Tag: writing

Mutters the older statesman sitting reclined at his massive desk. He’s thumbing through the most recent accident reports from The Dirty Starling. One particular case was flagged to his attention, marked urgent, and highly confidential. “What’s that?” Asks the statesman’s valet, seated at a small alcove just around the side of the desk. A minuscule cut out of the massive structure that fits his small computer keyboard, a side board to fix his boss’s drinks, and a large black box full of encrypted data records. “Hmm. Just talking to myself, my dear boy.” Harrumphs the older man, his chin fixed against his round barrel chest. A look of consternation rests upon his wrinkled face, and precise chiseled features. No less handsome even with his recent weight gain in these later decades of his tenure aboard The Dirty Starling. The man, Gerald, is an advisor to the positively ancient Admiral currently entombed in the captain’s quarters of The Dirty Starling. “I’ve got to carve out some time to wake the admiral.” States Gerald flatly. The accident report clutched tightly in his left hand. “The admiral? Jesus what’s happened now?” Chirps the valet. “An absolute disaster. That’s what. Seems our vanished ghost is, or rather, was, the admiral’s great great grandson. He is not going to take this news well. How long will it take to wake the man?” Asks the large, gruff adviser Gerald. The slim valet types on his keyboard quickly, with a few clicks and some guttural noises he replies. “According to medical the admiral is due out of stasis when we reach port on Errebus Four in two weeks time sir. Do you want to wait for his regularly scheduled reanimation?” The valet asks. “Is that what I asked you young Timmons? Hmmm… did I ask you to tell me when he was scheduled to awaken? I know he’s due out in two weeks, his primary dinner guest, besides myself, my retinue and the other first officers was the dead man – his progeny. So No! In fact, I do not wish to wait. Key in the request, I’ll approve it physically. Any further delay may endanger our lives further. The Admiral is not known for leniency onboard this ship. Am I clear Timmons?” Barks the adviser in a raspy cutting whisper. “Yes sir. If we trigger the Morning Rays Protocols now, he will awaken in six hours – sir.” Responds the slim valet Timmons firmly. “Good man. Key it to my biometrics wrist communicator and I’ll DNA scan in the override. Good god I hope he takes this well.” Mutters the thick necked adviser, straightening his shoulders, and fussing with his moustache in a small pocket mirror.

With a loud woosh the lid of the medical pod opens up and a humanoid shape within can be seen through the escaping rush of steam and moisture. Over head fans kick on gobbling up the various gases. Their mechanical hum interwoven with loud clicks and a low grade grinding of metal on metal. Blue dressed medical technicians scatter as the body within begins to stir. A tall female technician approaches Gerald with the intent to scold him for rushing the older admirals awakening. But seeing the ashen look, and the puffy bags under the admiral’s most trusted advisers eyes, she yields, and backs away with a softly spoken. “Be kind Gerald, the admiral is… not in as good a state as he once was. Be gentle – please.” Turning his eyes from the man entombed in the medical pod Gerald looks at the doctor with mournful eyes and says “I do not wish to hurt him any more than absolutely necessary. He’d be furious if we waited to break the news to him. Better a sharp shock than a delayed festering wound.” He grumbles. “As you see fit Gerald.” Remarks the doctor as she disappears into her office across the medical bay. In a flutter of lab coats and orderlies with wheel chairs, the Morning Rays Protocol team rushes in to collect the admiral, checking his vitals again, attaching leads, and wiping him damp body down. Removing the remnants of the stasis fluids used to keep the elderly man alive. The clock is ticking, and Gerald expects to be summoned by the admiral within the hour from his ready room aboard the bridge.

“Well, speak man! Why did you awaken me so soon, and as harshly. A Morning Rays Protocol Gerald? Are you trying to kill me? I should have been brought back gradually over a period of days. Well? Speak damn it!” Roars the tall elderly man in a medical unitard. Not yet dressed in his full admiralty uniform. Unadorned as he was, deminuitive compared to his former self, the admiral still bellows loud enough to shake the walls of any given room. The pens on his desk rattle with the raucous boom of his voice. “I bare ill tidings sir.” States Gerald. His hands interlinked before him a manilla folder nestled under his arm, as he stands just inside the ready room doors. “Jesus Herald – don’t act like a dcolded child waiting for punishment, out with it man, out!” The admiral is pacing behind his desk, furious to be awakened so suddenly, and is such a harsh manner. He is not one so used to being man handled. Given attention to his every whim yes, but not a man used to being denied. “It concerns your great great grandson – sir.” Bleats Gerald in obvious distress. “Ah yes! Yes, yes, yes. I have not forgotten! I am so very pleased I was able to procure my progeny for this ship. I’ve watched over him you know. I have the time and inclination to follow his progress. Most impressive. An admirable specimen to the family – and name. He bares my name sake you know!” Speaks the red faced admiral, his eyes twinkling with the fondness of his memories. “He’s dead sir.” The swiftness of the admiral’s fury is frightening. Both hands slamming down on his desk. The look of betrayal upon his face. It’s as though the air has been sucked out of the small room. A dark red flush cascades over the old man’s face, as though thick blood were erupting from the top most portion of his scalp. “Bring. Me. His. Body.” Shouts the admiral in a staccato. “I want his biometrics unit brought to me. I want an autopsy, I want all relevant reports on my desk within the hour. Well? MOVE GERALD. Don’t look at me like a stuck fucking pig!” He rants. “I can’t. Sir.” “Oh yes you fucking well can, my son! You fucking well better! My boy. Or I will rend you limb from limb!” He raves. “I’m sorry sir, the Ghost protocol required his body and communicator, the whole of his biometric data be purged.” States Gerald flatly. “What the fuck are you talking about Gerald. He’s mine. I assigned him here. There was no Ghost Protocol for his personnel file. I know that because I would never grant him one. Nothing so ignoble should befall progeny of mine – Gerald.” Shouts the angry admiral. “If you check the records sir – Mark has a Ghost Protocol registered. Signed off on too.” Gerald speaks quietly as he approaches the desk, a file folder clutched in his hand. He opens the folder and lays it down upon the desk. A single photo of the puddle of remains is attached via a paper clip. Poking out underneath are the details of his subsequent bagging, being crated into a polyethylene barrel, and ejected into the backwash of the engines. There are several first person accounts from the witnesses, and the day and time stamps.

Admiral Mark stands still behind his ready room desk starring down at the Manila folder and the contents of the report. Displayed vividly in red ink is the stamp for the Ghost Protocol with a name written in black ink, with a message underneath it.

“Dr Jang you have a new message from the encrypted line waiting for you. At your leisure sir.” Without waiting for acknowledgement the intern scurries from the partially opened office door. Doctor Jang looks up at the clock on his desk, a broad grin spreading across his unshaven face. Slowly he gets up from his desk to cross the room to the door, stopping only to put on his white lab coat. A hop in his step as he saunters down the halls of UB313 to the bridge compartment, and the quiet out of the way alcove where the encrypted line awaits.

The signature is scrawled but clear as day. The Ghost Protocol was ordered by a Doctor Douglas Jang. Underneath that are a few words scribbled followed by a smiley face. “My eyes betray me Gerald. What pray tell, does that say?” Bending at the waist Gerald leans down to read the note under the signature. “It says – Fuck you old man.” With a clatter the admiral collapses into his chair with a thud.

Part Fourteen: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

The single source of overhead illumination he is stood under shows a shimmering wave of tiny undulating dust particles drifting limply through the cone of yellow white light. The room is cool, damp and mournful with the lack of activity. The usual sounds of printers and instrumentation is silent. The ghost follows the ebb and flow of the dust waves as they fall across his vision. Tiny points of sparkling light, each has its fleeting moment where it catches the light just so, enough to twinkle, then vanish amongst the crowd. The ghost too, is silent, transfixed by the dust, and the shouted accusations left hanging in the air. The volume of the shouts so loud his ears are left ringing. The sudden shock of the gun fire over the pa was enough to deafen him momentarily. In a daze he stands there unmoving – unfeeling, unmoored. The inky black shadows of the enormous room shifting and changing shape around him. Many heart beats pound in his chest before a single deeply modulated voice speaks aloud. “Mark – tell me, what message did you send out there? Was it a warning? Did you tell them about the plan?” The voice has an edge to it, a level of panic has set in which the voice modulation can’t quite keep out of the audio feed. “I’m sorry sir, I don’t know what you are looking for. I don’t know anything about the message.” Pleads the ghost quietly but earnestly. “I believe you, my son.” A tinge of regret creeps into the modulation. “Damn.” The voice whispers. The line goes dead once more with a pop and a click, and all of the communications terminal lights spring back to life, the doors open in their entirety, and the signal feeds from all of the dishes and read outs begin to scroll across the screens again. The hum of the lights and the general buzz from the cabling vibrates through the ghosts body.

A soft warm tingle flows down the length of the ghosts left arm spreading from the base of his neck. His face is flushed, and a feeling of euphoria engulfs him. A single tear falls upon his gaunt cheek.

In a moment a blinking message on his wrist will tell him to go to the hazardous materials handling depot, where he will be seen to have walked naked into the decontamination chambers for a shower. As the stringent sanitizer oozes from the curved spigot on the wall a warning siren will go off. The gathered crew in the control room will scramble madly to contain the damage. With frantic screaming and wailing, their fists hammering upon the glass partitions in desperate warning. The ghost will stand motionless under the stream of pink sanitizer, his tears unnoticed in the onslaught of the pink scented fluid, as a clear caustic vapor will creep up through the floor vents. The ghost will collapse in spasms as his body begins to break down. A pool of miasma,gelatinous lipids and bone left dripping upon the bare wet floor. The supervisor on duty will shut all of the view ports between the control room and the showers, but not before the staff witness the violent and all consuming death of the naked man in the shower room. What little there is left will be gathered up, sealed in a plastic sack and crated ceremoniously into a yellow rigid polyethylene barrel and ejected from The Dirty Starling, passing right through the backwash of the engine cones to be incinerated. At the ships next stop, a new ghost will join the ranks of The Dirty Starling’s crew – his name will also be Mark.

Part Thirteen: Ghost of The Dirty Starling.