Andrew Mackay - Pink Symphony

“—I am running a geo-scan on the ship,” Manuel said. “But I cannot locate it.”

Tripp turned to Tor and patted him on the shoulder. “See what I mean?”

“Wait. Let’s run a test. Ask him something, anything, about an event prior to us going through Enceladus.”

Tripp went quiet, thinking of a question to ask. He arrived at one. “Manuel?”

“Yes, Tripp?”

“What’s my son’s name?”

“Your son’s name is Ryan Healy.”

“And his date of birth?”

“October seventh, twenty-one-eleven.”

Tripp shrugged his shoulders. “Perfect answer.”

“No, wait, wait,” Tor thought aloud. “That’s too far in the past. Manuel?”

“Yes, Tor?”

“Data Point, run exposition scan. Open quote, what is Pink Symphony, close quote.”

Manuel’s holograph fizzled in mid-air as he spun through his pages. Tor turned to the others and smiled.

“He’s recalibrating,” Tor lowered his voice to a dead whisper, “If he remembers anything about Pure Genius and Jelly’s attempt to decode Saturn Cry, then we know he’s up-to-date.”

Cats exist to live a life of comfort and privilege if they are lucky. Should they find a good home, their work extends to that of capturing a mouse. Sometimes, even, defending their territory – if they can be bothered.

Those less fortunate and without a compassionate home are forced to survive. They become territorial, and deadly so.

Nevertheless, one attribute stands true. Cats are stupid. Dumb, ill-mannered creatures to a man, especially in relation to human beings. They have no concept of intelligence and, as discovered in the year 2080, failed to advance in the way humans did given a lifetime of experience.

Humans went on to grasp the concept of fire, for example. A cat doesn’t even know what a box of matches is. Ask an adult human with reasonable common sense to watch a boiling pot of water and he will. Ask a cat the same thing, and it will – it’ll watch it burn the house down.

The above-mentioned facts are important in understanding the breakthrough that was achieved in the year 2119.

Space Opera Beta launched the previous year. It’s mission, to decode a message from what was originally thought to be Saturn. It transpired that it was actually coming from its sixth largest moon, Enceladus.

In conjunction with Opera Beta’s on-board computer, Pure Genius, crew member Jelly Anderson managed to crack the code.

Whether or not she was aware of her success is neither here nor there. The fact remains that she cracked it – which is more than can be said for the humans.

A series of numbers presented themselves, which Pure Genius quickly configured to be the standard English alphabet. The translation of twelve numbers returned the phrase Pink Symphony .

Nothing is known of its derivation, origin, or even what it means. Much like humans in space, or cats on Earth, the answer one can reasonably derive that the discovery is as follows: completely and utterly vague, and of no use to man or beast.

“Yeah, okay,” Tripp suppressed the urge to accost Manuel for his matter-of-fact rudeness. He turned to Jaycee with his thoughts on the matter, “Very snarky. Inelegant to a fault. He evidently remembers what happened before it all started.”

“Well, that’s a start.”

“Very good, Manuel.” Tor held out his hand and prompted Manuel, “Now that you’re operational, I need you to run a—”

“Tor?” Manuel asked.

“Yes, Manuel?”

“I do not have you listed as an official crew member of Space Opera Beta.”

“What do you mean?” Tor shot Tripp and Jaycee a look of extreme consternation. “Explain, please.”

“A little over two hours ago, Opera Beta received a communication from Maar Sheck at USARIC, suggesting that you and Baldron Landaker were not who you said you were.”

Tor felt around the rim of his Decapidisc. He hoped the revelation wouldn’t anger Jaycee. “It’s a long story, Manuel.”

“Is it true?”

“Yes, it’s true.”

“For my records, I need to know your real name and rank. I presume you are an employee of USARIC?”

“Yes, I am.”

Manuel opened his bookends out. Tor’s head shot, along with his assumed name – Tor Klyce – appeared as a sheet of transparent paper in the air.

“May I have your real name, please?”

Tor cleared his throat, hoping the answer he’d give wouldn’t anger the others.

“Viktor Rabinovich.”

“What?” Tripp walked through the photo form and sized up to Tor. “You’re lying. Rabinovich was poisoned and died.”

“No, I wasn’t. And I didn’t.”

Jaycee didn’t take the news very well. “Okay, that’s enough. I’m pressing the button.” He placed his finger on his glove, activating the Decapidisc.

A white light beeped on the surface of the disc around Tor’s neck, followed by a tinny-sounding voice. “Decapidisc armed. Warning, Decapidisc armed.”

“No, no,” Tor yelped in fright, stepping away and tried to remove the disc around his neck. “Please, make it stop.

Beep… beep…

The second of the three white lights lit up, filling Tor with a palpable anxiety.

“Jaycee,” Wool shouted, “Don’t do this.”

“I figure you have about fifteen seconds to explain yourself,” Tripp grinned with Jaycee. “Or your head comes off.”

“No, no, please.” Tor fell to his knees and begged Jaycee to deactivate the inevitable.

“Tell us what happened, Viktor .”

“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you!” Tor stumbled and fell over the chair. His breathing quickened, the realization that he had better give an accurate account of events within the given time frame – or risk death.

“Dimitri Vasilov. It was all his idea. I was stationed in Moscow, developing the Androgyne series with Baldron. He tracked me down and head-hunted me—”

“—Now that’s ironic,” Jaycee chuckled to himself.

“Shut up, let him speak.”

A stream of tears squirted from Tor’s eyes as he hurried his explanation. “He gave us new identities and hurried us into the Opera Beta mission.”

“What was your primary objective, Tor?” Tripp folded his arms, enjoying the man’s torment.

“To get Anderson to decode Saturn Cry and terminate the crew.”

The third and final white dot on the Decapidisc appeared. The beeps grew louder and louder…

“Oh, God! Please, no,” Tor stood up, frantically clutching at the disc.

“Hey, ass hat,” Jaycee said, “How did you think you were gonna get away with killing us all?”

“When Androgyne boarded Alpha we knew you’d follow. It was perfect. I primed her to detonate and take you down with the ship.”

The Decapidisc beeped quicker and quicker to a near flat line sound.

“Oh Jesus , oh…” Tor’s sweat fountained down his face. He hoped the next ten seconds weren’t going to be his last.

“So you decode the message and save the day? Return home as heroes?”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Tor gave up on the disc and gripped the arm rests on the console chair. He was close to throwing up.

“Sorry you were caught?” Tripp spat. “Or genuinely sorry?”

“Both!”

“It all makes sense, now,” Wool said. “If that plan had worked, they would have been heroes.”

“A perfect ruse to get USARIC to allow Russians to join future endeavors?” Tripp kicked the chair away from Tor, throwing him to his ass. “Sound about right to you, Tor ?”