Ascending and Descending

A Pink Dormouse Production


Looking back it’s a miracle the five of us ever survived the crash. Both computers were non-functioning: Slave from the power surge that also knocked out the teleport, Orac from extensive damage in the crash itself. There was nothing for it but to pick ourselves up and walk in what we thought was the correct direction.

We must have walked for a day and a half, resting only when we had to, when, by one of those thousand to one chances that always happen to us, we came upon the bunker. The massacre could not have been long over. I’m surprised we didn’t hear any of it, but maybe the silo walls were too thick for sound to carry. And that was when Avon finally lost it.

We salvaged what we could from the base- well no one there would be needing it- then set enough explosives to give the dead an approximation of a decent burial.

It took another three days to reach Port Gauda; not bad going when one of your number is practically catatonic and his lover is reduced to uttering rare monosyllables only on the third time of a question being asked. We could all have used a good surgeon too, although the moonshine we poured on our wounds rather than drank had kept them free from infection.

We hijacked a ship. Sounds easy, and perhaps it was. Some of the crew stayed on, the better half left. I lock my door securely at night.

It’s been a year now. We keep on the move and so far they haven’t found us. We should rename this ship the Marie Celeste for all the life that’s on it. Or the Flying Dutchman for our poor, mad leader. Maybe we’re all mad by now, I certainly can’t tell.



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