The Travis Fletcher Chronicles - Omnibus Edition: The Travis Fletcher Chronicles

By Chris Devine

All 5 Travis Fletcher books under one cover in chronological order.

The Archer's Paradox
Travis Fletcher is an arrogant chauvinist; the very embodiment of 1980s Britain. He is critically injuured in a train crash. He is unable to tell anyone he is still alive inside his wrecked body, except for the two enigmatic and indifferent apparitions at the end of his bed who are searching for a cure to a genetic plague, they find Travis Fletcher, primitive, broken and dying, and make him an offer - save the Xi Scorpii from extinction and become more than he was.

The Flight of the Arrow
Travis is alone on the ship that was supposed to take him back to Earth. He has to come to terms with his solitude and grapple with technology beyond his understanding just to stay sane, never mind to stay alive. His only companion is Xnuk Ek' lying in a coma in a locked cabin.

He makes a promise to a distant relation to the Xi Scorpii that means they will have to turn their new home into a fully functioning warship, find a crew of warriors and learn to be warriors themselves. New alliances are forged, new enemies are made and the dangerous and unpredictable Cat has her own voyage of discovery to make - into her past.

When the Bow Breaks
The Arrow is travelling to Arcturus 2 where Travis and Xnuk Ek' attempt to broker a peace between two invading races who are fighting for its abundant natural resources with no regards for the indigenous population. It is up to Travis and his crew of volunteers, renegades, refugees and runaways to find a solution to a war that no-one wants to end, except the peaceful Arcturans. Cat must come to terms with living in exile amongst humans, who she grew up believing to be the enemy of her kind. Xnuk Ek' is haunted by dreams of her own death. Toaq Ghashil only divulges snippets of his past when it suits him. The Arrow now has another passenger, the diminutive Pax, who has her own secrets and agenda. Travis still cannot reconcile who he was with his new life and his mental abilities are growing too fast for him to adjust. His internal turmoil threatens The Arrow, the mission and all three inhabited worlds of the Arcturus system. He also learns that the universe has bigger plans for them all.

The Goexiun Conundrum
Two stories set between When the Bow Breaks and Full Circle.
Pax Goes Home - The war that devastated Arcturus 2 is over. Xa'Paxezhaf has seen enough conflict and watched too many of her friends and lovers die, she has decided to leave The Arrow and return home. But will her parents accept her? Will they believe what the Vaeshic did to her? Even if Xa'Paxezhaf has finished with war and conflict, it seems that war and conflict have not yet finished with her. But first The Arrow has to return its volunteer crew, and that means going back to Haarn.

The Goexun Conundrum - Goexun has been isolated from the rest of the universe for thousands of years, surrounded by a natural barrier that allows nothing to cross it, not even the light of the stars. Eta-Doej needs to know what is on the other side, so much that she has joined a risky and controversial project to send a probe through the barrier and into the realm of the gods. What comes back could either destroy her planet or release it from its shackles - a ship the size of a city and crewed by hideous monsters.

Full Circle
Twenty years later, Travis is now a confident warship commander and mercenary. The Arrow has a full complement of crew and has been intervening in interplanetary wars and disputes, making the crew very rich. His telepathic abilities now rival or even surpass those of Xnuk Ek', his teacher and lover. It is now time to take The Arrow and its crew on its most dangerous mission yet, and deliver a message from the Hunab Ku to the people of Earth… but things are never that simple.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Devine
• Release date: Jan 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223723318

Chris Devine

Chris Devine is a project manager implementing high performance computing systems to universities and research establishments throughout the UK. He has devoured science fiction novels for as long as he can remember: from E. C. Eliott and Hugh Walters as a child, to Larry Niven, Robert Heinlein, A E van Vogt and Isaac Asimov as a teenager and Elizabeth Moon and so many others as an adult. He published his first novel, The Archer’s Paradox, in 2014 although the germ of the idea was born in a daydream decades before when he was eleven years old. What started as a short story to fill the evenings on a long contract away from home, took on a life of its own and became the Travis Fletcher Chronicles which eventually spanned four books. It still provides embryonic ideas for spin offs and sequels and there are two half written novellas in the pipeline. Although science fiction is his first love, he believes in letting the story take him where it needs to go, rather than pulling it in a direction you want to go, just like real life. Sometimes you end up on a different path to the one you thought you were on. Petra’s Story, therefore sits more in the mystery / psychological thriller section of the bookshelf, although there is still a sci-fi element. As with Travis Fletcher, Petra Connell is flawed, out of her depth and afraid of failing, and there is always Chris’ dark sense of humour lurking in the background. Writing a book is a daunting prospect, daring to publish it is just scary. If Chris’ literary ramblings persuades one more person that they have a story that needs telling, then he will consider that a success. Chris is a father and grandfather and lives in rural East Yorkshire in the UK with his wife, Julie. I really appreciate you reading my book!  Here are my social media coordinates: Find me on Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/yc149 Favourite my Smashwords author page: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/ChrisDevine

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The Travis Fletcher Chronicles

Omnibus Edition

By

Chris Devine

Copyrights

The Travis Fletcher Chronicles – Omnibus Edition

First published by Christopher Devine in 2023

This edition copyright © 2023 by Christopher Devine

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance any real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor otherwise be circulated in any in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Proofreading by Natalie Tipping

Cover Art by Chris Devine via Nightcafe AI

Distributed by Draft2Digital

Dedications

For Ken (1929 – 2014 ). If a father had not taken his eleven-year-old son to Hull Fair, the germ of this story may never have been born in a daydream.

For Julie - My wife, my love, my friend

For Mum

For my children and their partners Claire and Ryan, Mike and Anna

For my amazing grandchildren – Emily, Katie and Jason

Acknowledgements and Credits

First and foremost to my wife Julie for her love, patience, ideas and continual encouragement when I was running out of words. Also for persuading me to ‘go for it’ otherwise this story would have just stayed on my laptop and probably got lost during an upgrade. Also for helping with read-throughs, picking out plot holes, and inconsistencies and rewording some of the nonsense that spilled out of my brain.

And last but not least, to all the people that provided me with a montage of attributes I used to create some of the characters.

You can find me on Facebook as https://www.facebook.com/pages/Chris-Devine/856088317744723

Other books by Chris Devine

Please visit your favourite eBook retailer to discover other books by Chris Devine:

The Travis Fletcher Chronicles

The Archer’s Paradox

The Flight of the Arrow

When the Bow Breaks

Full Circle

The Goexun Conundrum

Petra’s Story

Awakening

Surviving

Living

The Accidental Apocalypse

Aftermath

New Civilisation

The Apprentice Assassin

The Virgin the Scorpion

Virgo and Scorpio Save the World (working title - still being written)

Contents

Dedications

Acknowledgements and Credits

Other books by Chris Devine

The Archer’s Paradox

The Archer’s Paradox

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

The Flight of the Arrow

Zeno’s Arrow paradox

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

When the Bow Breaks

Zeno’s Dichotomy Paradox

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

The Goexun Conundrum

Zeno’s Paradox of Achilles and the Tortoise

Foreword

Pax Goes Home

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

The Goexun Conundrum

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Full Circle

Zeno’s Arrow Paradox

Foreword

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Glossary of Characters

Glossary of Races and Places

The Archer’s Paradox

The Archer’s Paradox

The initial stages of flexing of the arrow from the loose, as it accelerates past the bow, that makes the arrow appear to be going in a different direction.

Xnuk Ek'

Chapter 1

W ell? The Mercenary looked over the table at The Journalist. His ice blue eyes stared steadily back at her emerald green ones over his glass of vodka. He sipped and put the glass on the table without breaking eye contact. Ice blue and hard as granite; eyes that had witnessed so much, held her in a thrall she could not break away from. Unbidden, her vision zoomed in until his eyes were all she could see. He seemed to be sucking her in. His head tilted a fraction to the right and his left eyebrow rose quizzically. Well? he repeated. His voice was little more than a whisper. His eyes drew her closer and she suddenly felt cold. It was as if he was stripping away her privacy, layer by layer, to reveal her inner most thoughts, boring into her very soul. She felt as if she would tell him anything he wanted to know. He did not even have to ask. She was there for the taking.

Stop!

With an inaudible snap, her vision pulled back to view the whole man again. The Mercenary’s eyes softened slightly and, was that a twinkle? A small, mischievous lift to the mouth confirmed her suspicions.

Sorry, he apologised, that was rude and unforgivable, I’m sorry, he repeated. She nodded her acceptance, but she was in no position to say any different. Thank you. Your motives are unclear, and I need to know, but maybe now is not the time.

She raised her glass, took a sip of her wine in order to steady herself and recover her composure, while she appraised the man opposite. The label on the bottle said it was a Montrachet 1978 from Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. Even though she knew that the contents had never seen the inside of a winery, it did nothing to lessen the pleasure.

Unlike the wine though, he was unremarkable, except for the eyes, which had returned to their crystalline blue hardness as he waited. Close-cropped fair hair topped a slightly bulbous nose and ears that did not lie quite flat. Lips that belied the hardness of his eyes by curling and twitching into an occasional smile, that seemed to be more of a vague echo of a more carefree past, than happiness in the present. If she estimated by looks alone, she would put his age at no more than twenty-five, although she knew it was more than double that. He wore a gunmetal grey jumpsuit with no pockets, made of a pearlescent material that shimmered slightly like liquid metal as he moved. It had no adornments, badges marks of rank, or any visible fastening. Soft soled shin length boots of the same colour and sheen finished the ensemble.

Well? he repeated as he pushed his chair away from the table and readjusted his posture, leaning back with his hands behind his head. On first inspection, the chairs, table and floor appeared to be moulded from the same piece of translucent material, yet the chair moved silently and smoothly. There was a brief pause before the chair modified itself slightly to accommodate the new pose. She searched for a beginning.

How’s Star? she said finally, her soft Welsh tones giving the question an almost sing song quality.

She always did hate me calling her that, he mused, almost to himself. He steepled his hands and tapped his index fingers to his nose as he seemed to drift off into a private reverie for a moment. His eyes refocused on the present again and caught The Journalist. I don’t know, he replied evenly, his face fell, taking on a look of deep sorrow and regret.

Will she die? The words sounded surreal in her mouth.

She’s already dead, but that’s the wrong question, isn’t it? He raised a small smile at a shared experience, but his eyes did not reflect the humour.

Momentarily, she remembered their first meeting and smiled back before asking, Will she recover? A stupid question in any other situation, but here it seemed almost natural.

She must, he finished simply, but that’s not why we’re here, is it?

She took another drink and looked around the bar. It was starting to fill, as it always did just before a departure. Off-duty crew drifted in, in small groups. Wherever they stopped, a table and the requisite number of chairs in appropriate designs for the occupant, oozed out of the floor and became solid, followed by drinks in a myriad of colours in drinking vessels of every conceivable shape. The whole procedure continued to fascinate and surprise The Journalist. She was not sure she would ever get used to it. The bar ran the full width of the ship, about four hundred metres, and occupied the middle deck’s most forward position. Open on three sides and about four metres from floor to ceiling with one complete ‘picture window’, it curved with the contours of the ship and merged organically with the floor and ceiling. It commanded the best possible view of the void outside and the blue and green planet dominating the forward view.

The Journalist guessed that about four hundred people, of at least a dozen races, now sat and chatted, and an air of expectation was gathering. Although the bar could be no more than ten per cent full, a party atmosphere was growing. Without exception, the patrons were all bipeds and of humanoid construction, mostly discernible as male or female, but each had unique attributes that gave clues to the type of planet or civilisation they had come from. Some wore a small and unobtrusive breather that covered their noses. This device, she had been told, supplemented particular gasses that each crew member needed that were not available in the ship’s atmosphere, as well as filtering out any potentially poisonous ones.

At the next table sat a petite female who looked no more than a teenager to The Journalist, but she had been wrong before. She had pointed features, small, deep set black eyes that flickered continuously like a nervous rodent, and voluminous deep red hair sprouting from a topknot like a volcanic eruption that threatened to engulf the entire area. She looked pale and weak, but had a look of determination on her face that said that she would not miss this event, whatever the cost. She was in deep conversation with a large, bald male with a barrel of a chest and powerful arms and legs. Both spoke different languages: his boomed with large, round vowels while hers was high pitched with short, sharp syllables, but each understood the other without difficulty. It sounded like a starling conversing with a bull to The Journalist, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Noticing The Journalist looking, they stopped talking, stood up and bowed gracefully. The girl clutched her chest and winced in pain, gripping the edge of the table for support. The man put a protective arm around her and eased her back into her seat again. A look of concern crossed The Mercenary’s face, the first real emotion The Journalist had seen him exhibit since leaving Earth, but he relaxed when the girl raised her face to nod and smile at him, though her brow was still creased in pain.

The Journalist and The Mercenary returned the bow, The Journalist taking her cue from The Mercenary. They sat and continued their conversation, glancing occasionally outside. Each crew member wore one-piece jumpsuits, similar to The Mercenary, also with no adornments, although the colour varied. She pulled her attention away from the surroundings and focused on The Mercenary again.

How did it all start? she asked.

That’s a question with many answers, he replied levelly. Do you want me to begin with the dawn of time, how life evolved, my birth, or how I got here? he continued, indicating the immediate surroundings. They’re all linked, you know. There was that twinkle again, then it was gone.

It’s your story, you choose where to start, she prompted.

He gave a satisfied nod, satisfied and tossed the rest of his vodka down his throat. Almost immediately, the empty glass vanished, and a fresh shot appeared on the table.

I was born in England in 1957, the year Sputnik was launched. You could say I was born at the beginning of the Space Age. Not that I ever cared about that sort of thing, he shrugged. Now look at me, he finished poignantly, spreading his arms.

That makes you sixty!

You win a cookie. He inclined his head in mock acknowledgement. I was born to average parents and had an unremarkable childhood. I was one hundred per cent average at school except for a hatred of mathematics that bordered on pathological. He leaned forward, as if he was taking her into his confidence. I took an instant liking to computers when I was in my primary school. A forward-thinking teacher remarked that one day computers would do all our work for us. It was then I resolved never to try at mathematics as there was no point, he shrugged. The Journalist smiled appropriately.

The blue green planet outside started to slip to the port side, slowly at first but gathering momentum as the great ship manoeuvred majestically on its axis. All sound in the bar ceased as the assembled crew raised their drinks in a silent salute. Everyone except The Mercenary. His stare remained fixed on The Journalist, pointedly ignoring the events outside. The great ship moved out of orbit, riding the surrounding magnetic fields provided by the planet and nearby star, to propel it silently forwards. The Mercenary glanced momentarily at the receding planet and gave a little snort. The planet’s single moon appeared and hung in the forward view.

I left education in 1973, with hardly any qualifications and drifted from one dead-end job to another, he continued, oblivious to the external events. Eventually I got a job selling computers. I earned good money, I had friends, girlfriends and I even had sex occasionally. Life was good, he finished, studying his glass intently. The Moon was now growing steadily in size and sliding slowly off the port side as the ship accelerated. A slight haze suddenly distorted the Moon’s features, indicating that the ship’s ram scoop had been deployed. The scoop extended in a one thousand kilometre wide radius around the front of the ship, a prelude to the firing of the ship’s fusion engines.

The Mercenary watched the Moon for a few moments. I was going to take you to dinner on the Moon, just for kicks, he noted, without emotion.

I bet it would have driven the scientists and astronauts nuts if they found empty wine bottles and leftover food at Tranquillity Base next time they went up, she smiled.

No one will ever go back, he replied with finality.

She knew he was right, but that simple phrase had a second meaning to her. She fought down the sudden wave of emotions that welled up from deep within her: sorrow, bitterness, loss, loneliness, panic. What have I done? Oh God, how could I have been so stupid? What was I thinking? She had the sudden urge to beat on his chest and scream to take her back, but it was too late. His eyes caught hers and held them. Calm, slight euphoria, the feeling of wanting to sink into goose down pillows...

Better? he enquired.

Yes, she nodded. My turn to apologise. That was very unprofessional of me. You must teach me that sometime.

No need to apologise. You’re a long way from home and getting further away by the second. You will learn, in time, he finished, glancing momentarily at the vista outside, before returning his cool, steady gaze to The Journalist.

A very faint vibration indicated that over eight and a half kilometres away, at the stern of the ship, the six massive fusion engines had ignited. The Moon began to grow more rapidly in size, and the assembled throng watched in silence, as was the custom that was carried out at each departure. The vibration faded as the ship continued to accelerate steadily and the engines reached their peak efficiency. There would be a point where the ram scoops would be gathering more hydrogen than the engines burned. This meant that the ship refuelled itself, thus minimising the amount of bulky fuel it needed to carry. The remaining debris and gasses were broken down into elements and stored for recycling through the ship’s systems as water, atmosphere, metals for emergency repairs. There would be a delay of a couple of hours while the ship made a safe distance from the nearby planet before the next stage of the journey, so the crew returned to drinking and chatting.

You are blocking me! The accusation came from a lithe female that had just appeared at the table. The Journalist jumped in surprise as she had not seen or heard her approach. Her pale, almost paper-white skin contrasted starkly against her jet-black ship suit and shoulder length hair, which was shot through with blue gloss and pulled back from her face into a tight ponytail. Her ears were too long and too high on her head to be human. A wide, flat nose with a long, tapered bridge disappeared under a paper thin, one-piece form-hugging visor. Its highly polished mirror finish reflected back a distorted view of her surroundings. Her posture, along with her thin almost non-existent lips, which were pressed tightly together, and proud angle of her head gave her a haughty and superior air. She inclined her head towards The Journalist and pulled her lips back revealing two rows of small pointed teeth, into a chilly smile. Without any visible eyes to convey emotion, she looked like a cobra preparing to strike. The Journalist shivered. There was no warmth behind that smile for her.

I’m blocking everyone Cat, The Mercenary retorted. His tone was not unkind and did not appear unduly irritated by the interruption. What do you want?

The Hunab Ku is expecting us. Her voice rolled smoothly over the vowels, almost like a purr.

Thank you. It’s going to be a long trip, The Mercenary acknowledged with a slight nod.

Time enough for healing and restitution. The emotionless visor held The Mercenary for a second before he looked away, pain and sorrow crossing his face once again. Before turning and walking away, she smiled again, or was she about to strike? The Journalist could not tell. The Journalist watched her go, her stride long and stately with each step precise, perfect and unhurried, like a predator stalking its prey. Muscles rippled underneath her jumpsuit with every step, only serving to enhance The Journalist’s image of a two-legged panther prowling its territory.

Be mindful of Cat, he said, still watching the retreating form, she sees things as black and white, and she holds grudges. The retreating alien’s movements were almost hypnotic, and The Mercenary’s warning jarred The Journalist back into the present. Her loyalty to me is absolute, but she doesn’t like you, so be careful what you say or think around her.

The Journalist remembered Cat’s warning to her when she boarded the shuttle. She holds grudges? she said somewhat alarmed. I can’t spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.

No need to look over your shoulder, The Mercenary replied in a conciliatory tone, Cat will be facing you and will tell you exactly what will happen to you, and why.

And that’s supposed to make me feel better? she started feeling very anxious and possibly a little hysterical. This was a huge ship with enough deck area to cover a small city, but Cat was The Mercenary’s left hand, as Star had been his right, so it would be impossible to avoid her, and The Journalist was no fighter.

Cat will leave you alone unless you give her reason not to, but you need to be aware of her animosity towards you.

I still don’t know what I...

The Mercenary held up a hand to signal an end to that topic of conversation. Why don’t you ask me if I ever married?

The Journalist took a long swig of wine and a deep breath, determined to follow this up later. Did you ever marry?

No, I just never got around to it. Just as well really, he replied.

So, you were enjoying your life. What happened?

Travis?

Yes Mum? Travis broke off the conversation he was having with his brother and sister, and leaned across the aisle, giving his full attention to the small, grey haired woman opposite, looking even more diminutive in the oversized seat.

Do you think they would mind if I had another cup of coffee? she asked, indicating the two uniformed shapes slumped sullenly at the far end of the carriage.

Mum, you are sitting in a First Class carriage for which I have paid LOADSA MONEY, he leaned forward, leering whilst waving an imaginary stack of banknotes, and their only purpose in their pitiful little lives for the next few hours is to satisfy your every wish, when you want it. If you want coffee, you shall have coffee! he finished with a flourish. He put two fingers to his mouth and whistled shrilly. Oi! Coffee, here, now! he demanded, beckoning the attendants over. And don’t forget the biscuits! The two hostesses scowled at him. One finally got up and stomped off to find the trolley.

Do you have to be so coarse? chided his mother. He smiled back, patted her cheek and kissed her on the forehead.

So, you reckon this computer thing is the game to be in, do you? Alan, his brother, leaned over the intervening table in earnest.

Look at me, Travis answered, spreading his arms to emphasise the statement. I left school at sixteen with three ‘O’ Levels with crap grades to my name, and I’ve bummed around in dead-end jobs for years. Then I blagged my way into a computer sales company. These new Personal Computers were just starting to take off. Two years later and I’m earning more money than I know what to do with. The best part is, is that it’s self-perpetuating, he exclaimed, beaming broadly.

What do you mean? queried his sister Lucy.

People just love new technology. He leaned forward as if taking his audience into his confidence. They want these Personal Computers because they think it’ll free them from being held to ransom by their big, lumbering, expensive computer departments. He sat back and smiled expansively. No problem! I’ll sell half a dozen to a big company as a taster. They suddenly realise that they don’t know how to use them, and their computer departments won’t - or can’t – help. So I sell them training.

Ok, but you can only sell so much training, can’t you? Alan challenged.

Yes, but when the users get better and start getting results, everyone wants one! I sell more, oh and of course they all need training, he waved his arms expansively. Then there’s the extras like printers, software, paper, forms, disks, and don’t forget the maintenance and support contracts. You can’t lose! The hostess arrived with the coffee. Bring me another vodka! he demanded.

I think I’ll have another whiskey while you’re at it.

That’s the spirit Dad! Travis leaned over to his father, who had just woken up in the window seat next to his mother, and winked. His mother tutted and looked apologetically at the hostess. The hostess glared at them all and stomped off. His mother gave them both a pained expression. It’s all right Mum, I’ll give them a decent tip when we leave.

Make sure you do, she chided wagging a finger, You’re so sharp you’re going to cut yourself one of these days.

Yeah, it’s running in the 2:30 at Aintree he completed in a stage whisper to his siblings, who sniggered appropriately.

So, where did you meet...? asked Lucy, indicating the sleeping form next to Travis.

Siân? he finished, Cute, isn’t she? We’ve been seeing each other on and off for a few months.

That’s a lifetime for you, Lucy exclaimed in mock surprise.

I know, he lowered his voice to a stage whisper again, I think this might be the one. She goes like a train and doesn’t whinge if I don’t call for a week. We met in a night club, I asked her if she wanted to ride in my big red Beemer and she was all over me like a rash.

"Mum’s right, you are getting coarse. Are you sure she didn’t give you a rash?" Lucy replied.

Prude, he pouted.

Now tell us what really happened, interjected his brother.

No, it’s less fun. Travis tossed down the rest of his vodka and whistled shrilly to the hostesses. More vodka!

Alan changed the subject. So, how much has this little jaunt set you back?

Not your problem, brother of mine. The vodka was starting to take hold, and Travis’ words were starting to slur ever so slightly.

Your money is always my problem, he said sullenly. You have every immediate relative sitting in this carriage, Alan pressed on, that’s twenty-eight people, including ‘other halves.’

Good job we only have a small family then, isn’t it?

Yes, but why? You never did explain properly.

Truth?

Yes.

One hundred per cent?

Yes.

I need a drink. He downed the shot in front of him. More vodka! Never mind, just bring the bottle! he demanded, and waited, collecting his befuddled thoughts until the drink arrived.

Ok, the truth. He took a deep breath and paused theatrically. The truth is that for more than five years, I’ve sponged off each and every one of you at one time or another. He held up his hand to head off the impending protests, not that there were any. I borrowed money and never paid it back, I’ve lied to you, cheated you, I’ve turned up at stupid times of the night, pissed out of my brain and demanding somewhere to sleep. Hell, Alan, I even borrowed your car without your permission and piled it into a wall, with no insurance!

You bastard! Alan exploded. I didn’t know that, I thought it had been nicked!

See what I mean? Travis replied, spreading his hands to emphasise his point. I went on a five-year arsehole spree. Didn’t you think it was strange that I was in hospital about the same time, with cracked ribs and a broken leg?

I bought you bottles of wine and cigarettes! Alan said peevishly. You told me you’d been mugged. Fuck, I even gave you money!

Lucy giggled behind her hand.

Did you know about this? Alan glared accusingly at his sister.

No one told me, but I put two and two together; your car stolen and smashed up, Travis in hospital and a total arsehole. she said, counting the points on her fingers.

Humph! Alan sat back heavily with his arms crossed.

I suppose I was jealous because you all had better careers and jobs than me, and I was using you to fuel a lifestyle I couldn’t afford, Travis explained, apologetically. Anyway, he continued, since I landed this job I have re-evaluated myself, and I am trying to make up for the past five years. I earned a whacking bonus last month, and I am spending every last penny on my family, partially to say sorry and partially to say thank you.

Thank you? Lucy asked.

Yes, not one of you ever said no to me or turned me away, or indeed turned me in.

Never knew you’d smashed my car up. muttered Alan.

You think that’s bad? Don’t mention to Grandma about her Victorian china tea service. The two looked aghast. "Like I said, don’t ever mention it, I have little enough self-esteem as it is."

Travis heaved himself to his feet and stumbled to the front of the carriage. His progress was slow going, partially due to the occasional and unpredictable lurch left or right as the speeding train hit a bend or abnormality in the track, and partially due to the excess of alcohol in his blood. Once at his destination, he faced down the carriage with feet apart to steady himself and whistled long and loud.

Can I have everyone’s attention, please! he shouted at the top of his lungs, like a marketplace barker opening his stall. He waited for a second, running his hand through his unruly locks that refused to stay in the fashionable cut of the time. Everyone stopped talking and turned to face the unsteadily swaying man, including two businessmen at the far end who shook their heads in an exaggerated expression of displeasure. Travis caught their eyes and held them for a long moment. If you don’t like the noise, you can fuck off! He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. At least I’m spending money on this train, and not just trying to fiddle my expenses, like you two tossers. The next carriage is nearly empty. He continued to hold their gaze for a few seconds before breaking off. The two men exchanged a few hushed words, closed their briefcases and moved off.

Ladies, Gentlemen, family, friends of family, Siân had woken up and peered bleary eyed over the back of her seat, thank you for availing yourself of my hospitality. I hope you are all running up a huge bar bill, and remember that this is just the start. He spread his arms expansively and nearly plunged headlong to the floor as the train lurched to the left.

You’ve not said where we’re goin’, a voice boomed down the carriage, or why. All I got was an invitation that said, ‘pack for a weekend an’ t’ bring nae money an’ a car will pick us up.’

Why are you here then, Pat? Travis leered back.

I were intrigued; t’ Black Leach of t’ family sayin’ t’ bring nae cash, this I gorra see! Other members of the family nodded in agreement. Pat had a reputation for straight talking. He was a big man with a huge chest and a broad Yorkshire accent. Standing in excess of six feet tall, he dwarfed Travis by a good head.

Pat, you’ll never make a diplomat, Travis laughed.

Nay, but thee’ll make a reet good orn’ment fer t’front of me wagon if’n thee fucks us over. Other members of the family nodded vigorously.

Alan and Lucy already have some of the inside gen, ‘cause I’ve had a few drinks and can’t hold my tongue. The rest of you will have to wait until tonight for the full story. However, you have my solemn promise that there will be no ‘fucking over’ on this trip, except between consenting partners. he winked lewdly at Siân, who blushed furiously and ducked down into her seat.

For your information, Travis continued, we are making for the highlands of Scotland, where I have hired a castle for the weekend. You are all invited to play golf, walk hills, drink scotch, whatever you want, and there will be no bill to settle at the end. All will be revealed after the banquet tonight. he finished, spreading his arms expansively again. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a sheaf of brightly coloured booklets. I have brochures for you to devour. With that, he made his way down the carriage, stopping at every table to leave one or two brochures, pointing out points of interest depending who was at the table. There was a trip to a lace maker for the grandparents, sailing boats or fishing on the loch, secluded walks for the teenage cousins with partners or for parents. The hostesses shuffled behind, refilling glasses, leaving fresh bottles of wine, and dispensing snacks. As he passed Siân, he took off his jacket and tossed it to her. She folded it neatly and used it as a pillow.

By the time he reached the end of the carriage, the mixture of vodka and the unpredictable swaying of the train was starting to play havoc with his equilibrium. As a precaution, he ducked into the toilet and sat down. His head was spinning a little too much for comfort. Maybe shouting down the carriage had not been such a good idea. It was still only eleven in the morning, and shouting before lunch was never a good idea, he decided.

A sudden jolt shook his body and threw him off the toilet, face first into the wall. He lay crumpled on the floor for a moment with his trousers around his ankles and blood pouring from his mashed nose. He struggled to seat himself, oblivious to the pain and blood, before realising that the toilet pan was now at ninety degrees to its normal position, and he was sitting on the door to the corridor. It was then that his hearing caught up with his sight. A terrible screeching rent his ears, like thousands of fingernails being drawn down hundreds of blackboards, while dozens of malevolent dentists advanced with huge drills, whining shrilly. Another jolt and the side of his head impacted with the crazily hung pan. His senses reeled, half-blinded by a curtain of blood issuing from a new wound above his right eye. Panic gripped his whole being, he tried to scream but he heard no sound. Time slowed to a crawl. A new mix of sounds grew in volume and intensity, like a non-stop motorway pileup, where vehicle after vehicle inexorably careered into the melee ahead. Then it was Travis’ turn as a steel girder passed inches from his face, and ripped away part of the roof, which was now the wall, and the wall, which had become the roof of the stricken carriage. Another jolt catapulted him through the tear. His body somersaulted slowly in the air until he was head down and facing his point of departure. He dispassionately watched as the train receded from his view. Then he stopped in mid-flight. The wrecked train continued its drunken journey while Travis hung in mid-air, watching it go. He looked up, to the ground, which, as if it had just noticed him, suddenly rushed to greet him. The pain stopped as blackness enveloped him.

Chapter 2

The Moon was now behind them, and the ship was well clear of the gravity wells created by the planet and its satellite. The fusion engines had accelerated the ship to its optimal cruising speed of around 200 000Km/s or 66% of the speed of light. As the ship accelerated, the RAM scoop had to be gradually reduced in size to compensate for the increased drag. Although the fusion engines could be pushed further, the law of diminishing returns would take over and the ship would start burning more fuel than it gathered, due to the increased drag and reduced RAM scoop size.

The party atmosphere and air of excitement continued to grow in the bar as all eyes turned to the void in front. The fusion engines were throttled back, and the RAM scoop reduced to a mere one hundred kilometre radius. The lights in the bar dimmed enough to accentuate the view outside.

The Mercenary looked up and faced the front of the craft. Do you like firework displays? he asked, Because you are going to love this! His face lit up in a rare moment of simple joy. This was his universe and he loved showing it off.

What’s happening? she queried, picking up on The Mercenary’s sudden enthusiasm.

They’re about to kick in the Compression Drive, The Mercenary explained. She gave him a puzzled look. We can’t, he paused for a moment, as he remembered their overly theatrical arrival, then continued, correction: we shouldn’t jump to hyperspace inside a solar system. It is a very violent act and the effect can be felt for millions of miles. In a crowded system a badly planned entry or exit can be dangerous and cause havoc. It would take about eight days to clear the solar system using the main fusion drive; with the Compression Drive we can do it in one without breaking a sweat.

We are going faster than light? The Journalist asked in anticipation, her stomach lurching in a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

Travelling faster than light is impossible, The Mercenary corrected her, but we can bend the rules a little. The Journalist looked confused. Watch, and I’ll explain later.

He indicated the front view. She followed his direction where millions of specks of light filled the view, not just white, as on first glance, but subtle yellows, reds and blues, all steady with no atmosphere to distort the effect, and enhanced by the transparent material making up the window. Lying over the black velvet were deep magentas and purples of distant dust clouds, picked out by the rapidly retreating sun. She wondered at the beauty and majesty of the greatest act of creation and destruction being enacted before her. How many of those distant points of light still exist? Which ones had died long ago? How many are too new for their light to have reached them yet? How many had inhabited planets orbiting them? The eternal question that had kept writers and scientists arguing for years and she was going to find out. Her heart suddenly began to beat faster, and adrenalin coursed round her body as she digested the enormity of her thoughts. She was no trained astronaut or scientist; she was just a television journalist and minor celebrity, yet here she was, embarking on the adventure only dreamed about by scientists, children and science-fiction addicts for generations. She suddenly felt how inadequate her journalistic training was to describe what she saw.

I never knew that there could be so many stars and so many colours. Even space is not just black. I could look at that all day. It was a lame comment not worthy of the moment, but she had to say something. The Mercenary gave a half smile and sipped his vodka.

She mused idly at the world she had left behind. Since man had understood what the stars were, many had imagined and written stories about life on other planets, many others strove to prove that the human race was alone in the universe, or at least out of reach of any other sentient race. A few weeks ago, all speculation had ended at the arrival of a five and a half mile long spaceship along with its multitude of exotic inhabitants. There could be no secrecy, no cover-up, no ‘weather balloon’ explanations; it could be seen in orbit, in detail, with the simplest of telescopes. At night it was the brightest object in the sky. The single most momentous moment in human history had happened, and to cap it all, the most important occupant was from Earth.

He had come to deliver a message and now he was leaving, never to return. But now, the ship had two Earthlings on board. They had left the planet in an uproar, politicians were pointing fingers at each other and denying everything, others were trying to prove it was all a hoax or a mass hallucination, the whole of the USA was now under Martial Law, and The Mercenary’s First Officer, closest friend and lover was dead. The message had been delivered so their future was now up to them. She had chosen her future, and it did not include banal news reports, endless chat shows, cocktail parties, the inevitable obscurity that goes with being a minor celebrity, and dreaming of retiring in Spain.

Without warning, a jolt ran through her body, startling her out of her reverie, not a physical discomfort, more like the feeling you get when you have suddenly remembered something important when it was too late. She winced as her stomach momentarily tightened and turned to lead, her heart seemed to stop beating for a few seconds. All the stars turned shades of blue then streaked back on all sides of the ship, like millions of copper meteor trails of varying brightness and thickness. As each trail came level with the ship, the blue faded through the colours of the rainbow to red as it passed behind.

Wow, that’s incredible! she exclaimed, her momentary discomfort passed and forgotten, The Journalist jumped up and ran to the window to watch the streaks disappear to red behind the ship like a small child watching the passing scenery on a speeding train. The assembled crew toasted the void, as was the custom, and returned their attention inside. Some groups got up and joined other groups and table and chair configurations changed to accommodate the movement. There would be no further developments for some hours, so the assembled crew got down to some serious partying. In one corner, musical instruments were produced and songs were raised in strange tongues. Some danced, some clapped to the rhythm, some just leaned back to enjoy the spectacle, either inside or outside the ship. The Mercenary smiled and turned his attention back to his vodka.

After a while The Journalist returned to the table, a puzzled look on her face. I thought you said that we cannot travel faster than light. she said accusingly.

We are not travelling faster than light, The Mercenary replied flippantly. The wine had dulled her senses a little and quickened her temper. She did not like being fobbed off, so her journalistic training took over. He raised a finger in remonstration, as a rebuke was forming on her lips. The Doppler Effect she had read about in a magazine somewhere was clearly visible outside. She saw his face turn to stone and felt the icy blast of his stare as he caught her intent. She pulled herself up short. She had witnessed the result of The Mercenary being called a liar before. She swallowed hard, sweat beading over her top lip. What she would normally use as a throwaway line, or as a challenge to have something explained to her, was tantamount to calling The Mercenary a liar, and could, in her new life, have more serious and lasting consequences. Star, lying somewhere in the bowels of this huge craft with a hole through her chest and heart was testimony to that. She felt sick and turned away. The Mercenary remained silent and impassive as she gathered her shattered wits and thoughts together.

How can it look like we are travelling faster than light, she nodded outside, but you say that it is impossible? You did say you would explain later, she finished lightly, but still shaking. Good recovery, she congratulated herself, just be more careful next time.

Yes you should., The Mercenary said quietly. The Journalist looked at him, startled. The Compression Drive, he continued, without apology or explanation, as the name suggests, compresses a corridor of space for us to travel through. Rather like all the atmosphere in this room being compressed into a gas cylinder: same volume of gas but less space to move through."

She nodded her understanding but clearly did not.

Inside the cylinder, we are travelling at less than light speed, he continued, but outside, it looks like we are going faster than light. he paused for a moment to think. Imagine a very long, speeding train, and you are riding a motor cycle very fast through it, he began. You are only doing one hundred kilometres per hour, but the train is going at two hundred, he continued, moving his hands in explanation. The net result is that you are travelling at three hundred kilometres an hour.

Light dawned; she remembered a similar conversation with an old boyfriend at three in the morning, after drinking far too much wine. The boyfriend did not last much after the wine was finished, but somehow the conversation reared up from her sub conscious. Just like Warp Drive on Star Trek! she interjected. The Mercenary winced visibly.

However, compressing or warping space, if you insist, he corrected himself acidly, is all straight forward, but you still need forward motion, so we still need to have the fusion drive lit to push us through. The Journalist looked puzzled. He indicated his vodka glass. How can I move this glass from one end of the table to another? She shrugged and pushed at the glass tentatively with one finger. Just so, now no matter what I do here, he waved his hands in front of the glass, it will not move unless you push it. The Compression Drive just manipulates space, it does not cause motion. Now do you understand?

The Journalist nodded. Not quite like Star Trek then.

No, said The Mercenary.

I thought you said that was rude and unforgivable, she shot back accusingly.

The wine is making you lose some control and you’re starting to babble.

What are they singing about? She hastily changed the subject, to shift the focus away from herself to a group of around twenty people, male and female in equal numbers. They were all tall, nearly two and a half metres, with elongated heads, huge eyes and had well-tanned skin, indicating a predominance of outdoor living. The song sounded mournful but with an underlying feeling of hope.

In remembrance of happier times, he replied, lost loves, dancing naked in the moonlight, swimming in bottomless azure lakes, making love under a cloudless sky, remembering friends, family. Simple pleasures they can no longer enjoy.

Happier times? Are they not happy?

They are the last of the Arcturuns. Their planet was devastated by a war they never asked for or played any part in.

The Journalist had seen a couple of Arcturuns before, but had never had a chance to speak to any of them. She indicated that The Mercenary should tell her more. He nodded and began, as if he had told the tale a number of times before.

They come from Arcturus 2. It was a beautiful planet with an abundance of natural resources and perfect climate. I suppose you could call it Paradise. He paused a moment to reflect, then continued. Although they had a complex civilisation, their culture was to live with the land rather than from it. They had developed highly efficient forms of energy production, including orbiting solar panels, and had no need to burn their world to fuel their industry, so there was very little pollution. Unfortunately, they had two neighbouring planets in the same system, Arcturus 1 and Arcturus 3. Arcturus 1, or Ritaex, was closer to the sun and therefore much hotter and arid. Arcturus 3, or Spesota, was further out and colder. Both were rapidly running out of their natural fuels and polluting their atmospheres. They regarded their neighbour with a high degree of jealousy. Both planets attempted to annex their neighbour for their own consumption. There was a long and bloody war using some weapons that should never have been invented. The peaceful Arcturuns had no means of defence and just got caught in the crossfire. Eventually the atmosphere became so poisoned and the water so polluted by the by-products of war and biological agents that the whole planet became useless as a commodity, but the warring factions still carried on. His voice became tinged with futile anger.

We were asked to help stop the war but arrived too late to make a difference. By the time we made orbit, there were only a few small communities high in the mountains, with no more than a few tens of thousands left, and a lot of those were in a terminal condition.

The Journalist was aghast. What did you do?

We blew the crap out of anything that flew and carried a weapon, both in orbit and in the atmosphere. he replied simply. We ended that war in less than ten rotations of that planet. The ground troops would die off eventually without food, clean water, breathable air and protection from all the poisons they had inflicted on the world."

Revenge or retaliation? The Journalist asked. Seems to be your calling card, she added wryly.

We tried negotiating but it didn’t work out so well. I was furious at the stupidity of it all, but revenge is not always our way, not even on behalf of another. We were there to protect the true inhabitants against aggression, even though it was a futile gesture on our part, but it did feel good at the time. For good measure we visited both the aggressors and took out any orbiting military ships or space docks we found, and left warnings of dire consequences if any vessel were to find its way back to Arcturus 2 in the future. It was an empty threat, but satisfying none the less.

She got the impression that he was being flippant and oversimplifying the situation for the sake of a quick explanation, and that there were some deeper and more painful memories that he had no intention of sharing with her.

There was nothing that we could do for the survivors. He looked down at the floor for a moment. They were beyond even the resources of this ship. We managed to get three hundred out before it was too late. They live with us and call this ship ‘home’, he waved an arm around him, just like the rest of us. They work on the ship’s systems. It was their payment for our help. The Journalist looked puzzled. We are mercenaries when all is said and done. Their planet was dying and will be uninhabitable for over a thousand years, but they want to be able to return home eventually, and they are probably the best engineers in the galaxy. They have made some modifications to this ship that even the original designers never thought of. The arrangement works well for both of us. He shrugged slightly. After a while, if we find a planet they can live on undisturbed until they can go home again, they will be free to leave, if that’s what they want, but I would be sorry to see them go."

An unbidden tear streaked The Journalist’s cheek. How could a whole race be destroyed because of another’s greed? Then she remembered Earth’s less than exemplary history: the Aztecs, the American Indians, the African pygmies, all decimated because of greed, stupidity and arrogance. She turned her attention back to The Mercenary who had just had his vodka refreshed.

So, the train crashed. What happened next?

He’s awake.

Hello, can you tell me your name?

No reaction.

Hello, can you hear me? What is your name?

Still nothing.

His head felt stuffed with cotton wool and his vision revealed nothing more than indistinct blurs moving against a blurred background, like trying to watch television through frosted glass. He tried to form words, but nothing came out. The effort tired him and he lapsed back into unconsciousness.

He awoke again, feeling disorientated and momentarily unsure of where he was, as if he had just come out of a long deep sleep. He brushed the cobwebs from his mind and his sight cleared enough to see a nurse in a clean, starched uniform passing by the end of his bed.

Ah, you’re awake. She spoke in a very matter-of-fact manner that only nurses use. I’ll fetch the doctor. Travis was in a small clean room, alone. He could see a door at the extreme left of his field of view.

A few minutes later the doctor appeared. He was a short, stocky Sikh with a sparse black beard and was wearing a grey turban. He smiled, his white teeth contrasting against his swarthy complexion. Travis thought idly that he looked like an urban guerrilla, and should be wearing camouflage and carrying an Uzi, rather than a white coat and stethoscope.

Hello, I am Doctor Lota. Do you know where you are? His English was impeccable, just a hint of an accent.

I’m guessing by your attire and my surroundings that I am in hospital. Something to do with a train crash probably. Travis replied sarcastically, attempting to mimic his off-hand style.

Can you tell me your name? A light shone in each eye momentarily.

You can call me Mr ...

Still no reaction, the doctor muttered to himself and shook his head as he scribbled on his clipboard.

Oi, I’m talking here!

Can you hear me? Blink if you can hear me. Lights flashed in his eyes again.

He tried furiously to comply. Yes, I can hear you and I’ll poke you in the fucking ear if you ignore me again.

The doctor shook his head and tutted to himself as he left the room. The nurse bustled round the bed tucking in the corners.

Where’s he going? I haven’t finished talking with him. Where’s everyone else? Where’s the rest of my family? The nurse looked at him, a slight pitying look in her eyes and headed for the door. Bewildered by everyone’s attitude he called out, Nurse!

He tried to get out of bed and follow the nurse, but nothing happened. He tried again, nothing moved. A lock of hair had fallen over his eyes and he tried to push it out of the way. No hand appeared in front of his face. Bewilderment gave way to concern as he cast about the room to find a bell to call a nurse. His view remained unchanged, his head did not move on command, not even his eyes would swivel. Concern now gave way to panic. He felt as though he was being held immobile by unseen forces. The more he struggled against his unseen bonds with no result, the more panic stricken he became. His heart began to race, and his breathing came in short sharp pants as he began to lose all sense of reason. He screamed, long and loud. An alarm sounded in the distance.

He’s hyperventilating, going into shock! Get the doctor!

Ease off on the oxygen, he’s getting too much.

Dopamine, ten mcg!

Pulse is slowing, breathing normal, ok I think he’s stable again.

Nurse, introduce PHP into his IV, that should help to keep him stable

Yes doctor.

Extreme fatigue washed over his body and he slipped into a troubled sleep. He was flying over the train again as it careered out of control. His vision zoomed in and he saw his sister with a piece of metal the size of an arm through her chest, his father, flung through the carriage window as it then toppled on to him. His grandmother, already dead of heart failure, never felt the table that ripped from its moorings and crushed her frail body. Big cousin Pat desperately dragged the injured out of harm’s way until the girder ripped open the carriage and cut him in half. The vision took Travis from one end of the carriage to the other, showing all his family lying dead in the mangled wreckage. The vision zoomed back outside where he hung upside down for a long moment before plummeting head first towards the ground.

He awoke with a start. The room was empty, but he could see movement beyond the door.

Hello? No answer. Can anyone hear me? No answer. He tried to get a better view of the door, but nothing moved. He waited, troubled by his dream. Was it a dream? It was too vivid, and he remembered every detail. His brain recoiled in shock as he unwittingly brought up the carnage that had been laid before him.

Two men entered with Dr Lota. One wore a cheap suit that was crumpled and shiny from too much wear, the other the uniform of a police officer.

You say he had no identification on him when he was brought in? the one in the cheap suit was saying.

No, replied Dr Lota, We know nothing about him except that he was in the toilet when the train crashed.

How did you determine that? I gather he was thrown clear of the train.

His trousers were round his ankles, said the doctor, matter-of-factly. The officer sniggered.

Oi, do you mind? Travis objected. I am here you know.

Can he talk?

Of course I can, shit for brains.

He has been totally unresponsive since he regained consciousness.

No, I haven’t, you’re just not listening! Travis was getting annoyed.

What are his injuries?

We have surmised that he struck a telegraph pole after being flung from the crashing train. He has multiple fractures in his arms, legs and chest, his spleen is ruptured, he has one collapsed lung, a pierced kidney and his spine is broken in a number of places. He is completely reliant on life support machines.

Travis was stunned. His brain locked on the conversation and replayed it again and again.

The Railway Inspectorate are crawling over the wreckage now, the detective in the cheap suit said in an offhand manner, we should know more about your mystery patient soon, but it looks like he was the only survivor from the front carriages.

The men left. He was alone once again to relive his nightmare and contemplate this disturbing conversation.

Time passed, as time inevitably does, and Travis’ existence became a repetitive routine. He knew it was morning when the nurse came in to check his charts and said, ‘Good morning, Mr Fletcher’. He would always reply but the nurse would always ignore him. The same thing happened in the afternoon and the evening. He had no other visitors save the occasional doctor. He got to know the shift patterns and gave each nurse a name based on their looks and voice. Three times a week a doctor, usually Dr Lota, would come in and test his reflexes. They always asked his name and always ignored the answer.

He was waiting for ‘Nurse Marilyn’ to come in; she was blonde and had that husky voice you only get from smoking forty cigarettes a day.

Good morning, Mr Fletcher. Right on cue, but this morning was different. Accompanying Nurse ‘Marilyn’ were Dr Lota and four colleagues. Dr Lota conversed in hushed whispers and compared notes with two, while the other two, a man and a woman, stood at the end of the bed, regarding him with curiosity, while Nurse ‘Marilyn’ busied herself checking his IV drip.

They’re discussing whether or not to switch off these machines that are keeping you alive. The male waved an elegant arm at the array of devices surrounding Travis’ bed.

What? Travis was alarmed, firstly by what the man had said, secondly because no one had spoken directly to him for weeks without asking his name and ignoring the answer.

They’re going to end your life, but then to them you are already dead.

Nurse ‘Marilyn’ continued checking drips and needles, oblivious to the conversation taking place. Your whole family died in that accident. You have no one left and they cannot cure you, so they are going to turn off these machines and let you die, the man continued.

The nurse looked at him sympathetically for a moment before turning to Dr Lota. Do you need me, doctor?

No, thank you nurse. Nurse ‘Marilyn’ left. The three doctors approached the bed and repeated tests that had been done so many times before, ignoring the two strangers at the end of the bed. They retired to a corner in a huddle of shaking heads, then left the room.

The man made as if to speak but the woman cut him off, Are you sure? Is this