Philip Palmer - Hell Ship

“Downwardness is the compression of space,” Sharrock explained, getting into his stride. “It’s what keeps us on the surface of a planet. It’s why fruit falls. Whirling-force is-”

“I know nothing, and care nothing, of such matters,” I informed him, courteously.

“It’s a fuck-my-grandmother-if-you-have-a-cock-of-steel hell of a trick,” Sharrock said, admiringly. “How big is it?”

“In the units of measurement used on my planet,” I said, “It is a breath, or a tenth of a hope. According to the measures more commonly used on board the ship, it is one hundredth of one millionth the size of a yellow dwarf sun. Approximately the size of a typically-sized sea on what I am told is a ‘median sized’ planet. It’s possible to circumnavigate our world in five hours,” I added, “if you are a flying creature. Nine, if you ride the rails; and Fray can run it in less than two days, though that is exceptional.”

“A planet the size of a small ocean, but the people live on the inside,” Sharrock said. There was respect in his tone; and I knew he was consciously learning all he could about his captors and their technology. My eyes absorbed the view, for I took great joy in the image of my interior world. It was hard not to believe that the sky was about to fall down upon us; hard, too, not to marvel at the genius of a species that could build an entire planet to contain their slaves on the inside of a spherical spaceship.

“What’s that? The blurring?” asked Sharrock.

“Storms,” I explained. “Vast typhoons that prowl the northernmost reaches of the interior planet. Sometimes, the storms escape and entire mountain ranges are ripped to pieces, and the lake is sucked dry of water.”

“Why? Why build an artificial planet that has such terrible storms?” Sharrock asked.

“It may be, I am told, a design flaw,” I lied. The Ka’un loved to see things being destroyed: how could he not guess that?

“And how many different species exist here?”

“Many,” I said evasively; some find a tally of the number of defeated civilisations demoralising.

“And none of them are from my planet.”

“None.”

“Everyone died?”

“Everyone,” I explained, “except for you.”

Sharrock’s face was pale, almost pink. It became moist again.

“Let us explore,” I said, brightly.

We walked down to the lake and I dived into the waters and returned with a mouthful of wriggling fish that I spat out and gutted with my claws and offered to the startled Sharrock.

Sharrock stared at the eviscerated fish anxiously. “Are these not intelligent creatures, like you and I?” he said, warily.

“No, of course not,” I said. “I know all the sentients by name. But many of the fish in the lake, and the aerials in the skies, and a few of the grazing species, are just dumb beasts; and they multiply without restraint. We have to keep their numbers down. We sentients, however, cannot breed. Although the Kindred keep trying.”

“The Kindred?”

“The giant bipeds. There are a thousand or more of them, all the same species. Twice the size of you, with claws on their fingers and with one more eye than you have. They do not mix.”

“And how many other ‘bipeds’ are there?”

“Three hundred and four, of the hairless and tailless varieties such as yourself. You will be able to get to know them soon,” I said; though that was a lie.

“Good,” Sharrock conceded grandly, as though I were his subject; this was I realised an annoying habit of his.

Above us, dumb birds and smart aerials flew. The trees nearest us were purple sentients and were admired by all of us for their extraordinary intellect and wisdom. I warned Sharrock not to eat the berries, for that was tantamount to eating the gonads of a great philosopher. Arboreals of all sizes and colours perched in branches and swung from branches and seized every opportunity to stare curiously at the newcomer. Sharrock looked around at it all, appraising, memorising, undoubtedly awestruck.

“I’d like a swim,” said Doro, and Sharrock looked around, baffled.

I slithered across to the rocks, and picked up Doro-who was, as always, perfectly camouflaged. And I held him in the tips of two tentacles.

“How is he doing?” Doro asked.

“A talking rock?” Sharrock said sceptically.

“You’ve met Doro once before,” I explained. “The night I took you to my cabin.”

Comprehension dawned in his eyes. “The shapeshifter. I encountered another species like that once, while on a mission in the Lexoid Galaxy.”

“That is a tale I would love to hear.”

“And so you shall,” said Sharrock, with charm.

I hurled Doro into the waters of the lake, where he became waves.

Sharrock smiled. He was, I could tell, starting to enjoy himself.

My strategy was working.

“This tastes good,” Sharrock said, a little while later, chewing on the fish I had caught for him.

“It has no nutritional value,” I admitted. “The Ka’un alter the cells of these fish to be non-poisonous to all species, but our physiologies are so different we can’t hope to digest the flesh. It is the gloop we eat daily and the water from the well of life that truly feeds us.”

“The water?”

“It contains foodstuffs and minerals and hormones in solution form, and is able to alter its molecular structure to suit the needs of each of us.”

“Water can do all that?”

“The water and the air are what keep us alive.”

“How so?”

“They just-do,” I explained.

Sharrock laughed; and crinkled his eyes. He was, I realised, using his charm on me again.

“Perhaps, dear Sai-ias, you could explain in just a little more detail?” he said, and there was a courtesy to his tone I had not heard before.

I remembered all I had been told, by the technological sentients like Quipu. “The air,” I told Sharrock, “doesn’t just translate our words, it transforms itself so that we can breathe. It transmutes itself to give oxygen to one species, methane to another, and so forth. Somehow, the air knows how to be the right air for each of us, no matter how different our worlds.”

“The air- knows this?” said Sharrock.

“Yes.”

“That’s-” said Sharrock, and could not find a word for it.

“And it also, so I’m told,” I continued, “carries with it light. The sun is not the sun, it is merely air shaped in a ball. And when the air of the sun grows tired, the light gets redder and we call that sunset.”

“Air can do all that?”

“In this world, yes it can,” I explained.

“Such marvels are-beyond belief,” said Sharrock, and I could tell he was plotting and scheming again. “But this air-the Ka’un created it right? It has, perhaps, micro-particles that carry information? So each molecule of air functions like a miniature artificial mind? Like a… a… data engine, but at a sub-atomic level?”

“Perhaps,” I said, cautiously.

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” said Sharrock.

“No I do not.”

“Amazing.”

“Why is it amazing?”

Sharrock’s mouth made a shape, common to many bipeds; a smile.

“I’m not considered to be a great scientist among my kind. I’m certainly not a Philosopher,” Sharrock explained. “But these are basic concepts, that every sentient creature must be aware of. Surely?”

“Not me,” I admitted.

He was silent for a while. I could tell his spirits were high; he was convinced he had discovered some secret that could be used to destroy the Ka’un. The usual delusion.

And so, as we sat there, I realised that it was time for me to proceed to the next stage of my strategy; to save this poor wretched creature before hope wholly destroyed him.