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There it was. The enemy fleet. Big and barbarous looking, easily out matching the stalwart crew of the tiny CFV Mercy. The distress beacon would take hours to reach the fleet, and by then, all we could hope was that we’d lasted long enough to keep the damnable reivers where the warships could get ‘em.

I prayed to Oola Ta’ang, the Death Goddess of my homelands, the pattering sound of my chant echoing into the silence of the bridge.

Captain Song, our brave leader, opened a channel to all hands, two directions, yet was the only voice to be heard. “Attention, Crew of the Commonwealth Fleet Vessel Mercy, and refugees from Proxima Five. We are being engaged by Filliate T’xyg’s Pirate Fleet. The distress beacon will take two point five micro cycles to reach assistance. I fully expect my crew to serve in the manner they always have, faithfully and with their full hearts. The line is open if you wish to voice options for proceeding.”

It began quietly. I’d learn later it began in engineering, with pipes and wrenches used as percussion instruments. Two dull thuds, one sharp clap, over and over, a rolling battle-call echoed through the Mercy’s halls. Captain Song smiled. “So that’s how it is. Open signal to Flagship Mandible, and for the Gods sake, don’t fail me now.”

The Flagship took the call, Filliate may be a dirty bit of no-good scum, but he understood tradition and last words. Instead of a plea for clemency while we made out our last communiques, he received Captain Song, living up to her name.

“Buddy you're a boy, makin’ big noise, playin' in the street gonna be a big man some day.”

“What is the meaning of this!” demanded the unbeaten pirate leader.

“You got mud on yo' face, you big disgrace,” sang the Captain. “Kickin' your can all over the place, singing...”

And the sounds of the open channel to the rest of the ship swelled up like a tidal wave of force.

“We will, we will rock you. We will, we will rock you.”

“Buddy you're a young man hard man, shouting in the street gonna take on the world someday,” Captain Song took up again in the sudden quieting of voices after, the beat being kept strong through the stamps and claps of the human bridge crew. “But you got blood on yo' face, you big disgrace, wavin' your banner all over the place. And..”

“We will, we will rock you.”

“Sing it!” Captain Song commanded, and I joined my human companions, their foolish battle challenge stirring a primal call in my ichor, the thrum of wings long since vestigial in my kind, yet remembered in the instinct to swarm.

“We will, we will... rock you.”

“I WILL HAVE YOUR HEADS!” Filliate screamed, unhinged and somewhat less terrifying as I looked to my Captain, cool, collected, and singing.

“Buddy you're an old man poor man, pleadin' with your eyes gonna take you some peace someday. You got mud on your face, and big disgrace. Somebody betta put you back into your place.”

“We will, we will... rock you.”

“Sing it!” Captain Song shouted, and signalled the weapons master.

“We will, we will... rock you.”

And the grav cannons fired.

“Everybody!” Captain Song demanded.

“We will, we will... rock you.”

And the landing guidance lasers snapped on.

“We will, we will... rock you.”

And the engineering crew helped the sanitation team jettison the five ton compacted waste substrate that would ordinarily be given to a mid-space station to build foundations, along the landing guidance lines instead of a shuttle. Ten times the mass usually pushed, at the same speed, it rocketed towards the Mandible, a speeding disk of deadly garbage.

“We will... we will, rock you.”

Alright

Current Mood: awake
Current Music: We Will Rock You, by Queen

A freebie for

readera on the Fishbowl double-offer! Remember to claim yours, because more creativity is always good.

//////////^^^\\\\\\\\\\
They tell tales on the stations, warning young spacefarers away from certain lanes. Haggard old space-salts, hunched over a beer warn of well-traveled areas where you should never, ever turn on your sensors. They paint horrifying pictures of the dangers, while they sit in comfy chairs in the station tavern.

I really don’t believe them.

Oh I believe they’ve seen strange things, I’ll even believe in the strange, vacuum-dwelling aliens they claim are so dangerous. I just don’t believe they’re all evil and blood-thirsty, seeking to destroy ships and space their crews for snacking. There has to be a balance, a light to the dark, a fire to the water.

You see, I hear other tales too.

I hear stories of ships lost, their nav systems worse than useless, the hull leaking O2 like a sieve leaks water, out of fuel, out of heat, out of hope. I hear stories of them being dragged, dark and cold, unable to fly themselves, out of asteroid fields and returned safely to home. I hear stories of spacers who lost the line during an EVA, clinging by fingertips in the clumsy suits to the side of the ship, unable to reach the airlock, being gently picked up from behind and carried back to the safety of the side ports. It’s not in the taverns, but in the back halls, in the shops, whispered tales that start “Did you hear what happened?” and get more secretive as they go. I wonder sometimes if we don’t fear the good stories more.

And it’s not just the spacers.

I hear stories from the old bards, who sing the songs and tell the tales of an Earth That Was. They have a name for these creatures, or at least their planet-bound sisters. They recite tales much like the old men and women of the station taverns, needle-toothed sirens singing sailors to their doom, a man named Odysseus tied to a mast while his men shoved beeswax into their ears. They also tell stories of a gentler nature, half-women rising from stormy seas to carry shipwrecked sailors to shore. Who dream of humanity with a much kinder eye than many of us have, and sacrifice much to see it fulfilled.

They call them mermaids.

I keep the stories of mermaids in one binder, and the stories of voidmaids in another. I collect them and catalogue them as I travel the stars looking at people on different planets. I may be working to study the known cultures of aliens, but there’s nothing in the Xenopologist’s Charter that says I can’t also prepare for an as yet unmet culture as well. Because I do believe that one day we’ll meet the voidmaids, and when that day comes, I want us to have a head start on asking them the right questions. I don’t want us to waste time asking “are they a threat to us” when we could be asking them why they save us. I feel the same way about the mermaids of the Earth That Was, and I wish we still had a chance to befriend them. Since we don’t, I look out the view port at the ocean of space, the water of the vacuum, and try to imagine the sleek body of a voidmaid, somewhere out there, among the stars.

Reaching for the sky
Our arms outstretched
Fingers inching upwards
Itching to touch the stars.

We hope to be the giants
On whose shoulders future
Geniuses will stand to see.

As though the species is trying
To grow in a Lamarckian way.

To reach for the stars.

September 2020

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