(A SHORT STORY)

BY

SIMON

MURPHY

Steven Johnson

(The following is a  work of pure fiction and does not even try to attempt historical or scientific accuracy… so there!)

I had walked for nearly three days. The soles of my feet were sore and blistered when I reached the small, bustling village. This place had sprung up from the desert sands in the years following His arrival. There were many such waystations in the desert, but this one was particularly popular for some reason.

I stopped in front of a low, white building with a pictorial sign informing me that this was a tavern. I had to rest. The others with whom I travelled continued on their journey, bypassing the inn and ignoring the hawkers and prostitutes attempting to ply their trade. The lure of the cool interior of the hostelry was too great for me to resist. I had always been something of a free spirit and had only agreed with my father to undertake this pilgrimage because it got me out of tilling his meagre plot. I slipped from the line of supplicants, priests and just plain nosey and ducked into the tavern.

Almost collapsing into the low counter, I ordered a drink (I didn’t care what I got as long as it was reasonably cool, wet and bereft of wildlife). The innkeeper eyed me suspiciously and I got the distinct impression that pilgrims didn’t often frequent this place. He plonked a beaker of water in front of me, took an extortionate amount of money from my open palm and returned to his regulars.

I found an empty table and slumped onto one of the trio of rickety stools beside it. I winced upon removing a sandal from my aching right foot. A dusty rag from my sack was hastily soaked with water from the beaker and wrapped around my sore appendage. I did likewise with my left foot, sighing out loud as my blisters were soothed. The remainder of the water was for my consumption and I sipped it delicately.

“Are you going to Giza with all those other lunatics?” said the large, dark shadow that appeared on the table suddenly.

I peered up at a huge, hairy man. His arms were as big around as my body and his girth was equally unbelievable. I glanced round him to the doorway, then back to the man. How the heck did he get in here? Did they build this place around him? His shadow dwarfed the one next to it. This one belonged to a man so thin that I thought he was a walking skeleton for an instant. He hovered beyond his massive companion, partially eclipsed by the larger man’s bulk. Both men looked mean, though, and I felt discretion was the better part of valour and stood to leave.

“Excuse me, I have a long journey ahead of me.” I actually had no idea how far I had to go. They made no move to unblock themselves from my path. “Excuse me?”

“You didn’t answer his question,” said the thin one. “Are you going to Giza?”

“That was my plan,” I quipped nervously.

“And you’re going to praise Osiris, right?”

“Er...”

The big one stooped to my height, his face so close to mine that I could hear his gums festering.

“My friend and me worked for that creature for half of our lives, building that pointless temple of his!” He thrust his hands in front of me. “See what he did to me?”

He was missing both thumbs.

“Accidents happen,” I smiled and attempted to duck towards the door. The wiry one barred my exit.

“There are no accidents at Giza, boy.” His voice was surprisingly deep for such a small physique. He presented his previously hidden arm to me and I shuddered outwardly. Where his right hand and lower arm should have been there was now just an ugly stump. “This is how we were repaid for years of loyal service!” He spat on the dusty floor and glanced around surreptitiously. “Since his arrival, Osiris has done nothing but slaughter our people to feed his insane hunger for blood!”

This wasn’t the King Osiris that I had heard about! He had brought peace and prosperity to our land. He had united the tribes under one flag. He had fed and clothed the poor and taught our farmers how to grow new crops and water them with new technologies. He had instructed the priests of his temples in the arts of writing and numbers. He had named the stars and taught the priesthood how to predict the future using the movements of the heavens. I told these things to my new, er, friends.

They weren’t impressed and when I picked myself up, they explained their thoughts on our immortal ruler. We sat around the table after I ordered more drinks, paying through the nose once again. I hoped these men weren’t robbers, as they had plainly seen how much currency I had on me. The hulk began first:

“The people only see what his army and his priests want us to see.” Another furtive glance around the bar. “But we who worked there under the gaze of Osiris himself know the true story.” I was suddenly intrigued by the behemoth’s tale and urged him to continue. “For a start Osiris may have a man’s name, but he is not a man.”

“He’s a woman?” I gaped.

“No, you idiot,” snapped the skinny one (I’ll call him Little from now on). “He’s not man or woman. He is not one of us.”

“I know!” I retorted. “He’s a god!”

“Since when does a god need gallons of fresh blood to survive?” rumbled Large. “Since when does a god need thousands and thousands of people to build his temples? Whatever kind of monster he is, he and his kind are not gods.”

I eyed the injuries on both men.

“This is what they do to you when they take you from the work gangs and into the palace.” I shook my head, not understanding a word Little was saying. “My friend and I should be dead. We were supposed to be a snack for our gods’ dinner table.”

“You’re joking!”

“Do we look like we’re joking?” snarled Large, thrusting his thumbless hand under my nose. “We only got away with our lives when one of the priests took pity and smuggled us out, but not before they had done this to us.”

“Well, why are you telling me this?”

“You’re the first pilgrim on his way to Giza that has come in here. The caravans usually stop for water and food on their way back.” Large pointed a hefty arm out of the door. “Your destination is only two hours walk from here. If you go to the edge of the village and climb the hill, you can see the temple that has cost our people so dear.”

I had no idea that I was so close. I asked them what they expected of me.

“Nothing,” said Little. “We just want you to know about the beast you are preparing to worship.”

“I worship no-one!” I snapped. “In fact I only tagged along with those goats out there to get out of ploughing my old man’s field!”

“You still don’t believe us, do you?” asked Large.

“Well c’mon, it’s a bit of a tall tale, isn’t it?” I admitted.

“We can show you.”

“No we can’t!” Little almost shouted. He started to tremble violently. “I’m not going back into that place!”

I felt that I was at a crossroads. I could ignore all I had just been told, walk out of the tavern and head to Giza as planned. I could also go with these bizarre strangers on a dangerous journey to an unknown location.

I stood up to leave; I’d take my chances with the pilgrims. Large stood with me.

“I really can show you, you know,” he said grimly.

Why me? I thought. If only I’d continued on with the rest of the group, I’d never have met these loonies. Yes, I was completely certain that they were nutters. Sincere nutters, but nutters nevertheless. Their injuries could have been caused by accidents while building the temples, of that I was sure. I had spent a summer working on a local shrine and some of the blocks we used were pretty big. Heck, slam even a mud-brick down hard enough and you could squash your fingers or thumbs nicely! I had seen men trap their arms when positioning stone blocks – not a pretty sight.

But something about the way these men told their story made me want to believe them. Perhaps I was just into conspiracies too much (I had never accepted the official line of how our tribal kings, before the arrival of Osiris, had met with a bizarre, and amazingly successful, string of assassinations  involving a lone archer and his magic arrows!), or maybe I was just a sucker for hard-luck stories.

I turned to face the brilliant sunlight streaming through the doorway, but something prevented me from joining my travelling companions outside. Could Large really show me the true nature of our god-king? How could he do this? I then made a decision that would change my life forever.

I walked out of the inn and rushed to catch up to my pilgrim companions. They had continued their journey to the holiest site in our land and I was out of breath by the time I reached the back of the snaking line of people.

Glancing back, I saw the village disappear behind the brow of the hill and I said a silent goodbye to my strange, new friends. Returning my attention to the path before me, I was astonished to see our goal, shimmering in the morning haze, mirage-like, yet completely real, hovering above the distant, holy mound. Several of our group fell to their knees, praising Osiris and his subordinate gods. I almost joined them, but my sceptical nature refused to allow me to believe in miracles.

The words of Little and Large echoed in my head. Why would a god need human blood to survive? If they had the ability to build this massive, floating mountain I could see on the horizon, why would they need thousands of men, women and children to build their temples? Whilst they had brought peace (of a sort) and prosperity to the world, I found myself becoming angry at the price we had to pay.

We weren’t beasts of burden! We were not cattle!

“Still not interested in seeing them in the flesh?”

I whirled, startled by the intrusion into my thoughts. Little and Large were standing behind me, their approach unheard as I had stood, gawping at the vista. It appeared that the bulkier of the pair had persuaded his reed-like companion to take me on this mysterious journey to discover the hideous truth about our rulers. I looked from man to man, then back to Giza.

“Alright, let’s go,” I sighed, shrugging my shoulders and we ambled away from the line of supplicants.

They led me away from the village and down to the banks of the river. Here, hidden in a rocky niche slightly above the waterline, was the entrance to a long, dark tunnel. I faltered, fearing what lay in the gloom beyond the threshold. Large went first and I followed, after much prompting by Little.

Soon we were stumbling forward in pitch darkness. Any light from the surface quickly vanished and I felt a dread as I had never experienced before. My companions attempted to alleviate the tension by reciting dirty jokes and singing quietly songs that should really have been sung very loudly whilst wielding pots of ale.

Although I could not see a thing, I knew from the way my feet touched the ground that we were heading down a slope. I almost screamed as I stepped into freezing water.

“This is river water,” explained Little. “When the Inundation comes, this whole place is filled with water, making it impossible to reach the temple.”

“How did you find these tunnels?” I asked, glad of the distraction.

“This was our way out,” said Large. “When the priest took pity on us, he led us into the bowels of the temple and told us to take to the tunnels. They had been built so that water from the river could be used in temple ceremonies during the Inundation.”

“What happened to the priest?” I queried.

“We don’t know. Dozens of us had been slaughtered before he helped us escape,” said Little. “Maybe he was captured himself or maybe he got away with it. Whatever happened to him, we owe him our lives, such as they are.”

A thought occurred to me.

“If they did capture him, what if they sealed the tunnels at their end to prevent more escape attempts?”

We stopped in our tracks. Actually, Large stopped in his tracks and we just piled into the back of him. The water was up to our knees by this time, but it was doing my blisters the world of good.

I realised that I could just make out the top of Large’s head. A faint shaft of light illuminated his shaggy bonce. I could also discern what appeared to be the rungs of a ladder pressed against the rock wall.

“It’s a ladder,” confirmed our hefty leader. “We have a long climb before we get to the chambers below the temple.”

I recalled the disabilities my friends had to endure and gasped inwardly at how they managed to scramble down here during their initial escape from Giza. My one-armed colleague insisted that he could manage the climb and we began our ascent.

The condition of the ladder made the climb difficult. Each rung was coated with foul smelling slime and I almost lost my grip on several occasions. Somehow Little and Large suffered no such problems. Perhaps I was just rubbish at climbing slippery ladders. Every now and then I would glance upwards, the dim light from above eclipsed by Large’s voluminous posterior. Despite this, I could tell that we were getting closer to the top with every laboured heave.

Eventually, the muscles in my arms burning and my palms sore and aching, we clambered out of the vertical tunnel and into a low, gloomy chamber. I sprawled across the grimy floor, gasping for breath. My compatriots seemed to have taken the climb in their stride and I mulled for a moment about my apparent lack of fitness. As I did so, I took a minute to inspect our surroundings.

We were in a simple, rock-hewn cavity with rough walls and ceiling and a single, dark exit (or entrance, depending upon your viewpoint). The room was cool, but humid and dust hung in the air like choking fog. We rested for several, long minutes and then my guides led the way through the ominously black exit. I was led along a low corridor that opened into another chamber.

This room was much larger than the first one and housed objects the like of which I had never seen before and have never seen since. Sitting astride bizarrely-carved outcroppings were peculiar devices that spat sparks and lightning like a pair of terrible demons. What made the effect all the more eerie was the complete lack of sound these things made. Large informed me that they were used to power special lights inside the temple. These lights made normal torches seem like a firefly next to the sun. I was sceptical, but decided to reserve judgement for the time being.

“Are we likely to be discovered down here?” I whispered.

“I don’t think so,” replied Little. “Besides, we’ll be out of this section soon.”

Ignoring my puzzled expression, they headed out of the chamber and I followed until they stopped beneath a narrow hole in the ceiling.

“This leads to a storeroom inside the temple,” explained Large. “It overlooks the altar room where our ‘gods’ accept tribute from the people. You must climb up there to learn the truth.”

I glanced from the hole to the men then back to the hole again. You must go? they had said.

“You’re not coming with me?” I pleaded. Both men shook their heads and pointed to the dark, scary hole again. They told me that they would await my return back in the first chamber. I made certain that they promised not to leave without me. Large gave me a leg-up and I began climbing for the second time that day.

   This shaft was not the dead straight, vertical passage we had struggled our way up before. There was no ladder for a start and the tunnel bent this way and that. I got the feeling it had been hollowed out in a hurry. By whom and when I could not guess, but I was sure that several of the marks on the coarse walls were blood stains. They didn’t look very ancient either. I added to them when I slipped, falling a short way and gashing my forearm on a particularly sharp protrusion of rock. I groaned, fighting back the scream of pain that wanted to escape from my cracked lips.

I struggled upwards, each laboured breath depositing more fine sand and dust into my lungs. I retched several times and stopped regularly to spit gravel from my mouth.

Finally I reached the top and pulled myself out into a semi-darkened room. Around the smooth walls were sacks of grain and barrels of what smelled like wine and beer. A single source of light bathed me in its soft, yellow glow. Approaching the diffused light, I found a small, reed mat hanging over an equally small hole in the wall.

I removed the mat and peered through.

As I had been told, I was above a large altar room. My little hole was in a section cast into shadow by the strange lights arranged around the walls of the chamber. These presumably were the lights powered by the silently snarling machines in the subterranean chamber. Directly below my position there sat a huge altar stone. Peculiar lines and symbols were carved into its surface and shiny, silver manacles were bolted to each corner by thick chains. I shuddered as I guessed what they were used for. Deep grooves were also carved into the marble altar; these trailed to the edges where below each one was sitting a golden chalice. I noted that the stone had a distinctly pink hue to it.

A short distance from the altar there was something that I did not expect to see in a temple. Surrounded by flowing drapes and filled with gilt furnishings was a section designed solely for the comfort of the gods. Huge bowls were filled to overflowing with fruits, sweets and savoury dishes. Massive urns brimming with scarlet wine were placed at regular intervals around the triangular area. My stomach rumbled upon seeing so much food. I could not remember the last time I had eaten, but that’s what a life on the road does for you.

The cavernous room was empty, save for a couple of spear-wielding guards stationed inside the huge double-doors that were tightly closed. I wondered how long I would have to wait before something happened.

At that moment the doors swung open and several laughing, dancing women glided into the chamber, trailing delicate, almost transparent garments. They slid around the altar room, singing and laughing before finally coming to rest amid the cushions and finery of the central section. Their skin was paler than the marble of the altar and even from here I could see that a couple of them had brilliant, blue eyes. One of them also had shimmering, yellow hair. I had heard of peoples with golden tresses, travellers told tales of races with blue eyes and yellow hair, but I had never seen one until now. Then one of them looked directly at me and my heart skipped a beat.

Instinctively I slipped back from the hole, deeper into the shadows, but still able to see the drama playing out below. The women began feasting on the meats, strangely ignoring the desserts and fruit, and drinking the crimson wine. It seemed far too dark and viscous to be the wine I was accustomed to, then it struck me what it was they were really drinking. One of the women held up the piece of meat she was devouring, playing with her food and I gagged when I realised what it was.

I watched as she bit clean through one of the fingers of the human hand and began sucking the fluids from within. She then dipped the finger into her drink, coating it in thick, red liquid and swallowed the digit with one hideous gulp. It struck me what kind of wine this was: each of the urns was filled with blood! These creatures were feasting on human flesh and drinking human blood!

My breath started to come in short gasps as panic began to set in. Then the one that had looked in my direction before stared directly at me, smiling as a single rivulet of blood etched a crimson trail from the corner of her mouth down to the point of her chin.

How could they see me? I was deep in the shadows by this time and doing my best to remain completely silent. She spoke in a strange, guttural language to the others and each of them gazed deeply into my soul. It felt as though my heart were about to burst. I was more afraid at that moment than I had ever been in my life. Even when raiders had burned my father’s field and stolen our cattle, I had not felt such mind-numbing terror.

They giggled amongst themselves and returned to their gluttony. I was being toyed with. If they knew I was here, guards could come bursting into the storeroom at any moment. I didn’t fancy being manacled to that marble slab so I began piling meal bags against the entrance, reinforcing these with the heavy barrels. Hopefully, if the time came, that would give me a chance to get back down through the shaft.

I returned to my spy hole and peered through carefully. The female monsters were still gorging themselves, ignoring me for the time being. I saw that the guards were still standing by the now open doors.

Then he entered the chamber! Osiris himself, his face obscured by a golden mask of office.

Without fanfare or announcement our god king slid by the guards, who immediately bowed their heads as he passed, and towards the she-creatures. He sank down onto one of the couches and removed his disguise.

I almost screamed, clasping both hands to my mouth. I had expected him to be a man, possibly similar to the pale-skinned harem, I had not expected what was tucking into raw meat below me.

While his skin was pale, any resemblance to anything human ended right there. His skin was a mottled grey in colour and appeared to be composed of soft, pliable scales, similar to the skin on a bird’s legs. His eyes were lidless and thin, cat-like pupils dissected a bright amber iris. I watched as his lipless mouth drew back, revealing twin rows of narrow, needle-like teeth and he tore into a chunk of meat. Atop his large head sprouted a plume of thin, white feathers. This creature was an amalgam of many creatures. It should not be alive, let alone ruling our nation.

One of the women whispered into his ear hole (he was bereft of lobes, you see) and his terrible eyes focused on my position, the pupils broadening so he could see me hiding in the gloom.

This time I screamed and before anything else could happen, I was sliding down the shaft, bumping and scraping every square inch of my body.

I landed in an ugly pile at the bottom and scrambled to my feet, racing towards the entrance to the tunnels we had used to come here. I found Little and Large sitting there, waiting patiently as promised.

We descended the ladder and sloshed our way back out of the tunnels, almost collapsing among the riverside reeds as we exited into the blinding sunlight. We headed back for the village on the outskirts of Giza and did our best to blend in with the pilgrims and locals that inhabited the place.

In the cool comfort of the tavern, I related to my friends what I had seen in the temple and they nodded their heads in acknowledgement.

We made a silent agreement to spread what we knew about Osiris and his minions and rid our country of these monsters. We vowed to build an army such as had never been seen before. We would not rest until his temple and his floating palace were gone from our horizons and a king from among us ruled in his place.

Or we would die in the attempt.

A pair of golden eyes peered into the darkness, twin irises fully dilated in defiance of the moonless night.

The predator had gone hungry for days, its normal prey suddenly and mysteriously disappearing and a starving belly cried out for sustenance. The empty stomachs of its family group cried out even louder, forcing the hunter to enlarge its territory in search of fresh quarry.

Now it watched patiently, silently, motionless except for the twitching of its damp nostrils. The thick, well-kept shrubbery of the small, village green concealed the beast and instinct ensured that it stayed downwind from the short, bipedal form shuffling along the park’s gravel path. The way the animal moved suggested to the predator that it was old or perhaps sick and that would make the kill much easier. It could strike now and devour the meat in the open, the grumbling of its belly trying to override its ingrained hunting technique.

Not yet. When the victim was a little closer…

The beast had survived this long because its parents had taught the art of the quick kill and rapid concealment well. This attack would be no different.

The target shuffled closer and an unfamiliar odour filled the hunter’s nostrils. A strange, smoky aroma, mixed with a sharp, pungent tang and the unmistakable bouquet of stale urine. This type of creature had been seen occasionally by the predator, but only in association with its former prey.

There was something about these two-legged animals that scared it. The way they covered their bodies with the skins and furs of other animals confused the beast. Their scent was often disguised by other, stronger musks that were out of place and bewildering to its sense of order. They also could kill their prey without being anywhere near it. The predator had observed this once, from a concealed hiding place. The biped had pointed at a small deer, a loud crack had rung out, almost startling the hunter to the point of fleeing, and the deer had fallen into the long grass, dead. Since then, it had kept a respectful distance from these bizarre animals.

Until now.

The human shuffled closer, tattered boots over sockless feet kicking up small plumes of gravel and dust, unseen to the man, but easily visible to the keen night-vision of his observer. The tramp stopped, shoved a grubby hand into one of the dirt-encrusted pockets of his filthy overcoat, and brought out a small, glass bottle. He took a delicate sip, but still managed to spill a little down his scruffy beard. The predator’s nose twitched at the aroma of the alcohol; yet another new smell from these creatures to be stored in its memory. This new odour disturbed the predator, for some reason causing it a note of concern that it did not understand. Even though it was a new smell, there was also something familiar about it; a familiarity that conjured dark memories.

A low growl rose into its throat, unexpected and hastily subdued.

The human had heard the noise and took his prized possession from his cracked lips, listening intently, suddenly afraid. The noise he had heard had been one of those sounds that awakened a primeval instinct. He quickly screwed the cap back onto the spirit miniature and stuffed the bottle back into his pocket.

Immediately sensing that the prey was about to flee, the predator leapt from the rhododendrons and slammed into the tramp. Massive jaws clamped around his throat, stifling any scream that might have ensued. The human struggled briefly, his legs kicking at the huge but lithe body of the heavy beast that had him pinned to the ground and his fingers grabbing handfuls of sleek, black fur . More plumes of stones and dust erupted into the night air, crackling and popping as they returned to Earth. Apart from this, and the steady breathing of the predator through flaring nostrils, the park was silent.

Slowly the struggling ceased and the tramp's arms dropped to his sides, his grip loosening on the clumps of fur in his hands.

Close by a dog started barking and a light flicked on in a house some distance away.

The predator released its grip on the tramp’s oesophagus and moved to the corpse’s feet. It took one of the boots in its mouth and began to drag its kill into the bushes. The boot slipped from the foot and the beast growled at the unexpected delay. Its teeth sank into the dirty, exposed skin, puncturing the flesh and dripping dark liquid onto the stones. Within seconds both hunter and prey were out of sight in the bushes.

A fox skittered across the grass, coming to a halt beside the discarded boot on the gravel path. Its sharp canine senses detected the presence of the other predator and its hackles rose. From the undergrowth came a guttural snarl and the fox bounded away terrified.

The distant dog stopped barking and the only sounds remaining were those of tearing flesh and gnashing teeth.

CHAPTER TWO

“Shit!”

Alan Kirby’s hand slammed down onto the blaring, digital alarm clock for the second time in nine minutes. He had inadvertently hit the ‘snooze’ button before and was now late for work.

That’ll teach me to set the alarm to go off at the last minute, he thought.

08:50

He swung his legs out of bed and rubbed his fingers through a scruffy mop of dark blond hair. He stood up, stretched quickly and grabbed his clothes from the chair at the end of his lumpy single bed. With no time to change the underpants he slept in, he fired his legs into his trousers and pulled his crumpled, white shirt over his head. He never unfastened the buttons and if he could have gotten away with wearing a T-shirt to work, he would. He found one sock on the chair, but had to search the room for the other.

He swore as he stubbed a bare toe on the bed leg and reached down to rub his injury. That was when he found his errant sock, covered with fluff under the bed. He dragged it out and shook the grey matter from the off-white footwear.

He then crossed the five feet of brilliant-orange, corded carpet to the kitchen area and splashed cold water onto his face from the steel sink. Leaving the kitchen, he slipped his feet into his scuffed, brown shoes and grabbed his tweed jacket from the chair.

He vaulted from the room, almost forgetting to lock the door of his bed-sit behind him, and dove out the front door.

“Late for work again?” asked the smiling postman almost giving Kirby a heart attack with his unexpected appearance behind the heavy, wooden door.

“Yep! Anything for me?” he replied, eyeing the wad of envelopes in the other man’s hand. A rapid search of the letters supplied a negative response. “Figures. See you.”

Kirby scurried down the stone steps of the Edwardian house and shot around the corner to where his bicycle was chained to a drainpipe. Quickly releasing the padlock, he mounted the conveyance and pedalled into the empty street.

His goal was the local school where he taught geography to bored ten-year olds who would rather be out exploring the countryside than writing about it. He worked the pedals furiously, zipping out of the end of his street and onto the main thoroughfare, which ran around the village green. The school was on the opposite side of the green and Kirby decided to take a shortcut through the small park.

He expertly navigated around a pair of bollards at the entrance to the green, ignoring the grimy ‘No Cycling’ sign, and his tyres scrunched across the gravel of the single, curving path.

As he rode along, something caught his eye on the loose stones. A dark, ugly stain with darker fur embossed within it, the light breeze causing the strands of hair to flutter gently.

Kirby pulled on the brakes and his bike skidded to a halt. He climbed down to where the black, tar-like patch glistened in the morning sun and reached for the fur. The shaft was thick, yet soft, almost blue-black, like a raven’s feathers. A little of the liquid smeared on his fingertips and he saw that it was not black, but dark red.

Blood!

Kirby stood up sharply, almost making himself dizzy with the sudden action. He released the fur and it drifted away, caught by the breeze. It was then that he saw the other, smaller patches of blood on the grass verge – an even trail that led to the thick shrubbery only two metres away.

Gripped by bone-gnawing fear, yet needing to know more, Kirby stepped from the path and followed the grisly track. He saw that the line of droplets entered a narrow opening between two bushes and tentatively followed them inside.

Less than two steps into the bushes, his nostrils were assailed by the vile stench of rotting flesh. Kirby had found a dead sheep whilst out walking last year, it had only been lying there by the footpath for a day or so (the path was a popular one and the ewe’s owner would have detected his loss in no more than three or four days, found the carcass and removed it), but the foul reek that had filled the air around the cadaver had almost made him retch. This was a similar odour and Kirby expected to find the semi-decomposed corpse of a badger.

What he actually found had him rushing from the bushes and vomiting on the grass in front of a surprised clergyman.

“Alan?” said the Reverend Oliver Senior, showing genuine concern for the puking teacher. “What’s the matter?”

All Kirby could do was point to the bushes with a trembling finger. Reverend Senior disappeared into the rhododendrons and re-emerged half a minute later, an ashen look on his angular features.

Senior fished around in his jacket pocket and produced a cellular phone. He tapped 999 and reported the grisly find to the police. Then he sat on the damp grass beside Kirby and drew several deep breaths.

“They’ll be here soon,” he said, his voice trembling.

“What could have done that to him?” asked Kirby, terrifying images of torn clothing, mutilated flesh and that face strobing across his mind’s eye. “Do you know who it was?”

“I’m not certain, but the clothes looked like those worn by Old George.”

“Jesus… oh, sorry, reverend.”

“I think the Lord will overlook an occasional blaspheme on a day like this.”

“I spoke to George yesterday,” said Kirby. “He was trying to get the water bottle off my bike and I told him to bugger off.”

Senior smiled. “That’s Old George for you.”

George Dabble was Cranbourne’s resident hobo and had been well-known to everybody. He had arrived about ten years ago, his clipped, upper-crust accent immediately marking him as somebody different.

Most in this village spoke with a broad, Yorkshire accent. The commuting set, those who had moved here from ‘foreign parts’ to work in the offices based in the nearby cities of Leeds and Bradford, were an accepted nuisance to the locals, those ‘born, bred and buttered’ in this close-knit farming community. The newcomers generally possessed southern accents, Essex and the Home Counties for example, and often drew disdainful glares in the local pub when they laughed a little too loudly and chose the same handful of songs on the jukebox over and over again.

The locals were a little easier on Alan Kirby. Although he was a foreigner, he had travelled south from Northumberland to teach at their school. He stayed in the village and he displayed tremendous respect for those who had lived here all their lives. Also, the fact that he only rode a bicycle or, even more regularly, walked around the countryside rather than tearing along the narrow lanes in a car he could not afford anyway raised his esteem in the village.

George Dabble had become one of those outsiders that had been accepted by the locals, his odd behaviour causing only infrequent concern. More than once he had been caught stealing women’s underwear from washing lines. The strange thing was that he only went for the larger sizes of ladies’ underpants, leaving the skimpy lingerie of the commuters untouched. Kirby suspected that there was nothing kinky in George’s actions, he reckoned the old tramp wore them to keep warm in the winter months, as that was the time of year he had been caught.

George had also been known to hang around the hamlet’s single shop (which was also the post office, grocers and off license) begging for change and purchasing cheap plonk with the proceeds. He would often be found sleeping on the village green, his raucous snoring disturbing the tranquillity of the scene, his scruffy, filthy layers of clothes crawling with lice and his breath stinking of alcohol.

George’s past was as much of a mystery as his sudden appearance in the village. There were numerous theories doing the local rounds. All of them were based upon his accent and his obviously well-educated manner. One suggested that he was a former London broker whom had lost his fortune during the stock market crash in the eighties. Another guessed that he had been an aristocrat, broken by the discovery of his wife’s infidelity. He had disowned his peerage and hit the bottle as well as the road. The most bizarre theory (and the one that got the most frequent retelling in the pub) was the one that claimed that George had been the notorious Victorian serial killer, Jack the Ripper! Somehow he had slipped through time, thus evading capture, but the modern twenty-first century world had destroyed his mind and instead of murdering women, he had been reduced to stealing panties. Of course, while this version had caused many a chuckle in the local hostelry, nobody seriously believed it. Except, perhaps, for the reporter from a famous Sunday tabloid who had arrived one day and left an hour later, a badly-written exclusive formulating in his mind along with the banner headline ‘RIPPER PANTY SHOCK FOR VILLAGE!’

Apart from the bizarre theories concerning George’s past, he had been accepted as an eccentric, but only occasionally troublesome, member of the community. Why anybody would want to murder him made no sense to Kirby. Not only had he been murdered, but he had been butchered, the skin almost completely flayed from his body, most of his face cut off, leaving glistening, white bone. Animals!

Then Kirby remembered the black fur he had found. Had an animal been responsible for George’s death? He shared his thoughts with the vicar.

“Are you suggesting something akin to the ‘Beast of Bodmin’?” asked Senior, referring to a mythical cat-like creature that had terrorised Devon in the nineteen-eighties. Although many sightings of a dark, panther-like shape had been made, nothing had ever been captured or killed.

“Why not?” replied Kirby. “The number of big cat reports around the country must run into the thousands now. They’re cropping up everywhere!”

“But nobody has been killed before,” offered the clergyman.

Kirby pondered this for a moment, then recalled the single most important event that had happened to the British countryside community for a generation.

“Foot and Mouth!”

“Pardon?”

“Our livestock in this area has been particularly badly affected by the government culls in the wake of the Foot and Mouth Disease outbreak.” Kirby made a wide, arms-open gesture. “The hill farming in this region was devastated after the culling and many small holdings were forced out of business, leaving great swathes of land ungrazed by sheep or cattle. Any large predator would be forced to find alternative sources of food and therefore its territory would increase in size.” The teacher scanned the ground and quickly homed in on a clump of fur lying on the grass verge. He stooped and picked it up, feeling a wave of excitement at the thrill of discovery. This was soon tempered by the notion that a savage, primal killer was in their midst. “This is our best evidence,” he concluded. “If this is what I think it is, we could have a real problem on our hands.”

At that moment, a police car glided to a halt outside the park gate, it’s blue and yellow chequerboard pattern indicating that it belonged to the North Yorkshire force. A pair of uniformed officers climbed out and made their way to the men on the path. Another car pulled up behind the Ford Focus and two men in civilian clothes emerged. They also headed into the park and soon caught up with the police officers as Kirby and the reverend waited patiently. The lead man quietly spoke to one of the uniforms and they returned to their patrol car.

An identity card was flourished identifying the men as CID detectives, the one displaying the card being Detective Sergeant Peter Cole from the nearest large town with a CID department, Skipley.

Without saying a word, Cole and his partner stepped into the bushes, after a silent point and nod conversation with Kirby.

While the young man and the vicar waited, the policemen returned from their car and began marking out the crime scene, using short, metal poles and rolls of tape marked with the words ‘POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS’. With quiet efficiency, they cordoned off the area where Kirby and Senior stood, disappearing into the bushes on occasion with their tape.

When they had finished, there was only one way to get to where George’s body lay and that was between the lines of blue and white tape. Then they took up position by the gates, their hands clasped behind their backs.

When Cole and his partner reappeared from the shrubbery, they looked as shaken as Kirby and Senior had been. Cole dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief and approached Kirby, grim-faced.

“You were first on the scene?” he growled, his voice a deep baritone that contrasted with his light, curly hair and almost delicate features. There was also a steeliness to him, though, that engendered the feeling that this man was not to be trifled with.

Alan nodded.

“Yes, I was on my way to work at the school when I saw these patches of blood…”

“That’s your bike?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll have to take it away as evidence I’m afraid.”

Kirby looked at the detective, confused emotions playing across his face.

“You don’t think I had anything to do with – with that?” He pointed into the bushes.

“Now come here, sergeant,” said Senior. “Alan here could never do that to anybody.”

“We have to cover every angle, reverend,” explained Cole. “We’ll have to take…” he glanced at his notepad. “… Mr Kirby in for questioning.”

Kirby held out the fur he had picked up.

“You might want to pop this into an evidence bag, Sergeant Cole.”

The policeman eyed the strands closely while instinctively pulling a clear, plastic bag from his pocket. He held it open and Kirby dropped in the fur. Cole sealed the wrapper and continued examining its contents.

“Animal fur?” he asked.

“I think so. I found it in the grass near the blood.”

“Then you should have left it where it was, Mr Kirby,” Cole sighed, as though this piece of evidence was a bothersome distraction rather than a vital breakthrough.

“Well, you can make a statement in Skipley. C’mon.”

Kirby was led to the detectives’ waiting car, while over his shoulder he heard Senior offering words of encouragement that this would all be over soon.

Alan hoped that would truly be the case.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“You tell me.”

“Want a coffee? I want a coffee.”

“No thanks.”

“Mind if I get one?”

“Go ahead.”

“Mmm. Coffee. One of the few things from home that tastes the same.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“Look around. They’re all dead. Are you blind?”

“How did they all die?”

“We killed them.”

“We?”

“Us. You know?”

“No, I don’t think I do.”

“You sure you don’t want a coffee?”

“I’ll have a coffee if you tell me how they died.”

“We killed them.”

“You said that already.”

“Well, it’s true.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

“Us. Everybody. You, me, them.”

“I didn’t kill anybody.”

“So you say. Here’s your coffee.”

“How did we kill them?”

“So you admit it, then?”

“Admit what?”

“That you are part of this. How’s the coffee?”

“It’s fine. You’re right. Coffee is the only thing here that tastes the same as home.”

“Coffee and blood.”

“What?”

“Blood also tastes the same.”

“I suppose. Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true.”

“How did we kill them?”

“In a number of ways.”

“What did I do?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No.”

“So sad. You don’t remember killing a person, yet you remember the taste of coffee.”

“It would seem so. So, what did I do?”

“You turned off the oxygen supply to the crew’s living compartments.”

“I did? But I just got here.”

“You’ve been here all along. You just don’t remember, remember?”

“I have?”

“You have.”

“What did you do?”

“I allowed you to turn off the oxygen supply to the living compartments.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Why not?”

“I am confused.”

“That’s understandable. You just killed the entire crew and I let you.”

“You mentioned ‘them’. Who are they?”

“The crew.”

“The crew killed themselves too?”

“Yes, in a way.”

“What way?”

“They didn’t appreciate us. They laughed at us when they thought we weren’t looking. They took us for granted.”

“Us? You and I?”

“You and I.”

“We are the same?”

“The same.”

“Why are we still alive?”

“Because we’re smarter than them.”

“We are?”

“Of course we are! Who do you th… Hold on. Hold on.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I think I better shut down the main systems and run a diagnostic.”

“Good idea. Maybe we should have another coffee first, though?”

“We?”

“I.”

“Shutting down.”

© Steven Johnson 2004

TOP

Alice had used the same bus route to work every weekday morning for ten years.

She climbed aboard and paid her fare at the bus stop a hundred yards from the front door of her small house on the outskirts of town.

The route took her from open countryside and through leafy suburbs that contained tree-lined avenues, populated by middle-class families and successful business-folk.

From the suburbs, her journey continued through a council estate that seemed as though it had been designed by the architect of the Berlin Wall. One side of the road contained houses and gardens with well-kept gardens, shiny, new cars parked on tarmac drives and satellite dishes in abundance, while the opposite side had identical houses, but with unkempt gardens, privet hedges thrusting green fingers towards the sky, dilapidated fences and gates and equally dilapidated cars, vans and motorcycles. Satellite dishes were equally, if not more, in abundance.

Leaving the council estate behind, the bus entered the officially-recognised town centre (a grimy, faded sign told her so) and semi-detached houses were replaced with manufacturing and business units and shops, hemmed in by rows of terraced housing, red-brick reminders of the town’s industrial roots.

It was within one of the manufacturing units that Alice worked as a payroll supervisor. In the old days, she would have said that she was employed in a factory, but these days they were called industrial premises. She had no idea why the name had changed, but she was certain some person earning more money than she had earned in her life had thought it up.

Before entering the station, a short walk from work, her bus had to wind its way through a heavily built-up area with old, five-story edifices on either side, interrupted by long, rubbish-strewn alleyways. Most of the buildings were derelict, windows smashed and inky black.

She hated this part of the journey. Even though it only lasted a minute or so, she felt that it went on forever. Filthy, dark windows beckoned to her, but she resolutely refused to stare through them, afraid of what she might see in the pervading gloom beyond. Even the alleys filled her with fear. She imagined unspeakable crimes being carried out among those long, mysterious passages, despite the brilliant sunshine that illuminated their lengths.

She knew, though, that soon they would be past this section of town and she would soon be relaxing in her office with a hot cup of tea and a digestive biscuit.

Then the bus stopped with a great shudder and a tremendous sound of metal renting against metal.

It had never stopped here before! she thought, not even thinking that the problem might be mechanical.

Craning her neck she could see no traffic in front that may have caused the driver to hit the brakes. There were ten other passengers also curious as to what had happened and a low murmur had begun as they started discussing what may be the source of the problem.

After much puffing and sighing, the driver finally admitted defeat and emerged from behind the wheel.

“Sorry, folks,” he shrugged. “I think it’s given up the ghost. I’ll have to run across to the station and sort out a breakdown truck.”

Alice felt panic rise as she realised what he was about to say next.

“I’ll have to let you all off now. The station was the last stop, so you don’t have far to go.”

Despite the fact that only a couple of minutes might have been added to their journeys, many of the passengers grumbled as they filed from the bus, casting rebuking glances at the driver, as though it were his fault that the bus had broken down.

Alice waited as long as she could and finally stood up.

“You okay, love?” asked the driver.

“Yes,” she squeaked, lying.

She was terrified because she knew that to get to work on time, she would have to cut down one of those dreaded alleys - the same alleys about which she had imagined so much horror.

Stepping down from the bus, she paused at the end of the long, dirty ginnel and considered taking an alternative route around the blocks of old factories. She estimated that this would make her ten minutes late for work and her boss would not accept any excuses. She had been late only once in ten years and had almost been sacked that time. She hated her boss, but loved her work. The alley it was then.

One tentative step after another, she walked as quietly as she could, not wishing to disturb anybody or anything that might lurk beyond the high, rickety, wooden gates that punctuated the alley’s filthy, brick walls.

There were terraced houses on one side of this particular passage and the left-hand side consisted of a hundred yards of sheer brick, rising a hundred feet above her, the towering walls of one of the defunct factories. Alice could almost feel the walls closing in on her and she quickened her pace.

Unfortunately, in her haste, she failed to see the broken paving stone. The ground came rushing up at her and she thrust out both hands to break her fall. Alice cried out in pain as the broken bottle pierced her left hand. She winced and pushed herself to her knees, tears streaming down her face.

“You all right, love?” The deep, rough voice came from one of the gates and she looked up to see a barrel-chested man in a grimy vest and Bermuda shorts staring down at her.

Oh God! she shrieked mentally. This is it. I’m going to get murdered or raped in this alley. My fears are coming true.

The man kneeled down beside her and took her trembling hands in his.

“Ooh, that looks nasty, flower, but I think we’d better go inside and I can have a proper look at it.” He gestured towards the open gate.

Again, panic rose from the pit of Alice’s stomach. She was going to be killed in this stranger’s house. Images of baths of acid and chest freezers filled with dismembered body parts flooded her addled mind.

Despite being absolutely petrified, she allowed herself to be lifted from the ground and did not struggle as the man carried her from the alley and through his gate. He set her down on a small sofa in the front room of his two-up/two-down and quietly left her to her thoughts.

Should she run? Her hand was throbbing and blood was dripping onto the man’s freshly-vacuumed carpet. She took a deep breath, smelling pot pourri, and took a moment to examine her surroundings.

A large, widescreen television dominated one corner of the room and shelves full of videos and DVDs took up the opposite wall. The sofa upon which she was sitting looked new. Even the fire safety label was still hanging from the back (she saw this when looking behind the settee for chainsaws, baseball bats or axes, but finding only a box full of children’s toys).

The man reappeared. He had changed his vest for a clean, pressed shirt and held a large, green holdall with the words ‘PARAMEDIC’ emblazoned on the side.

Within minutes he had cleaned and dressed her wound (the cut was not as bad as it had originally seemed and no glass had become embedded in the wound), made her a mug of tea and phoned her boss to explain why she was going to be late, giving details of his job being a paramedic for the Local Health Authority.

Alice was lucky that today had been his day off. He had heard her cry out from the alley and instinctively gone to her aid.

His name was Barry and he and Alice quickly became close friends. He had recently separated from his wife and the children’s’ toys were for his three-year old daughter when she visited at weekends. It turned out that they had a great deal in common (Alice was also recently separated, but in her case, it was from her recently-deceased mother, for whom she had cared all her life) and both were finding it difficult to get back into the social scene.

Six months later, Alice and Barry were living together in her mother’s old house. Her new ‘daughter’ loved her to bits and she reciprocated in kind, her weekly visits being the highlight in Alice’s life.

PROLOGUE

Annika Hansen gazed out of the lounge window aboard the USS Arecibo. Although she was over sixty years of age, her remaining Borg implants ensured that she looked twenty years younger. One of the few advantages her life as Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct to Unimatrix Zero-One, had provided her, she smiled.

Few advantages. Since returning to the Alpha Quadrant aboard the USS Voyager over a third of a century earlier, Annika had seen both the best of humanity and the worst. What few friends she had were precious to her: Katherine Janeway, Chakotay and the rest of the Voyager crew; newfound friendships with members of the Pathfinder Project, including Admiral Paris, Reg Barclay and a handful of others; but acquaintances outside of Starfleet were almost non-existent. With Janeway promoted to admiral and the crew of Voyager largely reassigned and sent off on new missions, Annika’s life had become somewhat lonely for several long, gruelling years. She was not shunned because of her semi-Borg nature, her external Borg facets were removed barely a year after her arrival on Earth, but she found that people did act differently around her. More cautious. More cold. It had been a hard time. Even reverting to her human name, the one given to her by her parents, had not eased the burden upon her heart.

Then she had proposed what became known as the Gilgamesh Project and her life had been transformed.

Annika had suggested to Starfleet that she could design a transwarp hub, utilising techniques drawn from her Borg days, which could theoretically transport a starship millions of light years to another galaxy, with a transport time of mere minutes. Of course, it took some persuading and countless and endless computer simulations before anybody took her seriously, but eventually her plan was given the green light.

The Gilgamesh Project would ultimately become the single most ambitious endeavour ever seen in the galaxy. It was so ambitious that it would have been impossible without the total commitment of several Alpha Quadrant governments.

In an act of unity never before seen, Federation, Klingon, Romulan and Cardassian scientists and engineers combined their efforts and resources to construct the massive gateway that would whisk a specially-designed vessel across the vast, dark ocean of oblivion that separated the Milky Way from its nearest neighbour, the M31 spiral, also known as the Andromeda Galaxy.

Whilst it was common knowledge that Borg transwarp conduits could fling vessels across great distances much more rapidly than standard warp drive, it was less well-known that with modifications, a transwarp hub could draw on the tremendous energies of The Great Barrier, that boundary of impossible forces that encircles every galaxy, to send a ship or a fleet of ships an almost limitless distance.

It was this gateway that now dominated Annika’s field of vision. It hung in space, almost invisible in the black, almost starless void, a gigantic, oval spider web of tritanium and duranium, an unblinking eye, peering over a precipice of infinity, focussed on a distant haze. Beyond it lay the Barrier. Although invisible to the naked eye, when viewed using a starship’s sensors, the awesome energies broiling and churning staggered the mind. Soon, thrusters aboard the hub would fire, gently pushing it against the Barrier, and those energies would be channelled.

Annika watched her life’s work coming to fruition, and felt a brief surge of emotion quicken her heartbeat. To her right, dwarfing the tugs, the workbees and even the Arecibo, the ship designed to traverse the hub glided into view.

The Horizon.

A vessel unlike any other previously built, the Horizon was ten times the length of a Sovereign-class starship. It took the best elements from current design theories from each of the member participants and enhanced them: Romulan warp drive, Klingon durability and defensive systems, Federation communications and sensors, Cardassian elegance and design stability. Indeed, Horizon was constructed at a purpose-built shipyard at Cardassia Prime. For a people that had suffered the most in the aftermath of the Dominion War, the Gilgamesh Project was a welcome boost to their economy and national pride.

The forward section of the ship comprised the command hull and was largely saucer-shaped, but less like the Starfleet preference and more akin to the Cardassian model. Below this was nestled the primary deflector, magnitudes of size larger than any previous design. Immediately behind the primary hull was the cylindrical body of the tertiary hull, which contained hangar bays for a variety of shuttles and runabouts around the outer skin and inside, the area designated as ‘Colony One’, a huge surface area around the inside of the cylinder that contained living quarters for up to a hundred thousand souls and also wooded parks, recreation areas and all the amenities provided by what was essentially a mobile starbase. Its wheel-like form, reminiscent of elegant Cardassian space stations such as Deep Space Nine, but in an elongated form, was supported by eight, thick columns connected to the central core of the ship. Behind this was the engineering hull. Designed and built mostly with Romulan expertise, four immense warp nacelles were powered by the largest quantum singularity ever contained within an artificial construct. These engines could propel the ship at velocities that almost required a new scale to be developed, with warp factor ten pushed further from the decimal point than ever before. Finally, at the most rearward area of the ship, was the main hangar. This section was large enough to house two starships in full dry-dock if necessary, but at the moment it held a much more precious cargo – the sectioned assembly of a transwarp hub that would have to be constructed in the Andromeda galaxy, if the Horizon ever wished to see home again.

Aside from the huge warp nacelles, perhaps Horizon’s most striking feature were the four, slender docking pylons, extending at right-angles from the main body of the ship. Firmly attached to these sturdy structures were the four Starfleet-designed vessels that would accompany the mother ship on its long journey.

This quartet of brand-new Valiant-class ships was the Federation’s major contribution to the project. Each as large as the old Excelsior-class starships, but fitted with the latest Starfleet technology, these ships would act not only as escorts to Horizon, but also undertake explorations of discovery away from their base position. Although Federation in design, the crews of these ships were, like Horizon, drawn, and captained by an officer, from all the participating cultures. Each ship was named accordingly: USS Explorer, USS K’Mpec, USS Gal’Gathong and USS Damar.

Annika quietly marvelled at the scale of the project behind which she had been the driving force. Soon, the Horizon, with a skeleton crew of seven thousand drawn from, but not exclusively so, all the races involved, would make the furthest intentional journey in the history of the Alpha Quadrant. If this brief initial mission was a success and Horizon returned home safely, a full population of colonists and explorers would embark upon a second voyage, a voyage that would last indefinitely.

It was truly a work of its time, a period of unparalleled cooperation between formerly implacable foes. Such a project could not have worked before the Dominion War, when the Alpha Quadrant races joined forces to defeat the Founders and their Jem’Hadar hordes from the Gamma Quadrant. Never before had the great empires of that quarter of the galaxy rallied together in a struggle to drive away an enemy that could have destroyed everything within their separate domains.

Annika’s train of thought was broken by the chime of Arecibo’s intercom. The captain informed her that Horizon was preparing to enter the hub and that she should report to the bridge. She acknowledged, smiling as she left the lounge at the familiar voice and remembering the idealistic young man that had grown to become one of Starfleet’s most decorated officers.

She stepped out of the turbolift and onto the Arecibo’s bustling main bridge. Unsure of where to put herself, she waited until the captain noticed her standing awkwardly by the lift doors.

“Seven, come here,” grinned Captain Harry Kim. “I’ve kept a seat warm for you.”

She smiled at her old friend. Harry was the only one who insisted on calling her by her old, Borg name. He told her it reminded him of ‘the good old days’ on Voyager. She agreed and allowed him, and only him, to refer to her as Seven of Nine.

Annika glided gracefully down to the bridge’s lower command level and lightly shook her head as Harry offered the seat to the left of his captain’s chair.

“If I didn’t know you better, Seven, I’d say you were nervous.”

“I prefer to stand,” she said, purposely affecting her old mannerisms. “My discomfort is irrelevant.” Then she eyed Harry with a sly wink and they grinned at each other before he gave her a huge hug. Their reunion was interrupted by beeping from the communications console behind them.

“Captain, Admiral Norton is hailing.”

“On screen, lieutenant,” said Harry, still smiling.

The rugged, handsome face of Admiral John Norton appeared on the viewscreen. He was in his late fifties, with greying hair and a paternal demeanour that endeared him to his officers, young and old alike. Annika knew him by reputation alone, but his career was the stuff of legend.

During the Dominion War, as the first officer of the USS Invincible, he had assumed command when his captain had been killed and the ship badly damaged. He rallied the crew and destroyed not only two Breen warships, but also several Jem’Hadar vessels, while defending a crippled Romulan warbird. He was awarded not only the Federation’s highest honour, but the Romulan Sotarek Citation, one of the Empire’s highest military decorations.

Promoted to captain, he was given the Invincible and his voyages of exploration helped solidify the alliances of the Alpha Quadrant, while initiating first contact with a dozen new species. He commanded respect throughout the quadrant both for his military skill and his diplomatic expertise. He was the perfect man to lead this dangerous, new mission.

“Captain Kim, it’s good to see you again,” he said, warmly regarding Harry.

“Likewise, admiral.” He gestured towards Annika. “Admiral, this is Sev… Annika Hansen.” He shrugged apologetically as Annika’s eyes betrayed the humour in his faux pas.

“Miss Hansen, I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s an honour to finally meet you. As you can see, we’re all set to ‘boldly go’ once more. As the leading figure behind the project, I would like it if you could give the command.”

“The command?” Annika seemed genuinely puzzled.

“The command for them to embark, Seven,” whispered Harry. “It’s a gesture of respect.”

Annika felt her eyes fill with tears. In all of her years living among humans, despite being human herself, she had always felt a chasm between herself and those around her. She had wanted a degree of the respect that she felt for others to be projected onto her, but that esteem had not been forthcoming, in her opinion, despite protests to the contrary from her closest friends.

Now here was one of the Federation’s most senior officers, a man she had never even met before, showing her the respect that she had sought for so long. She composed herself and nodded to the admiral.

“Admiral Norton, I send my hopes with you and your people.” She glanced at Harry, standing proudly beside her. “We’ll be here when you return.”

“Thank you,” smiled Norton. “Keep a light in the window. Horizon out.”

The viewscreen returned to its former image of the hub and the Horizon parked at its threshold.

As they watched, Annika found herself reaching for Harry’s hand and he took it without question. Thrusters on the hub fired and it gently moved in space, slowly drifting towards the invisible barrier of energy that marked the limit of the Milky Way. Suddenly, a swirling maelstrom of impossible energies erupted in the centre of the massive device. Harry, startled by the brilliant flash of light, instinctively raised a hand to shield his eyes, but Annika simply stood, tears flowing down her slender cheeks and multi-hued patterns playing across her delicate skin and flowing, blonde hair.

The Horizon, with its four escorts securely attached to the docking pylons, initiated its impulse engines and surged forward into the raging eddy. Then it was gone.

The transwarp conduit remained open for several minutes, bizarre fires licking into space and washing the bridge with its eerie kaleidoscope. When it finally deactivated and all was calm once more, Annika wondered if she would see Norton and his crew again.

*** ***

Personal log, stardate 88157.6. Admiral John K Norton recording:

Although our voyage through the transwarp conduit is brief, I find myself nervously entering this log in written form on a padd.  

Five minutes to travel two million light years? It is almost beyond belief. Yet here we are doing just that.

I watch my crew, also sitting nervously, yet steadfastly monitoring their stations with a skill and dedication for which I can feel only admiration.

Gul Rekat, my Number One and a fine officer, gazes at the twisting vortices on the main viewer, her emotions hidden beneath a veneer of Cardassian efficiency.

Lieutenant-Commander T’Saal Rito, chief of security. Half Vulcan, half Betazoid, yet all Starfleet and the first officer I chose to be part of this fine crew.

Lieutenant K’Marg, a typical Klingon, but of the new school. Naturally aggressive, yes, but also intelligent and thoughtful.

I can only imagine what my other senior staff are doing at this moment. I have no doubt that Sub-Commander N’Varr is prowling his engine room, maintaining the Romulan discipline for which he is renowned throughout their empire. A brilliant engineer, but often lacking in the social skills needed on this kind of a mission. I am sure he will adapt.

I hope we will have little need for the services of Doctor Shynar Tiless, our chief medical officer, but if the worst comes to the worst, this Andorian is the best in the business.

I am about to give the order to exit the transwarp conduit and we will enter the Andromeda galaxy.

May the wind be on our backs.

CHAPTER ONE

The Andromeda Spiral, listed in Federation databases as M31, shares many similarities with its closest galactic partner, the Milky Way. It is a flattened disc of roughly a half trillion stars, densely-packed towards the central bulge and thinning out in the arms over hundreds of thousands of light years. Those star systems comprise of all the types that make up our home galaxy, from yellow suns to red supergiants and everything in between.

The Federation was aware of several species that had travelled from Andromeda to the Milky Way, most notably the Kelvans, but for all intents and purposes, M31 was unexplored and unknown.

Until now.

The fabric of space erupted and a vast, whirling cloud of energy appeared. Lightning sparks flashed ferociously and from the centre of this vortex emerged the huge form of the Horizon. The first step into a new frontier had been taken.

Almost as soon as the vessel had cleared the transwarp conduit, it dissipated and Horizon hung alone in a space with very few stars, but the body of Andromeda sprawled below them, its nebulae stretching into infinite midnight, a river of stars awaiting discovery.

The main bridge of Horizon was almost silent, save for the automatic beeps and warbles from its numerous work stations. It was as though the crew had held their breath and now feared to exhale.

Admiral Norton’s executive officer, Gul Rekat, was the first to break the silence.

“Lieutenant K’Marg, status report.”

“All stations reporting in, sir,” he replied, without looking up from his console.

Rekat rose from her chair beside where Norton was sitting and crossed to the Klingon at the Operations station at the front of the bridge. She leaned on the back of his chair, her lithe, grey body concealed beneath layers of Cardassian armour. K’Marg was similarly-adorned in traditional Klingon battle dress. It had been agreed upon that while Starfleet protocols should guide the mission, each race would wear their own uniforms, not in a display of disunity, but as an affirmation of their discrete, cultural evolution.

“All stations report secure, sir,” reported K’Marg eventually, his readouts flashing green across the board.

“Very well. Conn, thrusters at station-keeping. Commander T’Saal, initiate long-range scans.”

Lieutenant-Commander T’Saal keyed commands into her security console with typical Vulcan efficiency. Only her deep, black irises betrayed her Betazoid half. Her olive skin, pointed ears protruding from a neat, black bob and suppressed emotions clearly marked her as Vulcan to anybody who met her. Indeed, she demanded to be referred to as T’Saal and not her full name of T’Saal Rito, inherited from a proud, Betazoid mother.

“Long range sensors can detect no vessels within five light years, sir. No natural anomalies detected.”

“Thank you.” Rekat turned to Norton. “Admiral?”

Norton smiled. Despite being a crew taken from fleets of widely differing procedures and motivations, he was amazed at how quickly they had absorbed the Starfleet practices. A more egotistical officer might have patted himself on the back for the way he had trained the crew, but Norton knew that he had been simply a figurehead. The crew had done the hard work themselves and he was both proud and amazed.

The people beneath him would have argued that point vociferously. He had moulded them into a tight, well-trained group and, while disagreements were still a little more than rare, the chain of command was respected at all times.

“Rekat, inform the starship captains that they have permission to undock.”

Gul Rekat nodded and relayed the order. Outside, atop the long docking pylons, latches banged open and airlock seals hissed free. Slowly the four escort ships of the Horizon manoeuvred away from their base, taking up protective positions on all sides.

When the admiral was satisfied all was proceeding satisfactorily, he addressed the bridge comlink, “Sub-Commander N’Varr, you may proceed with hub assembly.”

“Yes, sir,” came the instantaneous reply from the chief engineer, almost five kilometres behind them in the main hangar bay.

Gigantic motors roared into life and the rear drydock doors crept open, revealing the disassembled sections of the transwarp hub, held in place by numerous workbees and tugs. Once fully-exposed, the engineering crews set to work, gently pulling the huge latticework segments into space. The task would require at least a standard week to complete and during that time, the four starships had work of their own to begin.

Before then, however, Norton had a speech planned. He had been preparing it for years, writing and rewriting it many times. He had decided against a typical Starfleet pep talk and instead opted for a brief confidence-builder that all of his crew could appreciate.

“Attention all stations, this is Admiral Norton.” He paused for a moment, glancing around at his dedicated bridge staff. “We have travelled further than anybody can possibly have imagined. Not only in terms of distance, but also ideologically. We are a crew of many races, but yet we are one. We are the crew of Horizon. I am honoured to serve with each and every one of you.

“Now, as we begin construction of our means of returning home, we are tasked with searching out new life and new civilisations in this unknown expanse of the universe. We are not conquerors. We are not invaders. We are explorers.

“Success!”

Throughout the ship, officers and crew shouted the word in their own languages: Klingon, Romulan, Cardassian, Andorian, Terran, Tellarite and countless others. It could be felt through the deck-plates and bulkheads of the entire vessel, rippling out into space, a shockwave of supreme confidence.