P Hillard - The Teller of Lies

“Kestok!” Skorra ran to the fallen engineer, her hands frantically pawing at him.

“I’m fine, bit bruised but ok. Clive, shut down the machine.”

“I’m trying. It is being… petulant.”

A loud slam filled the chamber as the machine fell to the ground, the scrap metal vanishing inside itself. A light began to glow from within, as it had done when it had created the bed. The living piece of furniture was cowering in the corner, away from the machine.

“Just, as a rule,” Kestok said. “From now on, if we find weird machines on the ship, we should probably keep them switched off.”

Gurrit opened his eyes, only to find everything around him was dark. It wasn’t pitch black, a tiny sliver of light creeping through ahead of him in a thin line telling him he was in a room of some sort. He didn’t remember much, simply a shadow looming over him, then falling into unconsciousness. Gurrit could feel something cold on either side of him as he reached out. It felt like smooth stone, like the pebbles on the beach near his mother’s house.

“Jurlt?” He shouted. There was no reply. “Jurlt?” Still nothing. Either Jurlt was still unconscious, or Gurrit was alone here. Wherever here was.

The door swung open, and Gurrit recoiled as the light poured in, blinding him. He felt something wrap around his arm, pulling him to his feet. He stumbled out from the cell, into the room beyond.

Michael’s legs ached. All of him ached in truth, but he was focusing on his legs, trying to block out the rest of the pain. They had been walking for hours, wandering the countryside around the landed Council patrol vessel. Aileena had recommended against meeting with the Council commander, not until he had calmed down a little. Instead, the Seeker had buzzed over the landed Council ship before dropping off its passengers nearby.

Michael had stared down at the patrol vessel as they had flown over it. It was larger than the Seeker, its metal glittering in the fake sun. The ship had large spiked prongs wrapped around its central hull that tapered to a point, making the vessel look like a claw ready to strike. Michael knew from experience the ships had a single cannon mounted to the front of the hull, having been the target of a similar craft before. He wondered what the commander of that ship, a man called Orson, was doing now. Michael hadn’t expected to meet another human in space, never mind finding one shooting at him. They had parted on at least semi-agreeable terms, having been forced to work together to escape the pirate planet of Ossiark.

The constant wandering didn’t seem to be bothering Aileena in the slightest. She was taking it in her stride, almost literally, looking calm and composed compared to Michaels constant sweating. On her back, she carried a fearsome-looking rifle, all sharp edges and ominous glowing lights. Aileena had offered Michael one, but he declined, instead sticking with the small sidearm he had been practising with. She had simply nodded in response, placing the weapon she had offered back onto the rack.

The bag looped over Michael’s shoulder was starting to rub. The bag wasn’t designed to be carried for a long period, the material rubbing uncomfortably as he walked. Michael had filled it with water bottles and packets filled with a kind of dried mushroom Meggok had made, an attempt at a meat-free jerky. It wasn’t the most palatable thing, but Michael had gotten used to the taste over the past few months. He was amazed at the foods he had begun to miss. It was the simple things really, bread, milk, a bag of ready salted crisps.

“I’ve got tracks here,” Aileena said, crouching low. She ran her hand across the ground. “Two long streaks, like something being dragged.”

“Our missing troopers then?” Michael hadn’t spotted the tracks, not until Aileena had pointed them out. They were barely dents in the grass, her superior eyesight proving its worth. Michael had been annoyed at first, at how every other race seemed to be better than humans at something. Eventually, he had realised his hearing was superior to the rest of the crew. Only slightly, but it was a tick in the humanity column.

“Could be. But if they’re being dragged, why is there no tracks for whatever was pulling them? Something doesn’t seem right.”

“We don’t have anything else to go on. Besides if it isn’t them, then it’s our first indication of there being something on this place at least. It’s worth following up on either way. God, I can’t believe I’m actively saying we should go towards the possibly dangerous thing.”

Aileena allowed herself a chuckle, a rarity for her. “Yeah, we don’t have the best track record, do we? Still, it always seems to work out. Going to Ossiark netted us some useful crew and a bunch of guns.”

“We lost all our money though.”

“True but getting away from there led us to Merydia. And helping there got us the Sword.”

“I don’t think we can chain coincidences together to prove something a good idea.” Michael had said this particular line until he was blue in the face during their three-month journey. People were constantly attributing luck as proof of his divine purpose. “We also damaged the Seeker, got chased by monsters and had a young girl exiled from her home.”

“Skorra doesn’t seem to care much.”

“She doesn’t seem to care now. That will change. Trust me, no matter how much you might have hated living somewhere, you’ll miss it eventually. It’s her home, her people. You can go home anytime you want. Me and Skorra can’t.”

“Or Mellok,” Aileena said. Her words felt sharp, barbed, and they cut into Michael as she said them.

“Or Mellok. Tell me how that worked out in the end? Nothing good came of that. That fleet was there for us. It’s our fault those people died.”

“You can’t take the blame for that. You didn’t start bombarding a planet, you didn’t give that order, or press the button to fire. You’re not responsible for something horrible someone else does, even if it is to spite you.”

“That’s easier said than done.” Michael let the bag drop from his shoulder. He stretched his arms, trying to get feeling back into his joints. “Everything we do, good or bad, just seems to snowball into something else. And then it gets added to this stupid Knower thing, this legend. It just absorbs everything. Something happens to me, it’s because I’m the Knower. I do something, It’s because I’m the Knower.”

“Reputation, it has its own power. We’ve talked about this before.”

“Yeah. You know, it reminds me of something, from Earth. There’s this TV show, right? An entertainment program. There’s a scene in it where a character leans on the bar only to find it isn’t there and falls over. For years, years and years, whenever there has been a poll of funniest TV moments, it wins. It’s like that right? The show is popular, and this particular moment is iconic, and whilst it is funny, it isn’t the funniest moment of all time. How can it be, when so much is produced in a year, and it’s a sixty-year-old show at this point. You’re telling me we perfected comedy six decades ago? No chance. Yet, it keeps winning.” Michael was gesticulating furiously at this point, lost in his rant. “But it wins every year. Why? Because it kept winning previously. Everyone knows it’s the funniest moment ever, because it’s won so many times in the past. So, it must be the funniest now. The reputation of being the funniest keeps it winning, which builds the reputation, and so on.”

“I think I understand. Is it not funny then?”

“It’s funny, but in that Christmas cracker kind of way. It’s inoffensive, everyone can enjoy it on some level.”