzed awake but the old man rarely went near them. He still wasn't sure what they all did.

'Good morning Patrick, and Happy Birthday,' James said.

James was always awake. He didn't need to sleep because he was always looking after the old man and the old man forgot that from time to time. Though, Patrick was sure the smaller ones were up to something. He'd become convinced in the last few months, certain in fact. Why wouldn't they slack off while he was asleep? He knew they only really woke up and started work when he did. That's why they were so eager to buzz and simmer when he looked at them.

Williams used to think his little theory was hilarious.

'They might only be programmed for basic maintenance, but they aren't stupid. Collegiality goes hang when we're not around,' the old man used to say.

Williams used to say, 'They're designed to do one simple task until they burn out. They don't have the cognitive software to make choices or prioritise, they're not all like James.'

Though Patrick's superior, the senior technician rarely exercised any formal authority. As long as he was left alone in his work, Williams behaved decently enough. Most were like that in the early days. His moustache would always twitch when he spoke about robotics or A.I. programming or anything else that blipped or beeped. Those things got him going.

The old man's bed was slim and itchy and, like the other three, pinched tight at the edges of the room. His uniform hovered overhead and he always dressed in the same order, a habit that hung around despite everything. It ran: top button loose and tie to cover, sleeves rolled at elbow, crew jumper for the cold, trousers and name badge last. It had taken him longer in the last few weeks, the lower back a particular hindrance in the mornings. Sometimes only the most local movements were possible.

||2||

The crew's mess was centralised by a wide, cylindrical table. Four seats surrounded it and four screens angled downwards from above. One showed course trajectory and temperature figures and another lit a lunch menu. The others detailed engine assessment rotas or updates on weekly social events. Thursday was quiz night and Friday a Guys and Dolls disco.

The old man always ate on his own. Even when the canteen crowded he'd find a quiet space and keep to himself. It was easier now they had all gone to sleep for a while.

'Good morning colleagues. A breakfast has been allocated for all registered crew members by your friends at Tomorrow Ltd. We sincerely hope you enjoy.'

Despite complaints, James gave the full message every morning. Patrick insisted there was really no need to go through those kind of things anymore. Not every day. But there were certain policies James couldn't move on. Certain legalities which had to be met. So the old man could say the whole thing backwards if he had to.

'The contents have been selected to ensure your continuing physical strength and cognitive rigour in the field. A panel of Tomorrow dietary experts have arranged a satisfying meal of balanced nutritional value. We offer: bacon and eggs, sausages, toast, hash browns, tomatoes and a choice of orange or apple juice for the full English breakfast, or a selection of wholemeal breads and mackerel salad for the continental option. Your friends at Tomorrow Ltd. hope you have an enjoyable and productive day.'

Patrick didn't mind the bacon. He liked the sausages too but found the eggs suspicious. He didn't care for the mushrooms either.

'Good morning Patrick, and Happy Birthday,' James said again.

'Good morning James,' the old man said. 'What time is it?'

The computer was still, a slight glitch in his electric brain and misfire of understanding. It was an easy mistake. Clever ones like James could learn idiom, dictum and colloquialism, but there were always small pockets of meaning that slipped underneath his software, particularly if his calibrations had fallen out of sync.

||3||

'What time is it at home James?'

'GMT: 2:17 am. Sunday, May 18th.'

'Still sleeping then,' the old man said.

Though bright and convincing, there was current in James's voice. A slight fizz and burble around his Os and As.

He sounded like a young man but it was impossible to say a number. There was no place in his words either, no highs or lows of intonation. A history of nowhere. Friendly enough, the old man thought, but he was in every room, wrapping the corridors too easily. Muting football commentaries and interrupting recreational hours to make sure he was listened to. You could even hear him between the fusion towers on G deck.

The old man folded his toast and eyed a cornflake near Taylor's chair. The room really could have done with a clean. They'd run out of cereal years ago.

'Patrick, the E deck's oxygen resurgence valves have not passed through recommended maintenance for-' there was a pause and Patrick waited for the octave drop, though he didn't mime it that time. '-Three months, two days and seventeen hours.' Then the familiar high notes were back. 'I strongly recommend that a senior technician oversees the process immediately. The safety of this ship, cargo and crew are-'

'I know James, thank you,' the old man said, crumbs falling from his face.

James always waited ten minutes or so in the mornings. That was how long humans needed. It was the time margin his behavioural paradigms aligned with. Though it was not rare for tolerances to go short by a few minutes, in specific circumstances.

The old man raised a cigarette to his mouth. He always smoked after breakfast.

'Could you play one of the videos, James?'

The old man hadn't asked for a while, a few years perhaps, but that day was special.

||4||

James avoided certain conversations. He hadn't the capacity for sophisticated dialogue or empathic reciprocation like the cleverer models. But the circumstances had been unusual for so long that some communicative processes had to be reassessed for his human. He'd learned how and when to entertain its whims as best he could. He knew when to do one of the big thoughts.

They took a little longer than his usual decisions.

Oceans of faceless probabilities and risks balanced against one another and miles of data on positive co-operation were consulted. Digital schisms and algorithms darted, assessed, re-assessed, but returned only the ones and zeros of error code.

'Tomorrow Ltd. must insist that oxygen valve maintenance is this vessel's immediate priority. As the acting senior crew member, the safe passage of this ship, in accordance with-'

'-Do you know what day it is today, James?'

'Yes Patrick, Happy Birthday Patrick.'

'Then give me a video you stupid cunt.'

The old man exhaled, head wrapping in haze.

There wouldn't be any paperwork to go through. There was nobody around to reset James to ten seconds earlier.

Patrick was a lousy technician. He'd a history of disciplinary action for decorum and sloppy safety procedure. He swindled his ration card and didn't use the ship's leisure facilities as expected. He was an infant in James's space of boundless capabilities, but he was human and James was not.

The screen above the old man shuddered alive and James wouldn't speak for a while. All advised courses of action stilled.

The first moments of this one were jittery. The sharpness was primitive and the sound, muddy and distant. But where the others had dots, percentages and data, this one had greens. Deep and real from where it could have been June.

It was beautiful in there. Lovely skies and grass stretching deep and wide into a far sight, islanded by families and day. Games of cricket and football were playing out. Natives probably, shirtless and eyed by the pretty girls.

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||5||

But the lens wasn't with them. It was with the hill and the little boy on his bicycle.

This one was ready, helmeted and strapped tight in elbow pads. He was going to be first down. Blond curls flitting in the Sunday brightness and feet steady at the pedals.

There was a voice in there too, opaque and dissonant, seas away from the old eyes watching.

Patrick knew there'd be a countdown and at Go! the little knees would thunder, work and batter at the pedals. The tiny boy would fly harder and faster, giving his all with the most wide, beautiful cheeks, the other children miles behind.

There would be another voice too.

The camera hadn't seen them yet but Patrick knew there was another voice in there. It belonged to a woman in a summer dress, arms outstretched and smiling from the very middle of herself. 'And here he goes! The brave champion of the world!' she'll shout and take him in her arms where the hill levels. Joy and the hope of everything in their eyes before cut off.

The old man had seen it before but it had been a while.

The room was quieter when it finished and his cigarette had split between his fingers. Ash was getting everywhere.

Core temperature graphs and vector efficiency diagrams were coming back, folding over the greens.

Miles away, giant engines burned away their reserves, pushing three thousand tonnes through cold dark. James knew the old man wouldn't move. He'd learned a lot about his human over the years and could tell when something was wrong.

'Patrick, would you like me to go through our data on Jane?'

'No, not today James.'

'I understand.'

There were no windows in the crew's quarters but she hung just outside, reddened and weightless. The scanners had noted her mean distance at two hundred and thirty five thousand miles away, about the same as the old man's home from its moon.

||6||

She moved in quiet spins, one twirl equalling six of earth's, and had two moons herself. But the surface was always shifting. Current and gas and dust mixing and scattering in constancy. Deep ambers giving way to tired yellows. Clouds forming thick gaps of shadow. The old man sometimes tried to make shapes out of the clumps, tigers and elephants on flying carpets, bicycles going down hills.

Jane the planet didn't have a real name, most of the minor rocks don't, but Patrick called her that because it was the first thing that came to his head. He'd never known a real Jane.

'Patrick, I have recalculated those probabilities you asked for. Is it a suitable time?'

The old man didn't speak.

'The statistical likelihood of reaching earth within the next thirty two years has increased from seventeen percent to twenty four. I have also reassessed the oxygen circulation and food rationing programs with pleasing-'

'You don't have to go through that again, James.'

'I understand.'

'Patrick I'm afraid the risk to respiratory function is approaching significant. Lack of filtration can lead to erosion and contamination of the oxygen re-cyclisation sensors. If left unchecked, and at our rate of use, the air will be unbreathable in less than thirty days.'

'I know James, thank you. I'm going now.'

'Beyond that, failure to apply necessary maintenance by identified technicians can warrant immediate disciplinary action and suspension.'

'Thank you James, I'm going now.'

'Thank you Patrick.'

James was doing his best but something was centralising. Some new thought. Only minor in the far edges of his endless and perfect algorithms, but one that warranted consideration.

It wouldn't be long now and that wasn't unusual, but it would be different this time.

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||7||

Since his beginning there were always others to fill a place, always other names and ways and idiosyncrasies to learn, but soon, like them, this old man would go and he'd be alone for a while.

Patrick started on his boots, taking his time to lace both before rising. At his pace, it'd be half a day before he got to the other side and found the right corridor.

He wanted to pop in to the Captain's quarters while he was out, look out the window for a while and grab a last bottle of something.

James turned a blind eye that time, it was his birthday after all.

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