Flight

They always say that every landing you walk away from is a good one.

We'd landed, but it wasn't a good one. There wasn't enough gravity to walk away from it, and too much to take off again easily. The mission (and it's always a mission) depended upon us finding the golden time--the moment the home planet's gravity field interfered just enough to let us escape our current gravity well--and launching perfectly into that space when the time was right.

They didn't tell us that the project had been underfunded, and that corners had been cut from the start. There was no room for error here. Only one shot, or we'd all be consigned to a slow death of starvation. No one stints on oxygen anymore; it's the worst way to die.

But first, the samples. We'd been sent for a reason after all. This moon had life on it, non-sentient, but alive nonetheless. We needed to know how it could survive out here, so we could survive out here, too. The forest waved as if it were underwater, the roots keeping the trunks in place, while fronds and tentacles waved  without rhythm or reason.

I left the mechanic in the ship, to calculate the times, and to warn us when to come back, lest we miss our window home. I hoped we could trust him.

The team collected samples while I kept a lookout. After the incident on Meridian IV, no one took any chances. Just because what we'd found wasn't sentient, didn't mean other things weren't around.

............


After a few hours and no incident, the work was done and we began trudging our way back to the ship. The mech had been radio silent, so we supposed the window hadn't passed. We picked up the pace as we got closer.

"Ben?" I called through the radio, "Let us in, we're hungry." The hatch slid open and we crawled up the exterior ladder to relative safety.

"Ben?" another called, "Where are you, man?"

Ben didn't answer. I noticed the countdown clock as the hatch clicked shut.

"Get to your flight seats and buckle in! Now!"

The rockets ignited without warning and we were heaved into the sky. I'd slammed down into the cockpit and check the "mirrors" to see what was happening behind us. I saw a figure standing on the edge of the clearing where we'd landed, and then watched as he turned and walked into the forest, tentacled branches swallowing him from my site.

...........

We never went back to that moon--there was no way we could modify ourselves to survive there and still be able to travel to other worlds. We wrote off the mechanic as a casualty of discovery in the report--he'd done his job, but had gotten off of the ship and missed the window. That's business.

I always wondered if that had been on purpose.





For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Venusmoon gave me this prompt: I always wanted to be an astronaut.. I gave Grace O'Malley this prompt: It's a process, he said, which requires a little...tweaking.

Float

I wasn't sure it would float.

It wasn't physically impossible but it was highly improbable. I checked the calculations again, touched a few levers, and finally let her go. The first supporting pylons fell away, followed by larger ones until all that was left were hoses. Those fell away with a few more presses and she floated above me on her own power.

My island in the sky.

The product of thousands of hands and minds, hundreds of arms and legs, seas of sweat and boiling blood, and one dream. One dream, and it was mine. This new land floated on sunlight and wind, and it was the answer to the problem we'd created for ourselves when the caps melted. The land would float upon the sea when necessary, her vents sucking in water for desalination, and heave herself up again--the great solar engines humming the song of the hydrogen firebomb that kept us too warm in this age--and into the air, where we would go with the wind patterns mapped so long ago.

Other islands like this one would eventually rise from the bones of the mountains whose peaks still poked at the sea, but mine was the first. Most of the current population of this blighted mountain top would remove to the floating land above, and become nomad.


I still hadn't made up my mind.













For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Barb Black gave me this prompt: I wasn't sure it would float..

I gave Grace O'Malley this prompt: Stop thinking, and end your problems.

Pressure

I could feel the pressure building up behind my eyes. The latest round of schedule changes had everyone tense and unhappy. The changes didn't really affect me, but the injustice felt by others stung the senses and made it difficult to think. When you know all of the secrets, nothing surprises you.

I watched some, but mostly I listened. These people had acted for too long to give much away by body language, and the voices long modulated into accommodating-without-accommodating tones, with uncaring steel underneath, but there was enough there to notice true feelings--the breathing would give them away. And the eyes, which are so hard to hide, spoke volumes. The jargon was simple, once you figured out it was their way or the highway. My way or the highway, even, since the world knew me as one of them. Couldn't help but smile at that thought, though it was true in at least one sense. The smile flew from my face when I heard what came next.

"--asked if I would intercede on his behalf with the crown. I said that I would, but most certainly will not. There can be no word of this to anyone. Tomorrow I will speak with the underlings. Dreadful accident, and all. Deadlines must be met." All said in the most righteous tones--everything for the good of the land, especially for me. Ah, that stung. The more unsavory emotions had a flavor in the mind, and it was never good.

"Quite." The under-minister winced slightly, as if something pained him. This went unnoticed by the other speaker, but the other was not watching, too intent on her own machinations. This one was much better at masking the taste of the feelings--a true survivor in this hierarchy. He would be here long after this one's flame burned low.

I slipped, sight unseen, out into a perimeter corridor. Someone needed to be warned, and if I didn't not warn certain people at certain times, terrible things could happen. Had happened.When you expect to go unnoticed, you go unnoticed--or if you act the fool to the right people, you are only a fool. A slip of the tongue, and nothing more. This works well for me, and those who have the gift of clear-seeing always know better than to trust my easy acquiescence and downcast eye. My own tells are a quirk of the lips, a flash of eye. I keep my hair short to hide the most telling of giveaways--a penchant to twirl a lock of hair, come hells or high waters--and the cut merely added to the impression of general flightiness.

The route was circuitous, but finally wound up in a back corner with a loose brick. I jimmied out the brick and whispered into the space a short message, "Be-ware the rising flame, it has had too much air." It would have to be enough. I replaced the brick and whispered another word, that the message would only be heard by the one who would most benefit--in this case, the one destined for a dreadful accident. They would not die at the hired hands of this most odious of courtiers, even if they did deserve it.

If you want to kill someone, you should see their blood.






















For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Bewildered Bug gave me this prompt: She could feel the pressure building up behind her eyes. I gave Barb Black this prompt: I am a part of all that I have met.