Between Worlds

By Andrew Keighley

The planet-sized space ship Alpha is bearing its cargo of human colonists to a new home, far from the dying earth. Roland is the Chairman of the Council, but deplores the government's drift towards dictatorship. He sets out on a journey to discover the true mood of the people, a journey in which he will question his own beliefs and bring Alpha itself to the very brink of anihilation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Keighley
• Release date: Oct 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301513352

Andrew Keighley

I was born in 1955 in London, lived in Rome with my parents from 1963 to 1970, then returned to England to finish school there. After a gap year back in Italy, I went to University in Dundee, Scotland, where I was awarded an MA Hons in Philosphy. After 6 years in the local fire service, in Dundee, my wife and I and two young children emigrated to Australia. I am now a High School teacher in Darwin, teaching Italian and English. I began writing fiction while at university, but then wrote little for years, until I took it up again in 2008. By 2010 I had completed 'Between Worlds', which is now available free here on Smashwords. By 2015 I had completed my second novel 'Novel Experience', also available now on Smashwords. Enjoy!

Book preview

BETWEEN WORLDS

ANDREW KEIGHLEY

COPYRIGHT 2012

BY ANDREW KEIGHLEY

SMASHWORDS EDITION

BETWEEN WORLDS

A NOVEL

BY

ANDREW D. KEIGHLEY

CHAPTER 1

If space is infinite, how can we be moving through it, from one point to another, moment by moment? How can there be points of reference in a space, which is infinitely large? And if space is not infinite, then we must be moving closer to the edge of space. If so, what lies beyond that edge? And if space is circular, or spherical, and we are like earthbound mariners in past ages, ploughing through the oceans in their wooden ships, how long would it take to circumnavigate the whole of space? And if this is so, why is there not one jot of evidence for it?

Fingers move slowly over a touch pad on a swivel chair, and an image of the Sagittarius Triplet Nebulae fills the wall. Dark brown eyes gaze at the image, picked up by the remote telescope on the surface. Three splashes of colour on the giant screen, ranging from white hot in the centre, to shades of candy floss pink and violet blue, as wisps of gas, light years long, drift out from the centre of each nebula, reaching out toward the others, uniting the three in an endless dance, as they spin and whirl, drawing the molecules of gas into their centres, building for the day when they will give birth to new stars. In between, the infra red image shows millions of tiny dots of light, swirling in great clouds, while way off in the top right hand corner can just be seen a tiny spiral, the galaxy C489, spinning far away, dreaming its own dreams, watching jealously as the giant Milky Way lives out its dramas, ever changing, creating, dying and being born anew.

Mira?

Yes Roland?

What do you think of that?

The controller takes a few seconds to scan the image.

Beautiful, Roland.

Why is it beautiful Mira?

You’re teasing me now. Well, the colours, and the shapes, and the fact that it’s 3000 parsecs away, and 23.9 parsecs across, and yet it seems like three living creatures, reaching out to each other, dancing in deep space...

Who’s teasing who, Mira? I’ve told you not to listen to my thoughts...

But Roland, they’re such charming thoughts...

I won’t talk to you if you do that again.

Silence. Only the soft shush of the air conditioner, and the almost imperceptible hum of the nuclear core, and the thump of his heart as a spurt of fear appears, a supernova exploding in inner space, sending shockwaves far out into consciousness.

Then calmness, as fear is soothed, and mind is caressed by loving kindness, wrapping its soft arms around a troubled soul.

Thank you Mira.

Awareness of breath, in and out, sensation in the nostrils, as attention is brought to the body… the cushion of the chair, pressing, slight pain in the lower back, the usual low level ache in the neck, so constant as to be barely noticed, pressure of the hands on arms of the chair and control pad, eyes focus again on the image… recurrent thoughts, then back to the centre, breathe in and out… consciousness of companionable presence… a brief moment of emptiness, before the suffering returns…

Music Roland?

Mm.

The faintest smile, an incline of the neck, as if snuggling up to a lover, and the gentle, melancholy sound of a Chopin Nocturne fills the room.

You know I didn’t mean that.

I know.

And thank you for your…help.

Could this moment last forever? This deep happiness, freedom from thought and unity with another – this emptiness, this peace? If only… body relaxes, as mind drifts suspended, and the image on the wall gradually fades. The air temperature warms by one degree, in response to a slight cooling of the body.

Behind the swivel chair and the sleeping man, a low bed in the corner, with beside it a small table and lamp, curiously old fashioned, with a fabric shade, displaying images of a woman in a Kimono, interspersed with white lilies, and at intervals a black bird, seen in relief, flying against a cream-coloured sky. Three books piled beside the lamp, books made of paper, valuable, with hard crimson covers, faded, and gold painted page ends between the covers, titles barely visible in the dim light from the wall screen.

Opposite the bed, draped in a patterned cloth, pale green and gold with baroque curls, a flat shelf, raised a metre off the floor, with in the middle of it, a wooden image – a man in a robe, sitting in the lotus position, his hands folded neatly in his lap, and a sort of head dress, covered in small circular shapes, a slight smile touching his lips, as he gazes into the near distance. On either side of the statue, small glass containers with night light candles in them, not lit, with, to one side, a small china bowl filled with sand, the remains of incense sticks protruding from its surface.

Roland stirs slightly, as a frown appears on his face, then slowly he relaxes, and returns to steady shallow breathing. An hour later he will be gently woken up, and urged to retire to bed, which he will do, watched over by the Buddha, and by his guardian angel, the omnipresent controller.

*

Roland is observing the man sitting on the other side of the desk, in his office, on the top floor of Government House. Behind him he can see an array of other slightly lower structures than the one they are in, and beyond that, a vista of flat, green, pine forest on one side, and what looks like a large lake on the other, both of which disappear over the impending horizon .

The man in front of him, though slouched in his armchair, is clearly tall, lanky and jolly. He sports a pointed beard, and smiles frequently, showing off a set of large white teeth. He seems relaxed and self-confident, and does not hesitate at all in his prolonged discussion with the Chief Counsellor.

That new fella, the one you picked out from the University Science faculty, now there’s a good man. He’s got a good head on his shoulders. A damned fine understanding of politics, if you ask me. Bloody good choice of yours, Roland. He knows what’s what, and when to rock the boat, and when to tow the line. Oh yes indeed! And the teeth flash again, above the dark beard, as he waits for the other to comment.

Hmm. Yes, I thought he’d do rather well. He’s popular, and he seems to have a grasp of what people are thinking on the big issues.

"Exactly! If anything’s going on, he’ll know about it, and he’ll let us know about it too. I mean the security boys do a great job, don’t get me wrong, I’m not bagging anybody out – and of course, Mira does a terrific job of surveillance – where would we be without her? Bloody good thing she’s on our side, don’t you think!" This last as a quiet aside into his beard, and a smirk at Roland.

Abdul Waziri, Convener of the People’s Parliament seems to have come to a halt for the moment. A low hum of micro-circuits, behind the walls. Roland stretches out his legs and wonders how long the other will stay.

What did you think of my idea in that paper I sent you the other day? Abdul is eyeing him closely from the depths of his armchair.

The one about the memorandum of understanding?

Mmm.

Well, interesting.

It’s definitely the way to go. Offer all the members of the Parliament a wacking great increase in living allowance, along with improved accommodation and conditions for families, but on the proviso that they sign the memorandum of understanding.

Which advises them…

That they are obliged not to destabilise the government, or act in such a way as to endanger the security of the state.

Which means they must vote to accept the decisions of the Council.

Waziri grins broadly, spreading his hands, like a magician displaying a new trick. Voila!

Hmm. Roland’s face is expressionless, staring at the ceiling opposite. You don’t think it’s a little lacking in subtlety – a bit too obvious that we’re sidelining democracy?

No. I think people respect strong leadership, and calling a spade a spade. The fact is we can’t go back to the old days of unstable, minority governments, constantly falling, and reforming, and no clear leadership or direction, because everyone’s got different ideas about policy. That’s what we fought the war over, and since we prevailed, it’s our obligation to deliver strong, firm government, in the interests of all the people, even those that disagree with us.

A fine speech. What of those who won’t sign?

Hmm. The long fingers are steepled in front of him, as he considers the question. The appointed members will sign…well, most of them. We can rely on them. Some of the elected ones probably won’t; the radical democrats definitely won’t, and a few of the other crazies…

A three storeyed paddle steamer is just coming into the docking area, carrying a hundred and fifty or so adults and children. Roland watches it, as he slowly says: So we have two options with the non-signers. We either disbar them from the parliament, in other words make it a condition of being a member that they sign…

Or we let it go, but then quietly persuade them that politics is not the right career for them, and they should seek employment elsewhere. The flashing grin returns, and the long, bony fingers display another shrewd trick.

Roland sits motionless, feeling his heart beat inside his chest.

Waziri is suddenly standing, palms of his hands resting on the desk, as he leans forward, towering over the seated man.

Roland, I know what you’re thinking..

You do?

You’re an intensely moral man; you want justice and fairness for all. Everyone knows that, and we all respect you for it. You feel this is undermining democratic principles that you hold dear. You feel it’s too heavy handed, too much like bully boy tactics…. And in one way it could be seen like that…. but Chief Counsellor, his voice is almost trembling with emotion now, consider what’s at stake. Three hundred earth years we’ve been flying this ship, a hundred and fifty Alpha years, to reach the planet, to land there, and colonise, and start a new outpost for mankind. We’re only halfway there. Another six generations, and our descendants will land there, and start the great adventure all over again. This world of ten million brave pilgrims is in our care. We are the ones who must steer it through these troubled times, keep it on a stable keel, keep it clear of the rocks, keep it safe from smashing itself to extinction on the treacherous reef of democracy, where every man and woman wants their say in running the ship. He takes a deep breath, holding Roland with his piercing eyes. This is too sacred a mission to be swayed by earthbound ideas of freedom and fair play. Think of our constitution! Sure we have a parliament. Sure, we want to let people have their say, but what is the supreme value we must adhere to? What is it above all that we must preserve?

The integrity of Alpha, and all those that voyage in her. To preserve the safety and wellbeing of all its inhabitants, such that our descendants may arrive on our new home safe and well, fully able to colonise, and continue our race in this sector of the galaxy. He knows the quote by heart.

That’s right Roland.

Waziri removes himself from the desk, and walks over to the ceiling-to-floor window, where he stands with his hands behind his back, looking out across the huge open square, dotted with trees, and small cafes, people strolling in the artificial sunlight, some sitting in chairs, chatting.

‘I understand your feelings, Roland. Believe me, I do. But sometimes rulers have to be tough, and take decisions that are unpopular with some people. We have to take the long view – look at the big picture – for the sake of our brave forbears who set off from our poor wasting planet, and had the vision to believe that we could start again elsewhere. We have to stand firm, and maintain stability here! He turns with a flourish, facing the other again. We can’t let things slide back into conflict and war. That last one nearly finished us off. It’s only through the sheer bloody-mindedness of the council, and the military, and all the engineers and the technicians, and all the people that make this place work, their determination that they would get things back to the way they were, working, functioning, their refusal to be beaten…."

He seems unable to go on.

Roland smiles at him gently. Abdul, you’re a very passionate man, a very persuasive man. Let me consider your proposal for a few days. Let me talk about it with some other people, and we’ll meet again soon. There are many other issues we could talk of now, but I need to do some things. Thank you so much for coming. It’s always a pleasure. He stands and extends a hand, smiling broadly.

Waziri advances and grasps it firmly, too firmly, delivering a crushing squeeze, which Roland attempts not to wince at, then he turns and leaves the room with a flourish.

Spins the chair, and puts his feet on a favourite cushion carefully positioned by the window. Looks out at the square. Government workers on their lunchbreak are lounging, and watching the parents with children that have now disembarked from the steamer, as they drift towards the cafes and shops, before heading down to the subway trains that crisscross Alpha, that will take them back to their homes on the lower levels.

Such a painful, pompous man. Such a…gasbag…so full of himself, so sure of himself. So sure that his way is the only way. And that hand crush. What’s he trying to do – intimidate me into agreeing with him? (Smiles bitterly to himself)

What have we come to now? Are we going to rule by brute force and power alone? Are we going to throw out the last vestiges of consensus politics, and remove all opposition with the help of the security services?

And yet the man has a point. The war was unthinkably gruesome. As Chief Counsellor I was involved in the decision to move against the rebels with force. Some ten thousand died, and we still have five hundred and fifty seven prisoners in stasis in the security section, awaiting a decision on their lives. It’s one of the issues the council is most bitterly divided on – the fate of these remnants of the rebels, or freedom fighters, depending on your point of view.

Some of the elected parliamentarians still have ties to sympathisers with the rebels. They keep their statements within bounds, that they think will be acceptable to their rulers, but I know that they seethe with anger and resentment, even hatred of those who killed their friends in the name of stable government, and long for what they see as liberation from tyranny.

And what of the vast majority of the people? The 10 million pilgrims who spend their lives working to keep Alpha going? The mechanics and the teachers and the nurses, and the subway drivers and the journalists, and the military personnel, and the young mothers, and the retirees, and… what do they think? Surely they want to keep on living their lives in peace and security, even if this means losing some political freedom? Surely they understand that you can’t let every drug-taking intellectual that thinks he or she has a monopoly on truth, every religious fanatic that believes God is speaking to them in tongues, have their way, and destroy the hard work of six generations of people dedicated to reaching the goal, to giving mankind a chance of survival? Surely they can see that! Can’t they?

CHAPTER 2

The girl has long dark curls that hang down, partially covering her bare shoulders and breasts, as she leans back in the divan armchair, slitting her eyes against the smoke from the large hand-rolled cigarette that dangles from her fingers. She contemplates a painting propped on an easel, 2 metres away. A crazed individual with a huge oval mouth, holding its tortured face in its hands, is surrounded by a sphere peopled with tiny figures. He or she is emitting a shriek of pain and anguish. The eyes are bloodshot, dark, as they stare out, full of despair and hatred. Around the outside, black is interspersed with violent explosions and whirls of blues and crimson and white/yellow, in an insane pattern of manic revenge, threatening the sphere. Brushes and tubes of paint litter a card table next to the easel.

She rises from the divan, and slowly approaches the painting, revealing a stunning figure, dressed only in a pair of g-string knickers. She carefully lays the cigarette across an ashtray, and picks up a brush, dipping it in three different colours, which she then mixes on a palette, before going to work on one of the outer sections of the picture.

Canvasses, new, partially finished and completed, lean against the sides of the large studio. Against one wall a massive four-poster bed is draped with black fabric hangings, the rumpled bedclothes visible through lace curtains. In another corner a personal gym mechanism sits ready to welcome its owner, a chair with weights above it, and also in front, held by wires, and other contraptions controlled by an array of touch pads. A film of dust covers the gym, as in fact covers everything in the apartment. Dirty clothes, empty bottles, spilt ash, empty packets, paint tubes, pieces of paper, and a hundred other miscellaneous bits of rubbish litter the floor. The room smells of tobacco, marijuana, red wine and something else, which has an acrid, sharp edge to it. Pale green light glows from the walls and ceiling, and a standard lamp stands alone in a corner, shedding a homely pink light on the thickly carpeted floor. On another wall a large screen is displaying constantly changing multicoloured patterns, in time to low, throbbing mood music that permeates the air.

The girl has stopped painting. Hands dangle by her sides, and her eyes become vacant. She hangs her head, then throws it back, and suddenly she shrieks like a banshee. Reversing the brush in her hand, she drives it into the centre of the canvass, then wrenches it from side to side, ripping the painting so that bits of it hang, still attached to the outside frame. Not content with this she drops the brush, and sobbing hysterically, pulls the remaining pieces of canvas off the frame with her hands, flinging them across the room, where they join other bits of rubbish by the walls. Then wiping her paint smeared fingers on her long, shapely legs, so they are streaked with colour, she hugs herself, still sobbing inconsolably, running her fingers up and down her neck, round her full breasts, her flat stomach, and down to her hips.

Gradually her crying ceases, and she retrieves the cigarette from the ashtray, lights it up again, and returns to the divan chair, where she reclines, one leg bent at the knee, raised in front of her, the other stretched out, the foot limply turned outwards. She continues to rub her breasts gently, as she smokes steadily, head leaning back, eyes gazing blankly up through the smoky air. Reaches under the chair with her left hand and retrieves a bottle of wine. Takes a slug. Some of the dark liquid runs down her chin, dripping onto her body. Enjoying this sensation, she pours a little more from the bottle onto herself, and rubs it on her skin, before taking another drink.

Fingers stray onto the touch pad on the arm of the divan.

Hey Max? Her voice is low and husky.

A low hum, then a high-pitched cackle fills the room. Maria! Fancy hearing from you after all this time! Hehehehe. Whatchaupto my little slutty girl?

She smiles, and stretches luxuriantly. Mmm… not a lot.

Oh ho! I like the sound of that. I bet you’re naked and horny! I can see it now. Hehehehe.

Actually Max…

Yeees. Go on.

Well, I’m having a really bad time.

"Because?

I’ve had a crisis with the painting.

The painting? But you’ve got so many. Which one do you call ‘the painting’?

She sounds petulant. You know, the screaming face one.

"Oh. That one! Hehehehe. Now I know what you mean. What’s the problem?"

I’ve just…. Takes a slug from the bottle. …I’ve wrecked it.

Ooooh. You crazy bitch! What a dumbfuck thing to do. What’s wrong with you? Now you’re all sad. Hehehehe.

Max, don’t be a bastard. D’you know how much that painting meant to me? It’s like…

It expressed all of your deep dark despair. It was a part of your soul, and now it’s gone. Yes, I know. You’re a spoilt child. You’ve had a tantrum and destroyed your favourite toy, and now you’re upset. What did you expect, you slack whore?

Well, thanks for the sympathy. I knew I could rely on you.

Any time, my dear, any time.

Silence for a few moments. Max, what are you doing now?

Ahha, wouldn’t you like to know! Michael, stop licking me. I’m talking to someone…

She laughs out loud. You’re such a mad, gay boy. That’s why I love you. You’re not really having sex with one of your boys, are you?

Mmm… wouldn’t you like to know. Damien! That’s enough! Hehehehe.

Well…. would you mind coming around?

Mmmm…. Now you’re talking. Maybe. The question is: will I be able to get my dick out of Damien’s arse? He’s got a sphincter tighter than a…..

A giggle. Max, that’s disgusting. You’re just trying to put me off.

Of course! Now, let’s be serious for a minute. Describe the scene for me.

Well, I’m lying on the divan. What’s left of the painting is on the easel…

Mmm, and you’re wearing?

Max, you’re such a pervert. My usual.

Which means either nothing at all, or a g-string.

The latter.

Oooh! Formally dressed today, are we? And, don’t tell me, you’re having a smoke, and a drink of wine..

Maybe…

Well… I tell you what. Roll me a joint, pour me a glass, and I’ll be there in ten minutes. Give me time to have a quick shower. How’s that?

She smiles broadly. Lovely, Max. I can’t wait.

Mmmm…you’re such a sexy bitch. If I’m not there in ten, start without me!

She giggles again, and shuts him off.

Eyes close. Dark grey with a hint of orange, behind the eyelids. Stares straight into it, trying to find the pictures, the shapes that lurk there, the great masterpieces waiting to be born …. Tiny flashes of light seem to spark there, then a dot on her retina, an old friend, hovers into view, to be replaced by bars of indeterminate colour, that slowly spin and whirl. Her eyes hurt. Passes a hand across them.

What’s wrong with me? Why am I such a hopeless bitch? Why am I fucking around in all this mess? Why do I kid myself that I’m a creative genius, when anyone else would call me something very different? And why can’t I stop smoking and drinking, and screwing every man that comes near me?

An image of her father comes into her mind, when she was a little girl, and her Mum was still alive. A memory of a former time, when he was fooling around with her mother in the kitchen, and the latter had screamed, and said: Roland no! Not now. Maria’s through there. And she had wondered what was not to happen now, because she was there.

And a sudden longing comes to her to see her father again. The chief counsellor that she hasn’t seen for months; she who for years now has had nothing to say to him, except to abuse him for the job that he does, and the decisions that he takes, and the leading part he plays in maintaining the status quo.

If only I could see him, and tell him that I love him, and hear him tell me that he loves me. Like when I was little, and he’d come home and take me on his lap, and cuddle me. Will I ever feel that happy, that innocent again? Or is it gone forever?

A sob of self-pity starts to rise in her throat, but the buzzer sounds, and she has to decide if she wants to open the door. Of course…..Max. She touches the pad and sliding doors open.

Aha, my little one. Just as you described… you weren’t kidding me after all.

He is short and a little stout, with yellow tights and bare feet. A pale blue shirt with ruffled white sleeves is cut very low, almost to the waist, reveals a hairy chest, which has some obscene tattoos on it. His hair is short and blonde, but long on top, sticking straight up in a cockatoo crest, with a bright pink streak down the middle. He slides onto the divan next to her.

Move over, darling. Now, where’s that glass of wine you promised me?

She laughs and leans over him to reach the bottle underneath; offers it to him.

No, I said a glass, and I meant a glass! God, you’re such a tart!

With a sigh she rises and gets a glass from a cupboard - a beautiful, cut-crystal glass, triangular in shape, with mythical animal shapes carved all over its bowl and stem and base – and pours the wine into it, handing it to him with a flourish.

Ah, that’s better. Now for the….. he makes a gesture, and she takes another joint from a small pile on the card table, hands it to him, and lights it. He leans back, and inhales deeply. Yes……… now you’re talking. That’s better.

She snuggles back in next to him, and they share the joint, she sipping from the bottle, while he delicately drinks from his glass. He puts one arm around her and draws her close, kissing her cheek, then her nose.

Now, my darling. Tell me all your troubles, and let uncle Max make it all better for you.

She slides down, and rests her head on his hairy chest, one hand on the paunch of his stomach.

He waits, then sighs. Come come, dear child. I thought you wanted to talk to me.

I wanted you to come around. She is talking into his tummy button, so he can barely hear her.

Right! I see. Like that is it? You girls are all the same – you only want me for one thing!

She giggles. Oh Max. I didn’t mean it like that. I….I’m sorry. I just don’t feel like talking at the moment.

Hmm… I know, you want a quick fuck, and then you’ll pack me off till the next time.

She raises herself up, and brings her face very close to his. She kisses him on the mouth, then on both cheeks, rubs her nose against his. No, Max. Not like that, really. She strokes his hair, rubs her fingers up and down his stubbly face. Would you…..

Would I what? He still sounds peeved.

Do you…. do you know any lullabies?

Lullabies? The question is so unexpected he emits a yelp of laughter, high pitched even for him.

Yes, any lullabies? She looks into his face again, holding the back of his neck firmly in one hand.

He looks back at her, and sees she is deadly serious, perhaps close to tears.

"Well I…. actually I do know one."

She smiles. Can you sing it to me?

I can try…

She snuggles back down onto his chest in anticipation.

He takes a breath, then has to clear his throat. She pats his tummy encouragingly.

"When I was a young boy, just a little boy

My Momma said to me son you say you love me now

But one day things will change for sure

You’ll find a girl all for your very ownio

Then you’ll leave your Mum all on her very ownio.

Oh no, Mother, that will never never be

Never in a thousand years, will I leave thee

I will always love you true

On that you can depend

I’ll never leave you on your ownio

You’ll always be my love, my onlio"

He ends on a falsetto, and she slaps him hard on the stomach, laughing.

That was crap, Max! It didn’t rhyme, it didn’t scan, didn’t have a real tune…. She collapses in giggles on top of him, while he spreads his arms in innocent amazement.

What are you saying, girl. That’s an old world ballad….

Which you made up just now! She raises her head and looks into his face. But it was very sweet of you to try. Thank you, Max. I appreciate it. And she kisses him fondly, before lying down again.

They say nothing for a while, as Max strokes her thick black hair gently with his free hand.

Poor baby. Poor honey. Traces the shape of her ear through the curls. It’s OK now. It’s alright. And he can feel her shaking as she starts to sob. Then she cries without restraint, two fingers in her mouth, moaning inconsolably, as the grief wracks her body, and he says nothing, only holds her tight with both his hands.

Gradually the crying subsides, and then she is quiet, only shaken by an occasional sob, which works its way up from deep inside her.

What would you like, sweetie? What would make it better? Little more than a whisper, close to her ear.

She whispers back, I want to see my Dad.

Your Dad!

Uh huh.

His eyes become thoughtful, looking at a work hung on the wall opposite – a dragon-like beast, holding a dagger which it has just plunged into its own heart.

I know he still loves me… even though I’ve been such a bitch to him…. Sob. I just wanna see him, and tell him… She can’t go on.

Course you do. Naturally.

No one else loves me…and I’m such a….mess. He can feel her hand on his leg, clenching and clawing his flesh, hurting. Max, I hate my life. Do you know what that means?

Sure. It means you’re very upset.

No. It means I feel like I want to kill myself.

He winces slightly, and pats her on the arm, to make her stop hurting him.

I’m so sick of living on this fucking spaceship, just part of their big plan, just a cog in the machine… expected to have babies that will grow up and help carry on the dream, then grow old and die here… in the hope that one day, in a few more generations, my great great grandchildren will set foot on a new planet….

She looks up at him, face streaked with tears, eyes swollen and red. Don’t you think the whole thing just fucking stinks? Nobody asked me if I wanted to be a bloody….breeder cow!

He laughs at that. But you’re such a gorgeous cow, such a yummy, good enough to eat cow, rubbing his hand up and down her thigh, squeezing one breast with the other hand. Then stops. But I know what you mean.

You do?

Yeah. I feel the same way sometimes.

She looks at him closely again. That’s the first time…

What?

The first time I’ve ever heard you say how you feel. Usually you’re just….out there, being….being you, being funny and ….crazy, and….like you’re hiding behind all that, because….

Because?

Maybe you don’t want people to know what’s really going on with you?

Hm…

So tell me some more about how you feel… about Alpha.

Well… I mean….you’re not the only one to…

Feel that it’s all wrong?

Hm.

What does that mean?

She doesn’t look at him this time, just strokes the hair on his stomach, down to the bulge below, then stops when she feels him getting hard. Sorry, didn’t mean that.

He says nothing.

You mean there’s like a movement? Some sort of organised…

Not really, but…well, people talk. People get together….people that think the same way.

She kneels up next to him, folds her arms across her chest. He admires the way this squeezes her breasts together. He strokes her thigh, and her hip, just where the tiny g-string passes across it.

Now I’m interested. Tell me more, Max.

He looks at her, and she feels as though behind the eyes, inside his head, is a completely different creature from the one she knows – a different persona altogether, one that she doesn’t know at all. Like sitting naked with a complete stranger. Interesting.

He changes again – totally. Smiles broadly at her, then says: "You know what? This is all crap. Absolute crap. Everyone feels pissed off from time to time. It’s natural. Don’t worry about it. It’ll pass. And another thing…there is no movement, no organisation. I know you’d like to think there is, because it’s exciting, like a movie, but the truth is there’s nothing. Nobody gives a shit. Everyone’s glad the war is over. Nobody wants all that to start again. Know what I mean?"

The look that she gives him is so long and lingering, so probing, trying to fathom his motives. At that moment she seems so beautiful to him, so fragile, a little girl, yet totally desirable. He can’t help but smile, overcome with tenderness for her.

OK? So stop worrying. You’ll feel better soon. Now…. Rubs both hands up and down the inside of her thighs, up to the tiny triangle of red lace. She opens them slightly, responding to him. Are we gonna fuck or not? I’ve got the biggest hard on, that I’d love to slide into you…

She leans over him, and settles herself carefully astride his bulging tights.

Come on you gay fucker. Show me what you can do for a girl.

Her eyes are streaked with make up that has run, but what the hell? Sex is always good for clearing the mind. Nevertheless her face is thoughtful, as his thrusting dick starts to take hold of her.

CHAPTER 3

Good morning Charlene

Good morning Mira.

How are you today?

Hmm…OK, I guess.

You’re not very chatty this morning. Are