Steph Bennion - Hollow Moon

“A cyberclone is supposed to be an exact copy of its owner,” remarked Endymion. “At least we will recognise the Raja if we see him.”

“An exact copy?” retorted Bellona. “I’d like to see someone try and replicate the wonderful odours that emanate from your body after eating cabbage!”

“I think it’s just recharging itself,” said Zotz. “Shall I wake it?”

“I think not,” Miss Clymene said firmly. “This ship is crowded enough as it is. Back to your places, please. We have a long rehearsal ahead of us!”

Grumbling noisily, Endymion, Bellona and Philyra returned to the bench seat along the wall and entertained themselves for a while trying to work out how to use cargo straps as improvised seatbelts. Ravana finally located her case and went to join her new band mates, cornet in hand. Endymion had earlier unfolded a music stand, then abandoned it after failing to find a suitable anchorage on the floor and the metal stand was now drifting around the bay with the contents of Zotz’s bag. In the end, Bellona had the bright idea of running a couple of pieces of string between straps on opposite walls and clipping the sheets of music to these. Miss Clymene had to make do with floating before them as best as she could, though her expression betrayed a sinking feeling that she would not stay in position for long once she started waving her conductor’s baton about.

Zotz took the seat next to Ravana and fastened a strap across his lap. In his hand was a curious metal box, from which emerged four antennas sticking out at all angles, along with a tangle of cables that led to a small speaker unit wedged under his seat.

“What have you got there?” asked Miss Clymene, giving the box a dubious look.

“A quadraphonic autoharp theremin,” declared Zotz proudly.

“There’s no such thing!” Miss Clymene retorted.

“I invented it!” he replied. “Ravana gave me the list of music we had to learn and I thought Alpha Centauri would sound really good on theremin. Listen!”

He pressed a switch on the side of the box, flexed his hands with a dramatic flourish, then slowly moved his fingers around the protruding antennas. The most incredible sound erupted from the speaker; a plaintive, almost ethereal tone that soared and swooped like the song of angels. Another note joined the first, then a third and fourth, combining together to create a cascade of wailing chords, sweet yet distressing enough to make a grown man cry. When Zotz had finished, he saw that the others were looking at him with expressions both stunned and not a little awestruck.

“Gosh,” murmured Bellona. “That was amazing! What were you playing?”

Zotz blinked. “ Alpha Centauri ,” he said. Leaving the theremin to drift, he pressed the touch screen on his wristpad and called up the message Ravana had sent him, back at the hollow moon. “The list I have is Jupiter , Woden Waltz , Aram Sunrise , Shennong and Alpha Centauri theme. I wasn’t sure about the last one so I looked it up on the net.”

“It should be Theme from Gods of Avalon by Sellman,” replied Miss Clymene. “Other than what’s written for holovid shows, there’s precious little symphonic music coming out of the Alpha Centauri system. The rest of the list should be Shennong by Bantoff, Jupiter by Holst, Woden Waltz by Scott and Aram Sunrise by Toitovna; something for each of the five systems. What you were playing was interesting but did not sound like any of those!”

Zotz looked hurt. “It’s called Alpha Centauri ,” he insisted. “I found a twentieth-century recording by a band called Tangerine Dream. I must have listened to the wrong thing.”

“Sorry,” said Ravana. “I should have made it clearer in my message.”

“I actually prefer what you were playing,” remarked Bellona. “The Gods of Avalon theme is, well… a bit rubbish.”

“It is not!” retorted Philyra.

“Actually, I agree with Bellona,” said Miss Clymene. “I never really liked it.”

“Could we play Zotz’s song instead?” asked Endymion. “The sound from his theremin thing is so cool. The Bradbury Heights band has got nothing like it, I’m sure!”

Miss Clymene looked thoughtful. Ravana had heard the Newbrum students complain countless times that they had little chance of winning the competition, but recognised the spark of optimism in the tutor’s smile and an eagerness to try anything to give them an edge. The sound Zotz had brought to the band was certainly different.

“Why not,” Miss Clymene declared. “Let’s see if we can wipe the smug smiles from their faces!”

“Oh my!” murmured Ravana. She had no idea school bands were this competitive.

Time went by and the Platypus crept ever closer to Shennong and its moons. There were only four bunks in the carousel so passengers and crew slept in shifts, with Quirinus, Ravana and Ostara taking it in turns to keep an eye on things on the flight deck. The band managed two long rehearsals, both of which went a lot better than anyone expected, leaving Miss Clymene very pleased with her newly-expanded ensemble. Ravana was a capable musician who as long as she had the music before her could play almost anything. Zotz’s inspired work on the theremin was the icing on the cake.

During a lull when Quirinus and Ostara were alone on the flight deck and Zotz, Endymion, Bellona and Philyra were asleep in the carousel’s curtained bunks, Ravana found herself sharing the nearby couch with Fenris, Miss Clymene and Surya’s cyberclone, which since it had been activated never let Fenris out of its sight. Fenris sat at the far end of the couch, quietly reading a paper-leafed book with a worn grey cover. In an age where wristpads and other devices provided instant access to a vast library of literature, digitally archived on every servermoon across the five systems, old-fashioned tomes of bound paper were incredibly rare. Ravana realised she had seen this particular book before.

“The Isa-Sastra ,” commented Miss Clymene, reading the name on the cover. Ravana could tell she too was intrigued. “That sounds very mysterious!”

Much to Ravana’s surprise, Fenris did not mind being interrupted.

“These are the sacred writings of the supreme,” he told her. He placed a silver ribbon across the page and closed the book. “The holy texts of the Dhusarian Church.”

“The Book of the Greys!” remarked Miss Clymene.

“Please do not refer to it as such,” replied Fenris, looking pained.

“You’ve heard of it?” Ravana asked Miss Clymene.

Miss Clymene nodded. “I know one or two people who go to the Dhusarian Church in Newbrum,” she told her. “They believe in alien gods, or something crazy along those lines.”

Fenris was trying hard to maintain his composure. “It is not quite like that.”

“We could ask the plastic prince what he thinks,” Miss Clymene suggested.

Surya’s cyberclone looked at her. “I am not permitted to talk of religion or politics.”

“Very wise,” said Miss Clymene. “So Fenris, what’s it all about?”

“The greys?” asked Ravana.

“An ancient race, far older than mankind,” Fenris said slowly, acknowledging both Ravana’s genuine interest and the obvious derision in Miss Clymene’s words. “Interstellar travellers, bringing wisdom wherever it was needed. Some say they had a home in Epsilon Eridani, others that they were once regular visitors to Earth itself. They are beings of infinite insight who have learned to live in harmony with the universe. It is these noble creatures, the greys as we call them, who will one day show us our future.”