DNA Justice Program

SF SmugglerRohad Quark, stood before the court, his nerves were on edge, his face haggard, with widened eyes, haunted by some inner anxiety, as he watched the mallet fall.

A voice echoed around the court.  “We do not accept the defendant’s plea for clemency,” stated the stern looking judge.  “You have come before this court no less than seven times, over the past ten years, for charges of smuggling anything from alcohol to people across territorial borders, but those are the one’s you have been caught for.  However, this time the charge is more serious…smuggling weapons for the Rebel Alliance forces.  You have been caught only seven times in ten years, but the question the court must ask, how many illegal trips have you made…ten, fifty, a hundred or more?”

Thoughts raced wildly through Rohad’s mind.  “What would happen to me now?  He turned and gazed at the judge and smiled.  If only he knew just how many times I had crossed the border with illegal contraband.

“We have fined you, and still this does not seem to deter you,” the judge bellowed in his direction.  “But no more chances – you have not learnt who’s in charge here.”

Rohad shrugged his shoulders in reply.

“You leave me no alterative, but to send you to the planet of Staxa, to undertake DNA remodification. That will put an end to your smuggling ways,” quoted the judge with a smile on his face.

Rohad glared at the judge in disbelief.  Then tossed his long blonde hair back, drew a deep breath in disgust, and fell back into his seat with a loud crash.

“Really!  Mr Quarek, making a public spectacle will solve nothing.  This court has given you every chance to curb your ways, but do you? No.”

Rohad gazed at the judge – as the horror of what lay before him, sunk into every bone of his body.  At that moment, his body went all weak.

“Officer’s, remove the prisoner from the court.”

Two burly looking officer’s either side of him, snapped retaining bracelets to his wrists and ankles, then marched him down the rear stairs to the holding cells, to await prison transport.

It seemed like weeks had passed by, when actually it was no more than a few days, when a tall grey haired man, with wire framed glasses perched on his nose, entered my cell accompanied by two stern looking Enforcer’s, who remained by the doorway.

“I am Doctor Crazone, and I have been appointed to assist in your case.  You have been charged and found guilty, for crimes against the state.”

Rohad stared at him. “It had only been a simple case of smuggling.”

“That maybe so, but you were carrying armaments across border territories.  The court has considered your case, and found you guilty of the charge.  I am here to help you with your sentence, you are to undergo DNA transformation…your thoughts are to be brought in line with those of the ruling government.”

Rohad sat and stared at the opposite wall, unable to comprehend the sentence…”You mean I’m to be re-programmed?”

“In a word yes.  It is all in the genes.  Yours made you a smuggler, as your father before you, but with DNA programming we will change your outlook on life.”

“But why?”

“Trust us, we know what is right for you.”

“All because I am a smuggler, you put me in this place for DNA re-programming as you put it; it is no more than another form of mind control.  I remember stories told to me by my father years ago of such scientific research carried out, but it was outlawed, as it was against the individuals human rights.”

Early the following morning the door to his cell was thrown open and two black cloaked Enforcers dragged him from his bed, and along the uneven ridges of the stone corridor.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked, as the sound of fear rose in my voice.

Resistance was futile, for he hadn’t the strength to resist, as he was dragged into a clinical operating room.

Rohad gazed about himself for a split second, as the two enforcers grabbed him by the arms and legs, thrusting him on the table, and strapping him down with straps around his legs, ankles, head and waist.

“What are you going to do?”

Doctor Crazone, walked closer to the table.  “It won’t hurt, well not much, but DNA treatment has proved effective in seventy per cent of cases.”

Rohads eyes watched the good doctor’s fingers slide over some buttons, and fine rods penetrated his skull, and that was the last thing he could remember, the pain was excruciating.

As the months passed by the treatment continued.  Every day he was subjected to the treatment, as every thought of his past was erased from his mind.

Rohad knew nothing of his past life, by the time his treatment was completed.  He had a new name and face, spoke in a voice that sounded more educated than he knew it to be, and was trained as an Enforcer, catching smugglers crossing territorial borders with their illegal contraband…just as he used to.

Rohad shakes off the last of his nightmares, of his former life, and prepares himself for his monthly assessment, as he had done so since taking up the position as an Inter-Space Enforcer.

No matter what he does, he is still gaunt, still as hollow-eyed as a walking corpse.  Still feels like one of them, but deep inside his old life was breaking away the DNA programming, and making its way to the surface.

He went through the full DNA Program, through every painful step of it.  He atoned for his crimes.  They rebuilt his body with new DNA, and, and uploaded new thoughts into his mind.  Finally they released him, to begin his new life…working for the government.

Doctor Crazone along with an Enforcer, wait for me in my living quarters.  “I am waiting,” stated the doctor, with an impatient tone in his voice.

I nod in approval, ignoring the threat in his words, and in the tone.

Sensing Crazone looking at his flawless face, and the pristine white walls of his living quarters.  “You still seem to be re-adapting particularly well.  You have had no trouble since our last interview?”

Nightmare of his past life, seem even more clearer with each nights dream, he didn’t dare confess this, as he knew he would be sent back for more DNA treatment, the dreams were better than that.  “I’m still alive, they haven’t killed off all of my own self,” screams out a voice in his subconscious.

“No,” I reply.

“I am glad.”

Rohad cannot bear the next part, as Crazone probes his mind, endlessly hunting flaws, the things that will break him.  His mind endlessly thinks of the final days of the program, knowing it would be enough to block any mind probe of his actual thoughts.  What he would really like to do, is kill the doctor, who took away his old life.

Space Ships 27

Under the pretence of being an Enforcer, Rohad smuggled contraband, in the hold of his ship.  What the authorities were unaware of, he was using his position to put the competition out of business.

As each month passed by, the monthly assessments were getting harder to fool the authorities, as the procedure was wearing off, his old memories were returning…it would only be a matter of time, before he would return to his old ways all together!

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Dentist: Love or Fear?

Early Dentistry

I don;t know if other’s are like me, when it comes time to attend the yearly dental check up… Fear and terror comes to mind, and its worse still, if one is advised a filling is required…  So enjoy story on dentistry…

 

I was browsing through a stack of magazines at the dentist’s surgery, among the stack was a glossy booklet, entitled: The Future.

I found myself hooked on it as I glanced at the articles, mainly on science-fiction origin, at the time I’d thought this was not the normal type of magazine one expected to find in a waiting room.  A  collection of articles and stories on the future of the world, and advanced human and alien races, which set my mind racing from this world to the next.

Before I was able to finish it, the nurse broke my trance, calling my name and escorted me to the treatment room.

My time in the chair was spent thinking of that pocket-sized magazine.  In fact, I couldn’t remember much about my time in the chair, the whole session started and finished very quickly.  I can’t remember feeling anything.  When the plastic bib was removed, I returned to the waiting room, for the magazine, and sat down and finished the story, much to the dismay of the receptionist.

Shock, went through my body, surprised to find the story I had been reading on “advanced human and alien races,” had actually been written by my dentist: Mr Chambers, with a photo of himself set within.  It spoke of the different cultures found on earth in relation to human and alien races.

The dentist; Mr Chambers entered the reception area, and I approached him with a copy of the magazine firmly clasped in my left hand.

“I see you have my magazine,” unable to take his eyes off it,”you have read it haven’t you?  I can see by the look on your face.”

“I sure have!”

He showed disappointment in my reply, his face showed pain.  “I’m sorry, but that wasn’t for general reading.  I suppose you have also read my article?”

I just nodded in reply.

“These articles state, that all the enclosed is true, is that right?”  I gazed straight into his deep blue eyes.

“Of course, it all is.”  Chambers replied in a confident voice and manner.  “How else do you think I keep my prices down?  I’m really a sponsored missionary dentist from another culture, another race!”

In a stunned look, “but it’s all in English,” I replied.

I gazed at him, trying to comprehend what I was being told. If what I was being told was true, then it explained everything from a standard filling to a crown was so inexpensive.  Before today, I thought I had been fortunate in finding such a reasonable priced dentist, more dedicated to his profession, than in the money that could be earned.

Finally I paid my meagre bill, arranged my next check-up, and left the surgery.  All the time one thought kept nagging away at me: referring to us as a primitive culture, leaving many questions unanswered in my mind.

Six months passed by; no reminder received the previous week to my check-up, but on the day of my appointment, found the surgery all boarded up, and according to the local store across the road, it had been closed these past four or five months.

It was then, that I wondered if the dentist had been telling the truth after all, but at the time it seemed preposterous.

According to the Local Health Authority, all patients who were on Mr Chambers books had been transferred to the Highfield Dental Practice, but none of the patients dental records had been passed on.

“Why?”

Upon a visit to the dental practice, work was required, and when the dentist asked me to open my mouth wide, while I give you an injection to deaden the pain – utter shock went through every inch of my body.

“An injection?  For the pain?  I never had an injection all the time I was with my previous dentist, and felt no pain at anytime.”

The dentist looked at me in a bemused look of astonishment.  “Well, I have got to drill out the old filling and refill it anew.”

“Drill, did you say drill?  Isn’t that a bit primitive these days?”  I asked in an apprehensive manner.

He said.  “Please open a bit wider…” never questioning my comments, he just let it pass.

Just who or what was my previous dentist; human or of alien culture, no one will ever know, but questions have been left in my mind to ponder.

Right of Justice

Writing Scene 1

10.20am March 20

It was a brisk Saturday morning that March 20, 2016.  Snow had all but melted, as sun burst through the clouds.

There had been trouble between Twenty-one year-old Hannah Brower and Mathew Seabright, twenty-three the night before, at the local watering hole.

They seem to have gotten over it, as they headed up to Jackson Heights Holiday Camp on the ridge, over looking Lake Garda, with the breaking of a new day.

Hannah saw it first, legs partly sticking out from behind some logs.  She stopped in her tracks, popping her head round, expecting to see a vagrant, not a man bludgeoned to death, partly buried in the snow.  She gave a slight scream, and thrust her face onto Mathew’s shoulder.  “Look,” she pointed out.

10.50am March 20

Hannah and Mathew hurriedly walked along the ridge, to the home of Richard Daniels.  Hannah was still shaking from the gruesome sight of the body, and the police were called in.

Lieutenant Carmichael took the call and ordered Pete Carrigan to investigate.  Officer Paul Marks accompanied him.

11.30am March 20

Police Officer’s soon reached the scene to discover the body partly immersed in snow.  Carrigan observed on closer inspection; maggots in the wounds.  Close to the body was a man’s wallet containing a driver’s license in the name of Sal Cornick, nothing else…no money or cards.

3.00pm March 20

Closer inspection of the area revealed sixty-one cents, keys, and a long handed axe, believed to be the murder weapon.

“So doctor, when and how did he die?” asked Lieutenant Carmichael.

“We have had a bad winter, been deep in snow for some months or so.  I can’t give an exact time frame, until I carry out an autopsy, but an educated guess would be, late October, but don’t hold me to it,” replied the doctor, examining the victim.

“I would trust your educated guesses any time,” smiled Carmichael.

“In my opinion based on the evidence before me, this must have been a frenzied attack, using the axe to hack him to death.”

The cabins were searched for clues as to who was living here at the time…Carmichael knew a janitor was often employed during the winter months to ward off squatters.

Cassandra had taken on this job as janitor for the winter months at Jackson Heights Holiday Camp on Lake Garda.  It came at the right time, I had just been released from hospital, and we had no money to pay the rent on our apartment.  Our job was nothing more than a sitting tenant, to drive off potential squatters.

It was perfect…we even got paid.

“It will be just the two of us, lounging around in hot tubs and sitting by the fire in the lodge,” claimed Cassandra.  “It will give you time to get back to full strength.”

The snow started just after we arrived, falling with gentle vengeance, as if to apologize for its late arrival.  Within an hour there wasn’t a blade of grass visible.

I liked the place right away.  It was kind of run down; just a main building, a dozen or more log cabins, a pool, hot tubs, with an area set aside for caravans and tents.

After unpacking, we went to the main building and climbed into one of the hot tubs.  We left the door open, just because we could.

We had been there about a month, when he showed up, looking for a place to stay.  By that time, the cold weather had gotten worse, and it had snowed for three weeks non-stop.  She didn’t seem to mind it, tramping around in the snow in her big fleece – lined parka, pointing out the birds to me, and the cold footed raccoons foraging in the snow.

In the bitter cold of the morning, I would strip down in the chilly locker room, run to the heated pool and jump in.  Spend what seemed like eternity, floating in the cloudy water.  Then one morning, I opened my eyes, and there he was, standing over me; our lodger.

“Nice morning for a swim, man?”

I was naked of course.  I felt suddenly ashamed of my body, with its scars, compared to his.

“It is good to meet you, I am Sal… Sal Cornick.”

I got out on the other side of the pool, away from him.  On the way into the locker room I bumped into Cassandra, naked going for a swim.  “We will have to start wearing swimsuits, the lodgers here.”

She gave me a condescending smile and patted me on my shoulder.  “I know.”

“We should invite him to join us some evenings at the lodge?” Cassandra suggested.  “It must be lonely in the cabin.”

My face said everything; I didn’t like the idea one bit.  Still Cassandra asked him in.

Sal built a fire for us in the lodge.  He brewed a bitter herbal tea over the fire, as the wind snapped snow against the building while we sat there wrapped in blankets, round the crackling fire.

Later, I went out to get some more logs for the fire.  When I got back, Cassandra and Sal were gone.  I knew where she was.  I could have stopped it from happening, but I didn’t.  Instead, I lay in the dark, and let myself get angry.

The biggest storm of the winter hit a few days later.  It was a warm one, full of wet, sticking snow that clung to your cheeks.  You couldn’t see more then a few feet through the snow storm.

It lasted six long days, and we had to dig out way out of our cabin.  There was no sign of Sal; his cabin was empty.  We never spoke of him again.

A few months later, Sal was a memory from the past, as was the snow which was melting, and the day we were due to leave drew ever closer.

She was right about this place.  I was feeling better.  My muscles were lean and hard.  What I had lost in the hospital had come back to me in thick ropes around my arms and legs.  I moved with all the grace that had once made me proud.

With the melting snow, Sal’s body appeared, by the log pile, hacked to death… I knew then Cassandra must have killed him.

I lay in our cabin, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the events that had taken place.

10.15am March 25

The chief suspects in the murder of Sal Cornick were Cassandra and Daniel Jenkins, stated the police at a press conference.

If anyone knew of there whereabouts they should contact the police.

2.15pm March 29

Cassandra and David were entertaining friends when police cars pulled into the caravan park, where they were living.  The couple were taken to Milwaukee County Court house for questioning.

12.30pm March 30

Hannah Bower and Mathew Seabright were brought in for questioning, for it was they who found the body.

2.45pm March 31

A statement was issued to the press that Daniel Jenkins would be charged with murder, based on a signed confession by Cassandra Jenkins.

In reply, David Jenkins believes he is innocent, but can offer no alibi.

11.40am May 10

Cassandra identified her husband as the actual murderer of Sal Cornick, stating he was jealous of him.

“Did you actually see him commit the murder?” asked the Prosecutor.

“No…but there was no one else up there” Cassandra replied.

3.25pm March 19

Finally, after nine days and thirty-one witnesses…

“Have you reached a verdict, on which you agree?” asked the judge.

“We have your honour.”  The foreman of the jury looked directly at me, his voice taking on a harsh sounding edge to it.  “We find the defendant guilty of murder.”

My knees buckled as I heard the word guilty, and I nearly collapsed, a roaring in my eyes blotting out all sound around me.

I looked for her in court, as officer’s grabbed my arms.  They were pulling me away as I caught sight of her.  She stood talking with my lawyer, the back of her hand stroking his upper arm.  They turned, looking in my direction, with slight smiles.  I knew then he had fallen under the spell of Cassandra.

Before I was dragged from the court, Cassandra raised her hand – and blew me a kiss.

The door slammed shut on my life…I had been betrayed by my Cassandra, the true murderer…

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The Justice Program

Justice Logo

 

Jeremy Maxwell, his dark face set in sullen lines, as he watched the mallet fall.  There was little difference between the Moon and Earth courts.  The judge’s voice boomed around the court.  “The law does not accept the defendant’s plea for clemency.

“You have come before me no less than five times, on similar charges.  I therefore have no alternative but to sentence you to one year at the Scientific Research Centre at Markgrove in the Asus region.”

Jeremy glared at the judge in disbelief.  Tossing his long blonde hair back, drew a deep breath, and fell back into his seat with a loud crash.

“Really Mr Maxwell, making a public spectacle of yourself will solve nothing.  Officers take him down.”

Between the sterile white stone walls of the hospital chamber, Maxwell lay back and looked on as the auto-medics moved in on his arm, like creatures preparing for a feast.  A nanoserum had already been applied, to anaesthetise the limb and prepare for incision.  Dull iron restraining band felt cold against his soft white skin.  With a swift precise movement, the first scalpel cut deep into his flesh.

Feeling nothing in his arm gazed towards it only to see that it had been completely removed, and laid in a cryolis chamber.  The scalpels lay to one side now, sticky with his blood.  With perfect synchronised movement a laser controlled implement moved in and began sealing the wound, leaving a lingering burnt smell that was to haunt him for some time.

A few hours had passed and his forearm had been removed and was the property of the state for the next 12 months.  He now lay in the recovery room, when he came too; his probation officer Miss Daniel’s sat waiting.

“A year’s sentence isn’t such a long time, Mr Maxwell.  It’ll be over before you know it, and you will get used to being without your forearm, for the next year.”

“Do you have to be quite so callous about it?”

“What would you prefer?  That I didn’t mention what has happened here?  You brought this on yourself by committing the crime and now you must suffer the consequences of your actions”

“No, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to be so off-hand.”  As Maxwell gazed at the stump of his arm still numbing by the anaesthesia and wrapped in fresh white bandages.  As he attempted to move, he could feel the missing weight of his forearm.  It would take him some time to adjust to the new balance of his body.

His assigned probation officer, Miss Daniel’s, was very plain looking in appearance.

“I should hope your career as a petty thief is over, now.  The first thing to do is find employment, for the durance of your sentence at least, and hopefully afterwards.”

“The first thing to do, as far as I’m concerned,” Maxwell retorted, “is get me measured up for my cybernetic limb.”

“Mr Maxwell, your sentence will last for one full year, and you’ll be required to attend re-abilitation classes, and I will call upon you each week at your place of employment.”

“What happens to me if I don’t abide by the rules?”

“Your sentence period will be extended.  If you re-offend at any time during the year, your current sentence will run consecutively with any new sentence imposed on you.  My advice to you is not to steal anymore, or at least not get caught.  Unless you have a good lawyer you could be handed a prison sentence or at the worst sentenced to the cryostasis chamber for the duration of your sentence.”

“You know it was not my intention to re-offend,” he said with a pleasing look in his eyes.  “At the end of the year, is it right they will re-attach my forearm?”

“All being well.  Yes.  The procedure is a little more complicated; the nerves have to be regenerated, and realigned.  But it’s quite a common procedure these days.  Your forearm won’t be quite as you remember it, tests will have been carried out on it, and senses adjusted so you don’t stray again.”

“Will I suffer from any side effects?”

She gazed at him for a moment, looking deep into those dark sullen eyes; “there shouldn’t be any.”

“What if there are?”

“If there are go straight to the nearest hospital, and give them your planetarian code number.  A human doctor opposed to a synthetic one should treat you.  The operation isn’t supposed to leave the patient with side effects, but that’s not to say it can’t happen in rare cases.

Maxwell, felt a pain within, that came from outside of his body, how can that be?  Slowly the anaesthetic was wearing off, and the pain grew stronger.  With his remaining hand summoned an auto medic to give him another shot of a pain killer.

A few weeks later, he had been transferred from the prison hospital to work at the exotic animal and plant food-processing unit, surrounded by three high walls, cut deep into the cliff.

His cybernetic forearm looked gruesome, with its network of levers, wires and sensor points; he often questioned in his mind, who was serving time, him or his arm?  The hand had been constructed from a mix of plastic and metal, with a claw instead of fingers, slow to respond to actions from his brain.

Thankfully, the forearm was hidden from sight in his black uniform.  It would have looked better with a synthetic skin covering.

He slipped easily into a daily routine.  Each morning he would climb down into the vaults and walk beside the great holding cages of the farm, checking everything was clean, and the exotic animals were all present and correct.  Like me they had nowhere to go, technically they were imprisoned.

Occasionally he would have to clean the cages out by hand, as the grilles and chutes became blocked with food and waste material.  Each cage was twenty-five metres square, holding up to five animals, proving to be a formidable task at the best of times.

The plant farm was self sufficient, having to be watered by the sprinklers twice a day, ready for the pickers to collect the food on a daily basis.

Every tenth day of the month, attended citizenship classes at the nearest town, travelling by monorail.

After a while you knew what they wanted to hear from you and reciting it became second nature.  As long as they thought they were inducting you into a new way of life, no one was any the wiser.

On the first day of each week, the probation officer Miss Daniel’s, came to check up on his progress, but seldom had anything to report.

“They keep me constantly occupied, no time to consider my old life.”

“It must be quiet and lonely in this environment.”

“The creatures don’t say much,” Maxwell admitted with a slight grin on his face.

Miss Daniel’s stood at the edge of one of the cages, gazing in, “are they dangerous?”

“They’re too drowsy to be dangerous, they are kept drugged up to the eyeballs, still I wouldn’t get too close to them, prior to feeding times.”

It pleased him when she visited, but relieved at her departure, she made it painfully clear he was serving time for his crimes.

As the weeks went by the intensity of the pain increased, where once he had a hand, and now there was a claw like structure.

One of the auto medics had explained part of his brain was still convinced that he had a hand; it believed as though it was still reviewing messages from the nerves.  To resolve the problem, painkillers were prescribed, hoping to ease the sensation, but it never worked.

Finally, he removed the cybernetic replacement, and carried on work as best he could without it.  It made him uncomfortable to have the sensation of two limbs occupying the space where only one should have been.

According to the auto medic, the phantom limb wouldn’t last forever, but there was no telling how long.

Night times were the worst, when he was hovering on the edge of sleep, or just waking up.  He would feel the sensation of something touching his invisible palm, but much worse was the sensation that he was not in full control of his hand.

The only answer must be that his own hand wants revenge for being removed from his body.  It was his fault and he had to be punished for it.

The following night he awoke choking, struggling for breath.  The phantom hand was at his throat, its fingers clasped about his windpipe, unseen fingers digging into his flesh.  Weakened by the lack of oxygen, his vision began to blur, and the room grew darker, all life was being sucked out of him.  Abruptly, the phantom hand loosened his grip, and Maxwell collapsed back on his bunk, gulping great gasps of air.

In an anxious mood, Maxwell rang Miss Daniel’s in the dead of night, requesting to see his hand, but she was annoyed at being disturbed so late.

“Of course you can see your hand, but you must apply to the Scientific Research Centre, through the courts, which should take a few weeks.”

Alarmed at the delay, he just hung up, leaving Miss Daniel’s curious about his request.

Maxwell feared for his life, after the deathly attack upon his body, and knew he must not sleep, as he might not be able to fend off the next attack.

Maxwell headed into the city, to see if his hand was still at the Research Hospital, or was it a dream, but how could that be, as bruises were appearing around his throat.

Before reaching the hospital, he was apprehended by two security officers, at the monorail station, and delivered back into Miss Daniel’s custody.

“What on earth do you think you were doing,” she demanded in a high pitched voice, “are you trying to get arrested?”

“I don’t know.  I was trying to reach the hand, but I had no idea what I would do when I got there.”

“What’s all this about,” Miss Daniel’s asked.

Maxwell out of desperation told her everything.

When he had finished, she sat silent for a long time.  Then she said the reason you were apprehended was that your hand was stolen in the early hours of the morning.  When you weren’t to be found at the processing unit, I put out an apprehend request on site.

“I’m afraid,” he said abruptly.  “But I’m unsure what I’m afraid of,” he said in a low voice.

“Don’t worry,” she replied.  “I will remain here with you until this is resolved one way or the other.”

Maxwell could hardly find the words to thank her.

Down in the cages, the animals seemed agitated.  Having not been fed for the past 24 hours, one of the youngest had been attacked and eaten by the others; bringing home to him how dangerous they really were.  A scattering of bones was all that remained of the young one.  After feeding them he sprayed the cages with water, considered a luxury to the exotic animals.  Where once a form of joining had existed between them; only fear remained now.

“Are you all right, Mr Maxwell?” she asked.

“Somewhat awkwardly I replied.  “Yes.  Thanking her for her concern.

“If you need me, I will be along the corridor.”

Sleep came hard to him; he tossed and turned for many hours; eventually laying in silence with his eyes wide open.  From time to time, gazed at the metal forearm by his bunk.

Finally in desperation swung his legs out of the bunk, and fixed the gruesome arm in place.  There was a slight sting as the control points probing his skin, searching for the nerve interface implants, bringing the arm back to life.

Some instinct told him something was wrong, as he wandered out among the cages.  The sensation he felt in his arm; made him question, was the phantom arm close by, or was it all in his mind?

Then in the larger of the cages, he caught glimpse of movement, too quick to have been made by these sedated animals, as he watched on, when he heard the sound of footsteps heading his way.

“Mr Maxwell is that you?”

“Yes, Miss Daniel’s.  I’m over here.”

“What are you doing in here in the dead of night?  What’s going on?” she asked, observing Maxwell opening the upper hatch into the cage.

“There’s no time for explanations now.  I will explain afterwards,” as he dropped into the cage.

It was dark; by what little light there was the animals skin shimmered, and his old hand could be seen close by.  For a moment he gazed in disbelief of how it got here, then suddenly it lunged itself around his neck, but he was unable to fully control the cybernetic arm to remove his old arm.  The more he struggled, the tighter the grip about his throat.  He felt the blood beating at his throat, trying to find its way through the constricted vessels, past the hard grip of the fingers.  Slowly he began to loose consciousness, as he grew dizzy and everything around him was growing darker, moment by moment.

Then the cages were flooded with light, as Miss Daniel’s switched on the main lights above.  All in an instant, Maxwell saw he could break the things hold, using his cybernetic hand, bringing it down with as much force as he could muster, and tore the stunned hand from his throat, and held it at arms length as it struggled to free itself.

Miss Daniel’s stood by the lower entrance, with one of the darts used to paralyse the animals, whilst I held it she thrust it into the body of the hand.  The struggling stopped, and the hand went limp.

Still holding this violent, but sedated hand, tossed it into the animal’s food tray, and watched until it had been eaten.  Finally the old phantom hand was no more, and peace reigned.

Maxwell looked on, but said nothing as Miss Daniel’s rested her soft hand on his shoulder.  “I’ll put forward a request to end your sentence, under special circumstances, and arrange a new cybernetic forearm, with an imitation outer skin, you won’t be able to tell the difference!

My nightmare was over!!!

The 400 year old Fabrini Mystery

Space Ships 17

Fear took hold of Dargon’s mind as a laser was thrust hard into the back of his neck.

“It wouldn’t be in your best interests to kill me friend.”

“No, but if you give me no choice, I will,” replied the dark looking stranger.

“You know I am the only one who can pilot this ship!”

“I am well aware of the dedicated thought control technology used by this space-liner.”

“There’s nothing to be gained by hi-jacking this craft, we are only a humble space-liner.”

“By no means are your passengers humble, for I am well aware of your sensitive cargo, and destination.  It would be better for all concerned if they did not reach the peace talks on Rosario.  So we will be going to an alternative destination, until the peace talks are over.”

“You won’t get away with hi-jacking this ship, sensors will detect you, as the ship is scanned prior to take off.”

“Don’t worry about that, they won’t detect me, and my men, it has all been taken care of.  You just keep quiet, and don’t try any tricks, and you just might live to fight another day.”

A laser was smashed against the side of Dargon’s head, drawing blood, as he tried to activate the ship’s warning sensors, indicating there was trouble aboard.

“That’s just a gentle warning, next time I won’t be so gentle.”

Fear ran through every bone in Dargon’s body, fear of being shot.  He knew, that for the moment, he would have to bide his time.  Maybe, just maybe, the attempt of galactic seizure, might backfire, giving Dargon his chance to overpower his assailant.

The man was smiling.  “Quite impressive,” he said in a favourable voice.  “Your reputation goes before you; formerly a privateer, and navigator, made your name during the Intergalactic Wars, as one of ten, awarded the prestigious sapphire encrusted bar, for your part in the Pelican Battle, one which has gone down in history.”

“Your exploits across the galaxy have made you a legend, some say you are a hero of your time, while other’s still refer to you as a privateer.   On one attack, your fleet of twelve battle hardened cruisers, slipped through a wormhole, capturing three star-cruisers, destroying twelve battle ships, and capturing over 20,000 warriors,”

“Just rumours, and rumours have a tendency to be exaggerated, from one to another.”

“Maybe so!”

“I don’t even know your name, what do I call you?”

“You can refer to me by the name Bandrill.”

There was a moment’s silence as the significance of the name sunk in.  Dargon was convinced he had heard this name when he was a young boy, growing up on the mining colonies.  “Are…you an android?”

“I am an existential life form of a thirty-two year old male, strong and physically fit, and currently using industrial flesh to pose in this primitive state.”

“An explanation was not necessary,” replied Dargon.

“There be ten high ranking officials aboard this ship, from the Earth’s Alliance?”

“That is correct, with their personal advisers, due to attend the peace conference.”

“They were but now this ship and all on board are my prisoners,” said Bandrill, in a harsh and sadistic manner.  “ I am only interested in making sure they don’t reach the peace conference.”

“You will never get away with it, they will find us.  You can’t possibly hide a ship of this size!”

Bandrill smiled harshly for a moment.  “They will never find you, only I and my men will know your whereabouts.  Now enter these co-ordinates into the ship’s Automatic Navigational Systems,” thrusting the details into his hands.

The ship’s speed throttled down, after crossing the galaxy for three hours at Warp 5, crossing from the alpha to the omega system.

“We have reached our destination, so prepare for landing…I will guide the way,” stated Bandrill.

Dargon gazed out into the emptiness of space.  “But there are no planets out here.”

“It is not as empty as you think…bring us close into that star,” as Bandrill indicated, some three thousand kilometres off their port side.

Strangely enough, the star was an unpopulated chunk of ice, according to the ship’s sensors.

A buzzing sound, activated on the console, they had activated a security defence screen.  A few hundred metres in front of them, three Centurion space-crafts de-cloaked.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” stated Dargon.

Bandrill smirked.

“Enter your access code.  You have three minutes to comply, or be blown apart!”

“I was expecting this…a planetary defence system set up for our guests,” Bandrill spoke out loud, as he entered the code into the ship’s communication system…almost immediately access was granted, and the Centurion space-crafts re-cloaked, and landing lights lit up, directing their path.

“The star shielded a cloaked planet, that’s a first,” stated Dargon.

Dargon stood beside the hatch in the frigid morning air, wearing an insulated suit, which seemed useless against the harsh, sub’ degree weather of this planet.

As he studied their surroundings, two of his crew attempted to move away from the ship, when they were gunned down by laser blasts, from automated gun-posts some ten paces out from the ship.

Dargon cringed with fear, he couldn’t believe what had just happened.  “We are trapped good and proper,” he said lightly to himself, not wanting to alarm his passengers.

His eyes fell upon mounds in the ground, just a short distance from the nose of the ship.  Hurling a rock at one of these mounds, a nanosecond later, the ground erupted with an ear shattering explosion.  “Mines!  Mines!”

Will Bandrill keep his promise, and return, or have we been left to die on this planet?  We can only last a few months at best, for he has taken the ship’s Dilithium Matrix Power Converter, and Communications Array, without them we are doomed.

The winds were picking up, odd-shaped flurries began to fall.  A blizzard was heading their way.  The air was different, a damp deadening cold.  Forcing Dargon and his fellow prisoners to button down the hatches and wait out for Bandrill’s return.

Rumours spread across the galaxy, that the Rebel Alliance Battle Fleet was amassing on the neutral zone border, close to the dormant planet of Acturial.

In the space of eight days, fifty plus Battle Cruisers, ten Star-Ships had exited the warp gate.  They were waiting…

The much awaited news reached the Rebel Alliance, Bandrill and his men, were instrumental in the capture of the peace envoy…

This one single action, persuaded men and women from all walks of life to fight for what they belied in.

Bandrill was very tall, in appearance, and most terrifying.

The forces of the Rebel Alliance had won a victory.  Their cause was just, they would rather die than be slaves to the Earth’s Alliance.  They outranked Earth’s Alliance by twenty-five to one, but their opposition were skilled combat fighters.

At first glance, it didn’t look good for Earth’s Alliance.  With orbital fortresses and ion-gun emplacements, floating along the neutral-zone border, their numbers were no match against the Rebel Fleet.  But they had an ace up their sleeves.  What appeared to be a dormant planet, within sight of the border, was in fact a planetary defence screen that would vaporize any invading ship or missile.

By the end of the first battle, 70,000 troops had been slaughtered, thirty Battle Cruisers, and ninety short-range combat fighters destroyed.

 

Regor is the name, captain of the Eagle scout ship, working with my partner of eight years; Merton.   Our existence came about by the need for law and order in the galaxies, leading to the formation of the Inter-Galactic Federation, responsible for galaxy wide security.

Our current assignment would take us clean across to the other side of the galaxy.

Adrenaline pumps its way through my heart, as I prepare to launch my ship into the darkness of a worm hole, opening up before me.  I have done it so many times, but still my body fears each trip.  Could it be sheer terror?

My body tingles from head to foot, vision is impaired, and colours blurred, as my body races through time.  Crossing many galaxies, many timelines in a matter of minutes.

According to our history records, this worm hole is believed to be, as old as time itself.

At the far end, the worm hole opens into another dimension of space; a sun circled by a red atmosphere and a group of eight planets come into view as the ship is spewed out at high speed.  Seven appear to be lifeless, covered in a deep coating of ice; the remaining one indicates a living planet, standing apart from the others.

The single planet, is encircled within an asteroid field, even though most of the asteroids are barely more than the size of one’s fist, still large enough to do serious damage to one’s ship.

Curiosity got the better of Merton, as he fires a probe into the planets atmosphere.  “We want answers don’t we,” looking in the direction of his partner Regor, but he does not hear, for he is dozing away, unaware of the mystery unfolding before them.

The onboard collision alarm rings out through the flyer, as Regor is brought harshly to his senses.

Scrambling to the controls, just in time to see the flyer being drawn steadily closer and closer into the asteroid field…and danger.

“Hit the reverse thrusters,” he shouted.  “We are being dragged into that asteroid field,” gazing out of the flyer’s forward window.

Once out of range, Regor gazes at his partner, waiting for an explanation.  “So where are we, and what gives?” he blurts out in an authoritarian voice.”

“We have reached our destination, but the onboard  mapping system is wrong, for there are eight planets in this sector of space, not seven.”

“So a new planet has evolved, just mark it up, and let’s move on.”

“Not so quick my friend, this new planet is encircled by an asteroid field; and I have sent a probe into its atmosphere,”  Merton stated.  “The probes data, informs us the planet is capable of sustaining life…and that’s part of our brief, to find new habitable planets.”

“Are there any signs of life down there?”

“None, but our sensors and data probe, have detected a space craft on the surface.”

Regor’s eyes lit up at the mention of a space craft on the surface.

“We had better check this planet out, now we have discovered it.  The neutral zone border is only an hour away at warp 2.0, and many battles have been fought and lost there.  Centuries have come and gone.  This part of space holds many memories of a colourful and bloody history.  There’s even unsubstantial rumours that the rebels once had a base along the neutral zone,” quoted Regor.  Giving his young partner a history lesson of events that once affected this quadrant of space.

Regor, followed by Merton clambered down into the two man shuttle; she was sleek and black, like a long rocket, with finely sculptured fins and wings, accessed from the rear of their ship. Merton closed the shuttle’s hatch whilst Regor activated the bay’s decompression chamber, then dimmed the lights, as the doors slowly hinged open.

Mechanical supports lowered the shuttle, some two metres clear of the doors, the engines were activated, and the clamps securing the shuttle disengaged, releasing the shuttle into space.

The sight that greeted them was a planet surrounded by an asteroid field, and a sea of yellow and green gasses.  For a split second in time, Regor turned and looked at his partner, then activated the thrust controls, hurtling them into space, on a direct path towards the asteroid field and the planet beyond.

Thoughts wandered through their minds, at what might lay down there…a mystery centuries old awaited them!

Regor did not start to get nervous until Merton’s face turned a sickly greenish colour, upon approach to the dreaded asteroid field.  The look upon his face was enough to freeze one’s blood.

“Could we not give this planet a miss,” suggested Merton, through his chattering teeth.  “Today is not a good day to die.”

“If you hadn’t sent a probe, we wouldn’t even be attempting it,” replied Regor, ignoring the suggestion, and accelerated as they entered the asteroid field, surrounding the planet.  By now, Merton was gripping onto the seat tightly, as his knuckles turned white.

Merton glanced out the port window, only to see cluster’s of asteroids, skim past with only metres between them and the shuttlecraft, whilst the collision alarm was blaring away in the background.

The shuttle began to veer rapidly as it evaded a thick population of asteroids.  Rolling from one side to another, they flew up and over one, then buzzed below another, flew within a metre of one to the left.  The shuttle was flying, rolling, and swerving at such unbelievable high speeds; that one mistake, and they would be sent reeling, into the path of an incoming asteroid.

“We are through, we are through,” shouted Regor.  “The planet is just ahead of us now.”

“We live to fight another day!” Quoted a relieved Merton.

Merton scanned the planets surface, and indicated a suitable landing area some 2,000 metres to the north, of their current position, as a suitable landing area.

“Okay!  Okay!  I see it,” replied Regor tense as always when preparing to land.  They dropped down over the tree line, and with a mighty thud hit the ground, and bounced along the surface a further 3,000 metres or so, before coming to an abrupt halt, as the shuttle vibrated, and they plunged deep into the undergrowth at the far end of the clearing.

“That sure was a rough landing,” commented Merton, whilst holding on tightly to his seat.

There was no reply, Regor’s facial fur turned a deep shade of red, a sign of anger.

Merton just sat in his seat, glad to be down in one piece.  His heavily furred face, turned deep pink, as he blushed for a few moments.

They were greeted by a wondrous sea of yellow and green sky, and a never ending forest, with an array of coloured flowers, as they exited the shuttle.

It was Merton, first out with his scanner who detected something.  “Regor, over here,” he indicated.  “Looks like the remains of an ingrained channel, could be the result of landing a spacecraft. It is in the right area according to our probe.”

Regor looks down at the old tracks gouged into the ground…smiles to himself, but says nothing.  Without a second thought, both officer’s started hacking their way through the semi-undergrowth as they follow the tracks, heading ever closer to their target; the space-craft.

“Merton! Merton!” Regor shouts out in distress.  “My head is swimming, and I am having difficulty breathing. What is wrong with me?” as he stumbles to the ground?

Merton rushes over to Regor.  “Slow down, and take some shallow breaths, the planet’s got a rich oxygen atmosphere.”

According to the computer, they had landed in the planets winter time zone, and the temperature for this time of day, was well below zero; the wind chill factor was biting through their space-suits, they had to reach their intended target, before they froze.

They finally emerged from the undergrowth, in a little under two hours, to see the space-craft standing before them.

“So why was she here?” asked Regor.  “She looks in structurally good condition.  She was not war-bird, but an ancient space-liner.”

A scattering of old bones, and weapons were detected by Merton, some fifteen metres to the north of the spacecraft.

Walking around the perimeter, a number of ancient gun emplacements, were found in the vegetation.

“Was it a battle?” asked Merton.

Regor, couldn’t think, his body was cold, frost-bite was getting to him.  “The simple question we have to ask ourselves, was it in protection of the space-craft, or its occupants?”

The ghostly ship appeared to be of an ancient design, some 400 metres in length, 35 metres wide, with at least four levels visible as they walked around it.  The lower level windows were obscured by branches, leaves, and mud; the result of gouging a path through the forest as it landed.

“I wonder what mysteries await us within?” asked Merton.  “More likely a ship full of ghosts!”

“Do you believe in ghosts? Asked Regor.

“I sure do,” replied Merton.

“Then let’s go and meet them, and get out of this cold,” replied a cautious Regor.

Snow, ice, and earth had built up forming a small mound around the ships access door.

Using their lasers they blasted away the earth and ice, and with sheer brute force, the door yielded to them, revealing majestic  styled corridors covered with years of cobwebs.

Merton and Regor found the Captain’s cabin, located off the flight deck.  They forced the sliding door open.  The sight that beheld them was a young woman sitting opposite the captain, who sat at his desk, clutching a pen in one hand.  Sadly, what he had been writing had faded away with time.  What memories they had, died with them in their frozen tomb.

Found on an adjoining table, in a metal box, was the space-crafts logbook, covered in a thick layer of dust.  Regor picked it up, and brushed away the surface dust, with the back of his hand.  The Space-Liner Fabrini commissioned into service 2945.  “That’s over four hundred years ago,” blurted out Regor.

“So where’s the crew,” Merton blurted out.

“Some of the bones outside are more likely to be members of the crew,” suggested Regor.

They and went from cabin to cabin, desperately searching for answers.  The Fabrini must have been one of the most luxurious space-liners of her time, the main lounge had been decorated like a palace.  The staterooms were sumptuously furnished.  Only twenty out of the seventy, appear to have been used; for these contained corpses still dressed in fine clothing.

“What we appear to have here, is a ship containing high ranking officials, based on their fine clothing.  Could they be delegates on a special mission?” suggested Regor, airing an idea.

Merton, shrugged his shoulders.  “One things for certain, they didn’t die a violent death.  They must have died from starvation, and cold.”

“The answer’s as to why they be on this planet in the first place, are more likely to be found within the pages of this logbook,” Regor stated, waving it in his hand.

Merton glanced at the logbook, “it should make for interesting reading.”

“These people must have died hundreds of years ago, and the passing world has forgotten them, for I can not remember anything in our history books relating to the Fabrini and her disappearance,” Regor quoted.  “A great tragedy had beheld these passengers.  Somebody must have mourned the passing of those who died here?”

A loud cracking sound broke the silence, spreading  through the length of the ship; compartment by compartment, bulkhead by bulkhead, then she started sinking very slightly towards her aft end.  At that moment fear ran through their bodies, of being trapped onboard, as the elements destroyed her.

“We had better get out of here fast,” shouted Regor.

“You don’t have to say it twice, I am right behind you,” replied Merton following in his partners footsteps.

Once out of this old space-ship, they were horrified to see that the ground was opening up, and she was slipping deeper and deeper into the ground, as it must have been doing these past four hundred years or more.

“Had our intervention, been the reason she was being swallowed up by the planet?” asked Merton.

“Anything’s possible, movement – disturbance.  The planet doesn’t want to share its secrets,” suggested Regor.

Returning to their shuttlecraft was made more exhausting, as a bitter wind of sub zero temperature had blown up, and  their feet sank deeper into the ship’s original landing tracks.

Some three hours later an exhausted Regor and Merton were back on board the Eagle Scout Ship, reminiscing of the past events on the planet and how easily they could have been buried alive down there, as they warmed themselves up with Tarludian Cognac.

“This is the Eagle Scout Ship, calling Central Command,” Regor spoke with firmness in his voice.  “This is the Eagle Scout Ship, come in please.”

“The time lag between sending the call and receiving an answer, was as much as three minutes, caused by the distance.  Their message was relayed by beacons, spread across space.”

“We read you loud and clear,” replied the Central Command controller.

“We have discovered a planet protected by an asteroid field, and went down to investigate,” stated Regor.  “The planet appears to be uninhabited, but sitting there large as life is an ancient Galaxy Class Space Liner, called Fabrini.”

There was silence from the other end, just static.  Regor thought the connection had been broken, just as quick as it disappeared, it burst into life once again.  “You did say the Fabrini, did you not?”

“That is correct.  She is over four hundred years old, according to the log book, I have before me.  She’s a real piece of history, and classy.”  Regor stated.  “We found twenty staterooms, with corpses all dressed in fine clothing.”

The line returned to static as they waited, the minutes passed by, turning into hours, then the line burst into life once again.

Well officer’s it seems you have stumbled upon a mystery, a forgotten one, surrounding the American built Galaxy Class Space-Liner Fabrini of 2945 out of New York, who disappeared without trace, some four hundred years ago.

According to our history files, it was March 2950, when the Fabrini was on route to peace talks, with the peace envoy, when she was hijacked by a mercenary group under the leadership of Bandrill, and that was the last anyone heard of them.

Bandrill openly acknowledged they were his prisoners, and demanded five million gold bars in return for their whereabouts.

We would never negotiate back then, as we wouldn’t now with terrorists…so the money was never paid, and the secret of their whereabouts died with Bandrill and his men.

Time has passed by, the Fabrini, has all but been forgotten.

This relic of the past, lies in frigid isolation.  The planet has been listed off limits to all craft, her co-ordinates have been omitted on all databases, it has become a memorial to those who died on board the Fabrini.

Wallpaper Image

Missing… Without Trace

Taxi

The ring at the door came at 6.30am.  I usually don’t rise before 10.00am, and then only with the help of my morning mug of black coffee or two.  My mouth was dry, and my brain could barely comprehend what he was saying, as I opened my front door, standing in nothing but my shorts.

“There can be no doubt in our minds that a crime has been committed, whether by you or someone else has not been determined at this point.  Circumstantial evidence exists, suggesting you may have had something to do with the mysterious disappearance of Mathew Jarvis, who has been missing these past two months.  Answer’s are required, as to how deep be your connection to Mr Jarvis?” quoted the police officer standing in the porch of Andrew Cairn’s house, waving a search warrant in his face.

Other officer’s systematically searched, or should I say trashed my home, then my taxi, standing in the drive-way.

They hauled me back to Ipswich Police Station, where they continually questioned me about Mathew Jarvis.

As I repeated to them time and time again … I am a self-employed taxi-driver, based in Norwich, but if the price is right, distance is no object.  That’s where I remember Jarvis, he climbed from my cab, and disappeared into East Lane Southwold, on the Suffolk Coastline … Each time my statement falling on deaf ears.

What had apparently started out as the mysterious disappearance of one customer had now reached three, all customers who had the misfortune to travel in my taxi?

Last week, I dropped off a short blonde woman, dressed head to toe in black, in East Lane, Southwold; two days later she was reported missing by her employers … The Chronicle.  But that’s not how the cops put it; they just kept asking me, over and over.  “What did you do with her?”

Another of my customer’s to vaporize into thin air was an estate agent, but for the life of me, I had no recollection of where I had taken him, or what he looked like.  Why should I?  My cab happens to be a convenient mode of transportation, for tourists and business people alike, hundred’s go through my cab on a weekly basis.

I remembered the reporter, for she did not look like one of those seedy individuals, digging up the dirt.  There was something different about her; you expected to see her modelling, as a page three girl.

Still they dragged me down to the police station for questioning, and I had become their number one suspect.  So far, the cops had not manufactured any evidence they could stick me in jail with, but that was not for lack of trying, so I remained free, but for how long?

The way I figured it, if I could find another connection between these three people, the cops would be forced to investigate my claim, and quit sticking to me.  I was getting a stiff neck, constantly looking over my shoulder, to check if my police tail was still there.

In my mind, thoughts rushed back to every place I had been, cross referencing it with my weekly records, in a desperate search for answers.  Until it came to me, I had picked him up, when he had flagged me down, some fifteen miles outside of Southwold, standing beside a white BMW … he had run out of petrol, and would be late for an appointment, he said.  I had taken him to 21 East Lane, Southwold, and that was the last I saw of him.

While I was searching for answers, the police were attempting to build a case against me, and as yet, hadn’t enough to charge me; but they believed foul play, was involved.

According to neighbours of Daniel Ford, the owner of 21 East Lane, Southwold, had not been seen in person for some considerable time.

An Estate Agent, Reporter, and Mathew Jarvis, have all mysteriously disappeared; and the only connection, be the house, and my taxi cab…I am doomed!

Detective Sergeant Marcus Dowelling pulled his car off the main road, and into the drive-way adjoining the home of Daniel Ford.  He stepped from his car, into the overgrown garden.  His legs became immersed up to his knees in the long swaying grasses, as they blew in the gentle breeze.

Dowelling an officer with a long experienced service in the force, sensed things were not right here, long before he reached the door.  In his fifteen years, this was the first case of disappearance of people in this manner.

Three people missing, and their only connections; the house and the taxi cab they travelled in.

As he walked towards the small white house barely visible above the lawn leading to the front door, thoughts rushed into his mind.  “People don’t just disappear without trace.  There has to be a logical reason?”

He gazed at the old white door, with peeling white paint for a moment; then turned the handle, and it swung open with a gentle push.  Dowelling reached under his jacket, and pulled out his trusty truncheon, ready for anything as the door became fully open, coming to a stop at the wall.  Since the occupant Daniel Ford had disappeared, he didn’t expect to find anyone inside, as he moved into the property, but you never know.  The front door remained open; it always pays to be cautious in my line of work – a quick escape if needed.

According to the neighbours of 21 East Lane, little was known of him, other than his name was Daniel Ford, and that he kept to himself.  He had regular habits said one; of going out each day at 10.30am and returning around 16.30pm.  Did he have a job? No one knew.  He never caused any trouble, and now he had simply vanished.

Dowelling figured that the man must have been gone for a long time to have the neighbours call in the police.  The house displayed this; it was drab and colourless, with a faint musty odour.  The lights were out; they did not work as he attempted to switch on the lights, presumably because the electric bill had not been paid in a while.  Close by laid a large box of candles with matches on top.  A fine coating of dust lay across everything.

Out of curiosity, Dowelling lifted the phone receiver on the wall; there was no tone, but that did not surprise him.  “Looks like I won’t be able to call in from the house.”

Looking around this quaint old house, Dowelling discovered a bathroom down a short narrow corridor off to the left, with a kitchen directly opposite.

vintage_typewriter

In the far corner to the rear of the property, stood a small oak desk on which stood a well worn manual typewriter.  Laid out on the table, was the missing reporter’s notebook, and identity card, also the estate agent’s paperwork.  “They had both been here,” Dowelling spoke out loud, fingering his way through the notebooks.

Whatever happened to them, the answers must lay within the confines of these four walls.

On the floor, piled up between the desk and the wall, were two-inch binders, rising from the floor like a tower towards the ceiling.  He ran his fingers across the spines of the binders.  Each one was labelled from volume one to forty, and stuffed full of printed paper.  Our Mr Ford was a writer, and a prolific one at that.

Dowelling removed the binder marked volume one, from off the top of the pile.  He walked over to the opposite side of the room, put his truncheon on the table, and sat down on a cosy looking sofa, underneath the window.  He opened the dark-blue-cover, page one was titled: Introduction.

He turned to the next page, and started to read:  “As of today, March 21, 1988, I begin my life’s work.  This and the ensuing volumes is a saga, the product of my soul and mind.  I hope that this has been worth the effort, but if it was not, I cannot tell.  This is my life, embodied in ink and paper.

“Daniel Ford.”

Dowelling turned the page and began to read the novel, for which Daniel Ford had apparently worked so hard on.  Dowelling figured that if he read the work, he may gain some clue as to what had happened to the author – reporter and estate agent.  “I will read a little bit, and see where it takes me,” he thought.

It began simply, as the words formed a vivid picture of events that had taken place:  As I walked from my office, along the crowded sidewalk at a fairly brisk pace, on my way to a working lunch in the city.

Little did I know that I was due to be assassinated that day: 21st March 2001?  A smallish guy dressed in a dark grey suit, thin faced, with swept back blonde hair, bumped straight into me.  I yelled, staggering back from the unexpected force.  “Sorry,” he muttered, as he disappeared into the crowded streets.

My forearm tingled, as my left leg started to go numb, anxiously I rubbed it, but by now it was useless.

Daniel Howard, young entrepreneur, died from drug overdose, according to the papers.  What a way to go – injected with a drug in a busy road, dead in a matter of minutes.

As I died my last thoughts were – if only I had listened to those around me – warning me that our competitors would not stand by, watching our profits grow and theirs diminish.

Dowelling reached the end of the first paragraph, stopped for a moment, sighing heavily.  Inside he could sense the story pulling him back to the words on the page, with a feeling of wonder and amazement passing through his body.  He just could not understand, why he was able to read this with ease, he mostly read police reports and the paper.  This was different from any other novel he had tried … unsuccessfully … to read.

As Dowelling plunged forth into the next paragraph, it was as though he became part of the story, and the characters came alive, laid bare before him; to explore.

Time passed by quickly, as each page was turned over, from afternoon to evening, until night darkened the room.  He lit candles, placing them on the window sill above his head, as other’s had done before him.

Time continued on, he became so engrossed in the story, as morning dawned he had nearly completed two binders.  Hunger took him out to his car, where he always carried packets of biscuits and canned drinks for stake outs, and returned to the story with them.

Munching slowly away and taking the odd drink, he blazed through the binder with renewed strength, and set it down on a new pile forming on the floor.  He started the third without breaking for a rest.  By dusk, he had progressed through binder’s three to seven, when a knocking sound echoed through the house.

Dowelling, swore at the interruption, as he gathered his thoughts and staggered to the door.  There standing before him, a young uniformed officer, no more than twenty, his right hand resting on his truncheon.

“Sergeant Dowelling, the station was worried when they had not heard from you,” as the officer relaxed his pose.

“I am conducting my own personal investigation into this case,” replied a husky voiced Dowelling.

“What shall I tell them back at the station?”

“Tell them what you like,” replied Dowelling.

As the officer turned to leave, Dowelling slammed the door and hurried back to the story.  Through the night, volumes eight through to fourteen joined the new pile.

The next day was free from interruption, so he managed to progress through to volume twenty one, before he was forced to light up some more candles.

Even with bloodshot eyes, unshaven, crumpled clothing, and his body suffering from lack of sleep, he just couldn’t put the novel down – he just had to read it cover to cover.  He had become completely oblivious to the outside world.  Dowelling found the plot was thicker and more realistic than anything he could ever have imagined, but as his body showed signs of weariness, it took longer for events to register.  As dawn shone through the windows, he gazed at the pile, nine more volumes had been read that past night.

Another day and a half passed by without incidence.  As he came to the end of the final volume, a constant repeating knocking came from the door.

Dowelling looked from the book to the door, and ignored the knocking – hoping they would go away and leave him in peace to finish the last few pages.

It seemed like ages had passed by, when the knocking had been replaced by the hollow thudding sound of a police door ram, a sound he knew well.

As Dowelling read the last paragraph, the last sentence, then the last word … the police burst through the door…

Dowelling was before their eyes one minute, then gone the next, but it was no illusion, he had vanished.  Just as Mathew Jarvis, the estate agent, and the reporter, vanished without trace.

Officer’s looked over the house thoroughly, leaving two on guard, standing watch over the near empty room, whilst other’s returned to the station.

Curiosity got the better of these young officers’s.

“What is so important about these binders?” asked one.

“I only know one way to find out,” said the other.  He pulled out the binder labelled Volume One.  Holding it between them, they began to read the introduction.

“As of today, March 21, 1988, I begin my life’s work.  This and the ensuing volumes is a saga, the product of my soul and mind.”

The two young officers’ gazed at each other, as they returned to the binder, drawn by something inexplicable.  A force of some kind!

Are two more unlikely participants being drawn into this story – only to vanish without trace as other’s have before them!

Fox Hunting… Fox’s Fear

1177

Fox with eyes closed but listening

Deep in the dense undergrowth, there a fox lay on his side, eyes closed but not asleep, his body hardly moving with each shallow breath.  The occasional sound echoed across the dark, dense forest.

His smooth golden-grey fur suddenly trembled he twitched and stirred in uneasy slumber, always on guard.  The ears pivoted towards the entrance to his lair as the message of danger was heading his way.  The fox’s eyes closed as he lay motionless, waiting.

In the distant a barking sound from the hounds was heard, he realised they were closing in, and in a moment he leapt to his feet and bared his teeth in a snarl; soundless because he could hear his own heart beating in fear.

Fox Hunting - Foxes Revenge

Foxes on the hunt

He tried to sniff, but his nose was dry, he could not pick up the scents of the approaching hounds, and he felt the fear in his heart.  Deep within he knew he was dying, but he still intended to run for his life.  Still denying the masters and hounds an easy kill, as he had outsmarted them before!

He heard the high pitched horn and quickly clambered through a tunnel in the undergrowth into a fresh clearing.  As he emerged a bird made him jump, up into the closest tree, but the bird was just mocking him, its noise sending pain through his body.

The fox growled, and took off into the woods away from the bird’s incessant noise.

Within minutes the hound had reached the place where the fox had been, only to hear the squawking of the bird.

The hound sniffed the ground and air, and followed his nose and headed off into the woods in hot pursuit of the fox.

Meanwhile the fox was struggling both physically and mentally with the predicament he was in once again.  His inner voice told him to rest, ready for when the hound appeared, giving him the strength he needed to fight off the hound.

He yearned to obey, but he suffered from a thirst he had never experienced, his mouth was foaming, but the thought of water terrified him.   He drank last evening but it burnt his throat!  Was it the fear that one day it would all be over.

With that thought, he looked around to discover he had taken a circle around the hunters.  Soon he would leave the confines of the circle, and make his escape to freedom once again!

His inner voice told him he was dying.  Why not take on the hound, you can do it!

The fox looking perplexed, thought hard, as it was not long ago he had fought a vixen and won.

As he considered, he heard the sound of panting coming from the hound not far behind him.  His wounds from the previous fight had slowed him down.  Instead of running he turned and waited for the hound to appear.

He only had a few minutes to wait, the hound suddenly stopped in amazement to find the fox waiting for him.

“Come on then, let’s get it over with, you hound,” the fox replied anxiously, “as I intend to kill you.

“The hound stopped and looked and then said, “you will nip me, but that will not kill me!”

Suddenly behind them the first group of horse appeared its hot breath snorting from its nostrils.  The leader of the hunt encouraged his hound to attack shouting Kill it! Kill it!

The hound turned to his master, and questioned whether he should stay back as the fox was acting strangely.  But his master repeated those words again, Kill it! Kill it!

The inner voice of the fox said, give him a nip and that’s all it will take to kill the hound, so while the hound was distracted, the fox sunk his teeth deep into the hounds neck, and blood came gushing out.

The hound howled in agony, and the leader of the hunt was taken aback for a moment, it is unbelievable that a fox had attacked a hound.

The fox was satisfied and stood still, as the hound attacked him, and the inert body of the fox fell from the hound’s jaw.

Then he sensed the rest of the pack was arriving, and he let them tear the fox to shreds.  His opponent should be treated with reverence, not desecrated.

Mystical Times

Haunted Victorian House

For it was in 1863, that the beauty of South Elmham located in the heart of rural Suffolk enchanted the Reverend Henry Markham.  Here, he proceeded to erect a fine Victorian rectory overlooking the village.  Markham having the wealth and support of his family, in his endeavours, rose to become the village squire.  He died in 1895, and his son Edward followed in his footsteps becoming the new vicar of the village, and resided at the rectory until his death in 1928.

Rumours abounded that the rectory must have been haunted.  If so, it says much about the character of the two rectors, when subsequent tenants found life unbearable through the relentless activities of poltergeists.

Edward Markham, made a habit of waiting at the rectory gate, for the passing of the ghostly coach.  The sound of rumbling wheels, clattering of four horse’s hooves, would approach along the road, reach a crescendo at the gate, and gradually fade into the distance.  The phantom coach was not only heard but also seen by the ex-groom of the rectory, who described a blazing carriage with lights careering through the rectory grounds.

A more significant manifestation was that of a Nun, confirmed by many witnesses, over the years, as she walked across the terrace.  The presence of the Nun, added to the belief that the rectory must have been built on the site of a religious house.

In 1939, lightning struck the rectory, destroying the west wing, but it was not re-built until the early 1950’s.  During the summer of 1955, Reverend James Patterson and his family took up residence, amidst much speculation and fear from the villagers, of the previous psychic manifestations as experienced in the old rectory.

There were few minor apparitions in the early years, but it was not until the latter months of 1972, nearly twenty years later, that their worst fears had come to bear.  Poltergeist activities were ripe in the rectory, and experienced by many, for later that year, the Reverend James Patterson was found hanging from the rafters in the churches Bell Tower.

What had driven a man of God to take his own life, and in such a public way?  This led to much uproar by the villager’s, claiming the vicar was bewitched, demanding the church and rectory should be shut.

For it was in the autumn of 1982, the rectory was sold and renovated, no longer a rectory, but a fine looking country farmhouse.  Many villagers have feared for the sanity of those who resided in this dreadful building, with an unsavoury past.

Then in the spring of 1983, a Scottish family the James’s took up residence, with their three children; Michael 9, Benjamin 7, and Christina 8.

Very little was known about them, Peter James worked for the Civil Service, and in the early years, the children attended the local primary school, later they attended boarding school.

Michael, Benjamin and Christina always loved their holidays from boarding school.  On their first day home, they would pump up their bicycle tyres, and ride quickly through the village waving here and there, to many of the villagers.  Never stopping until they reached their destination, the last house at the end of the village, nestled down by the river.  They would dash up the path to an ever-open door.  There she would stand ‘Gran’ wearing a spotless apron; sleeves rolled up from her floury hands, ready to greet them.  She was not their real grandmother, but she had come to be referred as ‘Gran’, ever since she used to help their mother run the house in the early years.  She is like part of the family.  Upon their arrival she would say “how lucky you are, I have just finished baking”, but they knew, she knew, when their school terms finished.  No holiday would start right until the children had visited her, and tasted her home cooking.

Utter shock, rocked the heart of this peaceful village, on a sweltering summer morning in early August 1991.  The ringing sound of gunshots, coming from within the old rectory.

I remember that day well; I had been pruning the roses in my front garden, when I heard shots.  PC Roberts dashed passed minutes later, heading in the same direction, from which the sounds had come from.  I instinctively grabbed my coat, and followed him, in case my services were required, in the capacity of a parish priest.  We both knew where the shots had emanated from, the old rectory.

Inside all was quiet, but in the hall, on the stairs, there was chaos of objects flung about generally creating a scene of disaster.  In the midst of similar destruction in the main room, was the body of Peter James, shot several times in the chest, close by his wife, Samantha, her face had partly been blown away?  Upstairs in the rear bedroom, Christina sprawled across the bed still wearing a pair of earphones, body drenched in blood, from the chest wounds.  Whilst Michael was found sprawled across the landing leading to the west wing, with two wounds in the back, and one in his left leg.

Finally, entering Benjamin’s room PC Roberts expecting to find another body discovered him, sitting on the side of his bed, in what appeared to be a state of shock, covered in blood and holding on his lap his father’s shotgun.

“Well, Benjamin what’s been going on here,” asked the Constable.

There was no reply from Benjamin.

Carefully, the shotgun was removed from Benjamin and wrapped in a sheet, he did not even flinch, just sat their still.

“Father McBride, could you stay with Benjamin while I call for assistance, and please don’t touch anything.”

“Of course.”

The sight that greeted me was terrible, one I will never forget.  I couldn’t believe at that time, Benjamin was responsible for the destruction of this family.  Did he have no sympathy at all for the people who had brought him up, and given him everything a boy could desire?  Apparently not!

Dr Mathew Hoyden, who arrived on the scene a little after 11.30am, was taken back by the scene, of so many bodies.  The first body he examined was that of Samantha James’s lifeless body sprawled across the living room, blood was congealing from the wound, but there was little doubt she was dead.  Because of the location of the wound, forensic experts summarised; her heart had stopped pumping blood, almost immediately, thereby resulting in very little blood splatter on nearby walls and furniture, for such horrific wounds.

Whilst the medical examination continued, and the crime scene photographers carried out their duties.  The police carried out a detailed search of the house, from the attic to the cellar.  Nothing was found to indicate the presence, of an intruder within.

Following the examinations, a senior officer allowed me to perform the ‘last rites ritual’ to each of the victims, before they were removed, from the house.

The horrific murders of Peter James, Samantha his wife, and children Christine and Michael, found murdered in their home, brought an onslaught of ever clambering press, to their doorsteps, in search of a story.  They had convicted Benjamin, in the press as guilty, for he survived unscathed, holding the murder weapon.

“What happened to Benjamin.”

He appeared to be in a state of shock, and was removed firstly to the local hospital, and later to the David Rice Hospital, and remained there whilst police carried out their investigation.

“All the time he remained in hospital, he never uttered a single word, whether he was suffering from shock, no one knew.”

The police could find no evidence of an intruder, and their only suspect was Benjamin – despite overwhelming physical and circumstantial evidence pointing to him.  Still the police found it hard to believe, as I do, that anyone as young as Benjamin, could cold bloodedly murder his own family.

A Social Worker, was present at police interviews of Benjamin, but still he did not utter a word of response to their questions, just shrugged his shoulders occasionally.  As far as they were concerned, it was an open and shut case; and remained in custody at the Malen Secure Unit, until the trial.

The question which was on many peoples lips; was he a murder or an innocent victim?

I like so many of the villagers considered the events of 1972, when the Rev James Patterson took his life, could there be any connection?

Benjamin was brought before a closed session of the Juvenile Court to answer the charges laid upon him.  For the whole of the proceedings, he sat and watched, showing no sign of emotion.

“Had he any idea what was going on Father.”

“I don’t know, but that was a different boy sitting in the courtroom, he had changed.”

Before the trial, Benjamin, had been remanded, to the Malen Secure Unit for assessment; based on their findings, the courts sent him to a Secure Unit on the Welsh Border, with no option of parole.  That was the first time I saw any sort of reaction – he smiled.

“Have you seen him since the trial.”

“Yes, I have, I used to attend the Hospital.  He hasn’t spoken since that day, just paints violent pictures of the victims, in lurid detail.  It’s a sad sight, for one so young.”

Then events took a turn, a historian heard about the murders, turned up to study the site, which had undergone many strange events over the centuries.

The so-called Nun, was lured to England from France, in the 16th century, worked as a maid, murdered, and thrown down the old well, and left to rot.  Believed to have been the apparition seen by many visitors over the years, whose frequent materialisation’s were the basic causes of so much agitation in the spirit world?

Believers in the paranormal believe the theory that in most cases of persistent disturbances, the cause is often a young female.  From available evidence of poltergeist activity, it seems that a young girl, could be physically affected, attracting and energising forces beyond the normal.  Support for this theory, held up at South Elmham, not only from the ghostly Nun but also from a young woman, who worked as a housemaid for the Rev James Patterson.

Violent activity seemed to accompany the skull, following its removal from the well.  When taken to museum experts for detailed examination, a series of accidents took place in quick succession, the skull broke in two, and valuable works of art were damaged.

Paranormal activity once ripe in the area, ceased when the Nun’s skull, buried on holy ground at the local convent.  At last, she was at peace!

Benjamin regained his speech, within days of the burial, but his mind remains a complete blank, since the day of the killings.  Questions have been asked; whether he should be held accountable for these crimes, in light of the discoveries?

As far as our courts are concerned, this mumbo-jumbo evidence would not wash with them, Benjamin, was found guilty of the crimes, with no option of parole, and the sentence stands.

“But is he innocent Father?”

“I think so, but we will never know, unless he regains his memory.  The mystery of the old rectory has been solved, and many lives destroyed in the process.”

“Father, don’t bore the young man with your memories, you’re supposed to rest, you know what the doctor said.”

“I may be old and retired, but let the boy here know all about the events of South Elmham, for next month, it will be his parish.  Better to be forewarned of the events of the past, some villagers still remember, those awful times, no doubt!”

As the young priest left, gazing back at Father Bracks, sitting on the balcony of the retirement home.  Thoughts raced through his mind, should I take on what he had started, visiting Benjamin, maybe one day he will answer that all-important question.

Who pulled the trigger, and why?

Lost Civilisation…

Underwater Dome

Mathew, had just fallen asleep when the pounding on the door begun.  At one o’clock in the morning, he knew it could only be one person.

Mathew’s brother Graham questioned him as he barged past him, and through the open apartment door.  “Don’t you ever answer your phone or read your e-mails?”

Being half asleep, Mathew let the rebuke go.

“Morning Mathew.”

“What?  Oh, yes-sorry.”  Graham made a half hearted apology for his rudeness.  “Goodness Mathew, you do look awful.  Are you ill or something?”

“No just tired.  So what’s so important that you have to drag me out of bed in the middle of the night?”  Mathew stifled a yawn and stretched away some of the sleep remaining nestled in his body.

“This,” Graham said, slapping a large folder against his chest.  “Look at it, then we will talk.”

Mathew took the folder and flicked through the pages, as he did so, much of his tiredness fell away,.  He said nothing, occasionally glanced at his brother Graham, from time to time, as he read the detailed document.  Suddenly, he tossed the folder on an empty chair, and began rifling through the mass of papers that littered his study.  Finally he found what he was looking  for, as his eyes lit up.  A set of computer print-out’s that were nearly identical to those of his brother.

“Snap!” he cried out, waving his own set of figures in the air.  “I have just had four sleepless nights trying to work out, what all these figures mean.”  Mathew was well awake by now, and shared his brother’s obvious excitement.  “Your figures are similar but not identical.  What we need to do now, is get your figures entered on my computer as well.”

“I can do better than that,” as Graham produced a DVD data disk.  “This should save us about ten hours of laborious typing.”

“Great,” proclaimed a relieved Mathew.  “You can load it up while I throw on some clothes, and organise an injection of caffeine.”

Graham cleared a space on Mathew’s desk, pushing all the papers into one stack in the far corner, and loaded the data on to the computer.  Then proceeded to display both sets of figures, side by side on twin screens.

Mathew returned, dressed in an old black and grey tracksuit, carrying two mugs of steaming black and sweet coffee.

“Our figures are very similar,” stated Graham, unable to hide his excitement, as he supped at his coffee.

“So I see,” Mathew stated, looking over Graham’s shoulder.  “But what does it mean?”

“It can mean only one thing, a major astronomical event is set to take place very soon.” Graham was taken aback that his brother had not realised the significance of the find.

Mathew sipped away at his coffee, and pinched away the tiredness that was seeping back into his eyes.  Graham’s enthusiasm and excitement had become quite infectious; but ninety-six hours without sleep, took some shaking off.

“Yes, I agree with you on that,” Mathew replied.  “But what do you think is likely to happen?”

The bubble of Graham’s eagerness began to sink slowly back to Earth.  “I just do not know, but it must be something spectacular,” he sighed in response.  “These figures spell it out.”

Mathew drank more coffee.  “What we could do with right now , is big brother Daniel.”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you, he is on his way, rang him on my way over,” stated Graham.  “He was still at the Scientific Space and Development Centre, and promised he would call in on his way home…spoke about working late, on some special project.”

Mathew smiled in response, as the two scientists studied the array of figures, they both had that thought.  “Do you think this could be?”  Mathew’s words faded away to nothing.

Graham did not speak, but his gape an uncommon expression for an eminent professor, answered the question.

Their thoughts were disrupted by the knock at the door.  “Finally.”  Mathew moved slowly, trying to assimilate the implications of what may or may not be about to happen.  As he opened the door, Professor Daniel King, stood in the doorway, large as life.

“So what’s so important that I have to drive forty kilometres out of my way home, in this torrential rain?” barging his way past Mathew.

”What we are faced with, is two sets of figures nearly identical from two completely different areas of space – how can that be, unless when matched they equal something?”  asked Mathew.  “What we conclude, an important event or discovery is due to take place, soon.”

“Do any of the figures match?” asks Daniel with much interest as he removes his cloak, and acknowledges his brother Graham.

“Some do,” Graham replies.

“Extrapolate the data,” Daniel orders.

Graham obeys his brother, running his fingers across the keyboard, within minutes new sets of figures appear on the screen.

“They be longitude and latitude readings,” injected Mathew, as he pushed past, and entered a series of command lines, showing where these figures relate to.

Bermuda Triangle

Bermuda Triangle Map

The right hand screen, displayed the Bermuda Triangle: stretching from San Juan, Puerto Rico to Bermuda, and then to Miami, Florida.  Believed to be some 14,000 square miles in size, and considered by many as the deadliest waters known to man, as each man looked on.

“Some have suggested over the years that it could be the resting place of Atlantis; myth or fact.” Mathew suggested.  “Or even an access point, to another world?”

“You boy’s have done good, but we need more answers.”  As Daniel moved forward, taking a seat in front of the computer; highlighting the figures and detailed map, proceeded to send a copy by e-mail to his own computer at the Scientific Space and Development Centre.  “I have got access to more information there, and can check with other centres around the world for any unusual data, matching these figures.”

“You will let us know, what you find,” asked Mathew.

“Sure, sure,” Daniel replied, making his way out of the door.

One cold morning , a few months later, Mathew woke to the constant sound of ringing in his ears; slowly groping around until his hand fell upon the phone.  Picking it up, a voice he recognised as that of brother Graham, shouted down the phone in a state of hysteria.  “Turn on channel 25, and see what is on the news, and hurry!”

Moments later the news station channel 25, was telling of a discovery off the Florida Keys.  The Electra aeroplane had been, discovered this day, 12th October 2002, some sixty-five years after it took off with its pilot: Adele Dryden.

According to the flight log, the Electra left Florida, bound for Puerto Rico in 1937, on the first leg of its journey passing through the Bermuda Triangle.  She never reached her destination, both plane, and pilot have been missing.

What stunned Mathew, Graham and millions of television viewers, was that the pilot had not aged; she appeared to be in her mid-thirties.

“For years, any a ship or plane that passed through the Bermuda Triangle, had disappeared without trace.  Now in recent times some of these, have started re-appearing with their crews.  With the help of Professor Daniel King here, of the Scientific Space and Development Centre.  Co-ordinates discovered in space, has led to a major discovery; a seamless sphere some forty-five metres in diameter, at a depth of seventy fathoms, encrusted with a dense covering of sea creatures on the sea bed,” stated the news reporter.

“He stole that information,” shouted Mathew down the phone line.  “He ripped us off; he could never have found it, without us.”

Underwater Station 2

Some two weeks later, divers and deep sea submersibles accessed the sphere, as millions watched the event broadcast live on television around the world.  First impressions, it must have laid down there for thousands of years, according to its outer decayed condition.

Camera’s recorded the first moments, as diver’s cleared away a thick encrustation of sea creatures, to clear a hatch way, to cut access into the sphere.  It was at this point, they detected the sphere, was not constructed from metal, as light burst forth from within.  The waters were being kept back by some form of force-field.

The first divers to walk through the force—field, were amazed that no water seeped in…but what they found within was to amaze the world.

Underwater Station

Inside they found a self-contained space-station with gangplanks and walkways constructed out of glass, and self controlled by its onboard systems.  Deep within the sphere, another watery force-field glowed, through which they found the remains of a medieval city.  Could it be Atlantis?

Legend has it: Some 11,000 years ago, there existed the island of Atlantis, located in the Atlantic Ocean, and protected by Poseidon, God of the Sea.  Who it is, believed, created a dwelling for a mortal woman; Cleito, and fell in love with her.  She lived in the centre of the island, and he protected her using rings of water.

Zeus, watched the immorality of the Atlanteans, with utter disgust.  Atlantis was swallowed up by the sea, in a form of retribution.

So what is the connection between the sphere and the disappearance and re-appearance of planes and boats within the Bermuda Triangle?

Is it a holding station, or stepping stone to another world?

Could this be the lost city of Atlantis, protected by the Bermuda Triangle?

This and many other theories as to the Bermuda Triangle, are likely to remain a mystery, waiting to be solved.

Wallpaper Images

A Planet’s Hopes… Dashed by Disaster!

Space08

Planet of Cirinius

Mathew Sanderson, Captain of the HMS Bounty space ship looked out the window at the golden covered surface of the planet Cirinius, some fifty thousand kilometres below them in the Pegasus system.  After ten years of planning, and some six long months in space, stored in cryogenic chambers, we humans had finally arrived at our chosen planet.

Astronauts: Marcus, the expedition leader, along with Caroline, Phil and Ralph had been launched in their shuttle, our short-range space craft, to orbit the planet, waiting for the signal, that it was safe to land.

“Looks like the relay satellite is working,” commented Phil, seeing the lights on the control panel light up.  Their first major task had been to deploy a communications satellite into the planet’s orbit.

Cirinius was almost twice the size of Earth; the long horizon, mountains and rocks dotted across the snow covered landscape.  With the satellite in orbit, surface communications had been enhanced to cover a larger area, and was able to communicate with Earth, instead of piggy backing its way back using radio waves.

“Good to know everything appears to be working,” Ralph spoke to himself as he uploaded the video feed with NASA, as they came online.

“HMS Bounty,” she spoke without any emotion in her voice, “you are cleared for landing, proceed at your discretion.”

“You would expect more from Earth, this is a momentous achievement after six months in space,” suggested Ralph.

The shuttle’s computers are designed to automate everything, from minor approach adjustments to the final landing.  In the event of computer failure, Ralph the pilot would land it manually.

The entire landing, start to finish was being recorded; sure to be heard millions of times over the next few weeks by space enthusiasts, the world over.  “HMS Bounty, beginning landing sequence.”

The world-wide co-operation in extra terrestrial matters was no longer political sustainable, when thousands upon thousands couldn’t afford to put food on their table.  The planet was in desperate need of space and food, to house and feed Earth’s growing population increase.

America’s suggestion of a new home in space was considered no more than a pipe dream – forcing them to go it alone, with the eyes of the world upon them.

“I see one of the supply ships,” exclaimed Marcus.  “There’s another down by the trees,” he pointed out to his fellow astronauts.

A total of five unmanned cargo ships stocked with food, equipment, water, oxygen and seed stock had been sent ahead of the mission.  All had landed safely on the surface, where they waited the astronaut’s arrival.

“That’s precision flying,” Phil spoke out loud to anyone who would listen.  “Those boys on Earth are good!”

Marcus nodded in agreement.

Planting the flag in the surface of Cirinius was the moment everyone would remember, but in fact the first humans on the planet had but one simple task: to survive.  The hopes of their home world rested firmly on their shoulders.

The crew of HMS Bounty was methodically preparing to take their first steps onto this newly discovered planet.  The main video camera was extended from the underside of the shuttle, where it would film their first steps, and send back the live feed to Earth.

Caroline Joined Phil near the airlock.  “Where’s Marcus?”

“Already in the airlock suiting up, he’s so excited to get out there.”

Inside the airlock, Marcus climbed into his pressure suit and helmet, under the watchful gaze of the empty suits and helmets lined along the wall.  The suits were white in colour with gold visors.  Average temperature on Cirinius, ranged from 25 degrees Fahrenheit during daytime hours to -40 degrees Fahrenheit at night.  Thankfully, the climate controlled suits would compensate, for the changes in temperature.

The order of exit had been predetermined by mission control.  Marcus the expedition leader would be first to step onto the planet’s surface, followed by Caroline, and finally Phil.  Ralph was to remain on board to maintain the link with Earth and monitor the vitals of the astronauts from a safe distance.

That was the way mission control wanted it to happen.

Marcus drew a few deep breaths to test the suits air valves were working, and checked the gauges on his over-sized wrist watch control panel.

Not waiting for Phil and Caroline to join him, he pressed the outer airlock door controls.  He watched and waited for the light to turn from red to green.

Marcus poked his head out, lifts up his gold sun-visor, and gazes in wonder at the deep ice plains which lay before him.  He finally steps down onto the surface.

The suit keeps him warm, as he walks away from the craft.  He surmises to himself, this must be their wintertime.

Some twenty paces later, he comes to a halt, as the indicator alarm on his wrist starts bleeping – a warning, as he crunches the snow beneath his feet to keep them warm.

He hears the hum of pumps and fans of his portable life support backpack get louder and louder, as they strain to supply him with oxygen.

“Marcus,” shouted Phil through the helmet’s radio, “we three are supposed to step down together for the entire world to witness our steps!”

Marcus debated whether to respond, but he turned faced the craft and smiled.  “I just wanted to be the first to step on this planet.”

An angry silence followed.  “We are coming out,” replied Phil.  “You are not hogging all the glory for yourself.”

Marcus could only imagine the furious face that lay hidden behind the sun-visor.  “Don’t come out here, the snow is eating through my space-suit.  Save yourselves.”

Phil gasped in awe.  “Marcus get back inside.”

“I only have minutes before it eats through my air tank pipes.  Shut the door, and save yourselves.”

Phil and Caroline looked in the direction of Marcus, the expedition leader and geologist.  His choice to go out alone had saved them all from certain death.

As their leader, Marcus knew his primary duty was the safety of his team.  “You must leave the surface immediately, and return to the space-craft, there is nothing you can do for me.”

As the sunlight was fading, Marcus watched as Phil and Caroline, closed the door on him and the new planet – once thought of as a new beginning.

We had hoped to transform the surface of the planet Cirinius, melt its ice, plant seeds, and build houses for a new generation of people.  Instead we found a deadly planet, which would kill all those who set foot upon it.  Our mission leader Marcus Clarkson, gave his life, and will always be remembered for his bravery!

Space Wallpaper Image