Kemlo and the End of Time

Book 0: Kemlo

by E.C. Eliott

Genres: Science Fiction; Alien Contact; Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi

Synopsis

Everyone knows the story of the Marie Celeste. Kemlo and Kerowski hardly expected to find an aerial Marie Celeste adrift in the void. But caught, with others, in the worst astral storm of their experience, they had other things to think about for the moment. And after that there was yet another, one still more important...

Release date: August 25, 2016

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 196

Sample

‘I’M scared,’ said Kerowski. ‘I always get scared, and I’m sick of it.’

‘Wrong word,’ said Kemlo briskly as he adjusted the instruments on the control-panel. ‘It’s only like stage fright really. You ought to know about that.’

‘You mean butterflies in the tummy, shortness of breath, mind a blank—all those sort of things?’

Kemlo nodded. ‘M’m.’

‘Not the same thing at all.’ Kerowski mopped his face on the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Stage fright is the natural nervous tension of a highly strung artiste.’

Kemlo laughed scornfully. ‘Just because you quote Shakespeare, take a leading part in our school theatrical shows, and generally talk too much doesn’t make you a highly strung artiste.’

‘Scorn!’ Kerowski declared dramatically. ‘Scorn, tempered with jealousy. Never did I think I should hear such words from a trusted friend. And I’m still scared.’

‘Now look, Krow. We all get scared feelings before we take part in tests like this; but if there were any real danger, Dad wouldn’t have let us come on it.’

‘Your father is Chief Technical Officer of Satellite Belt K. He doesn’t expect his own blue-eyed brat to be scared. I don’t say he’d send you on a really dangerous test, but he’d send me.’

‘It’s not fair to say that, Krow.’

‘Sure it is. Brainy bods like your father think dimwits like me need to be taught lessons. So they send them out with stalwart sons of Space—like you.’

Kemlo glanced quickly at the tall, thin figure of his friend and classmate. He was very familiar with Kerowski’s manner of speaking, never using one word where six would do. Kerowski loved words, and the more dramatic he could make them sound, the better he liked it. But he was no coward despite his often long-winded oratory, and Kemlo sensed a vein of seriousness in these last remarks.

‘If you’re really scared,’ he said, ‘I’ll contact Control and pull off the beam. Then we can coast back to base.’

‘Might be best. But you’re not going to do it.’

‘Why not? I can say I don’t feel well, or something. No-one need know the real reason.’

‘You don’t understand, my dear, dense and loyal friend. When I say I’m scared, I don’t mean I’m afraid. I just have a—premonition.’ Kerowski paused, then added confidently: ‘That’s it—a premonition.’

‘You mean a feeling that something will go wrong?’

‘Well, what else is a premonition, you dope?’

Kemlo shrugged. ‘I suppose it could mean that you expect something good to happen. But knowing you, it’s bound to be bad.’

‘That’s a libel,’ Kerowski retorted. ‘Despite my thin and mournful appearance, I out-optimist the most super-optimist. It’s just that my delicate and finely balanced mind can sense things which more earthy types like you are not able to feel.’ He gazed around through the canopy of the space craft and raised his arms in a dramatic gesture. ‘Here we sit in the cold blue darkness of Space—two of the first generation of space-born children. Ten thousand miles away, the glittering wheel of Satellite Belt K spins in its orbit a thousand miles above Earth. Once we visited Earth, with the help of the gravity rays, but we were very glad to return to the silence and peace of our home in the sky. We are unique in the history of Man—born into the void which is our playground. From an early age we have hurtled across the vastness of Space in small craft specially designed for children to pilot; travelling at speeds which defy the imagination of those who live on Earth, although they know of them and accept them.

‘We have visited the satellite moons of Deimos and Phobos, and come close to the great Martian sphere. We began to learn technical formulas almost before we learned the alphabet. And now we sit in the latest, most modern, most revolutionary space craft that has yet been designed, waiting to commence the tests which will further satisfy the technicians. But for all the things we are and for all the things we have done, I, Kerowski, leader of my school section, poet, trainee technologist, Space Scout—and fine specimen of boyhood—am afraid.’

‘How would you like to be bopped hard and true on that pin-headed bonce of yours?’ Kemlo asked quietly and politely. ‘I let you run on then with your gibberish because, short of gagging you, there’s no way of stopping you once you’ve started on your dramatic monologues. But as usual you’re talking out of the back of your neck, Krow, and over-dramatising the whole business.’

‘That is both a matter of opinion and perspective,’ Kerowski argued. ‘This is the Space Personal Investigation Training and Research Craft Number XK240, called for short by the ignoble name of S.P.I.T.A.R. Personally, I think even the name is beastly, and our own space scooters, which this massive box of tricks is supposed to replace, are far more effective.’

‘You’d better make up your mind.’

‘My mind is always made up. It’s like a bed.’

‘Yes,’ Kemlo agreed, ‘a pretty dopey place. Spitar is the most marvellous craft I’ve ever seen for its size. Its speed is colossal, and the number of instruments it carries makes it ten times more useful than any space scooter.’

‘True, O brainy one,’ Kerowski admitted. ‘I grant you all the wonders of Spitar, but the main tests have yet to be carried out before they are proved. And I ask you why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why produce a craft like this?’

‘Because many of us boys have outgrown the space scooters, and the technologists think that we can contribute to research work by using a craft equipped like this one.’

‘And save them using space teams from Earth. We’re cheap labour, that’s what we are. Those Space Research teams are paid thousands just for a few weeks’ work.’

‘They also pay with their lives,’ said Kemlo grimly. ‘At least, the risk is always there; but we can do many things in Space without risk. Dad says it’s all part of our higher technical education. One hour of practical work is worth a month of lessons. I don’t know what’s biting you, Krow, but I think this is a super idea.’

‘Nothing’s biting me. I’m unhappy, that’s all. And because I’m unhappy I’m nervous. And because I’m nervous I’m scared.’ He hesitated. ‘And because I’m scared—I’m unhappy. That’s life, you see; just goes round and round.’

‘Stop talking like one of the Elders on the Satellite Belt.’ Kemlo looked at the micro-clock on the control-panel. ‘You’re stuck with me whether or not you’re scared. It wants about five seconds to zero hour, so settle down and get ready to line up your instruments as soon as Control comes through.’

Kerowski sighed gustily. ‘I love my moments of drama,’ he said regretfully. ‘I’m just a clown at heart.’

‘You’re just a clown,’ Kemlo corrected him. ‘Ready?’

‘Ready.’ Kerowski dropped his previous manner with as much ease as a person removes a hat, and at once became brisk in his movements and intense in his concentration.

Kemlo glanced sideways at his friend and smiled. Kerowski was certainly a problem; it was true that he loved to dramatise, and at times his intuitions, or as he recently had referred to it—premonition—had proved to be uncannily true. Kerowski was a highly strung and intelligent boy, and Kemlo knew that he often played the fool in order to disguise his real feelings. There had been occasions when he and Kerowski had been in a tight corner and faced with considerable danger; and in those moments Kerowski could always be relied upon. That was why Kemlo tried not to take too much notice of his friend’s behaviour at these times.

Unlike a space scooter, which until now had been the only craft the boys were allowed to use, this Spitar had a full range of instruments. In fact, almost as many as the smaller type of freight ship which plied on a daily service from Earth to the Satellite Belts, carrying stores, mail and relief personnel.

The younger boys were not allowed to operate the scooters or to travel in them unless accompanied by an older boy; but to compensate for this they had the use of the recently developed sky horses. These were plastic models which looked very like real horses, but operated on the impulse principal, their small compact power units fuelled by tiny pellets of urania. The smaller boys could sit astride a saddle and, by manipulating two or three simple controls, had a great deal of fun flying around the Belt either singly or in formation.

And now, the technologists had designed this Space Personnel Investigation Training and Research Craft—a veritable rigmarole of a name. Many things used in the never-ceasing expansion of this life in Space had to be given long and complicated-sounding names; some of them were referred to by numbers, or nicknames, or a name like Spitar, which was made up of the first letters of each word describing the craft.

The Spitar hull was three times the size of that of a space scooter. Bronze in colour and shaped like a huge capsule, this craft embodied every automatic device previously of worth in space flight, and a number of others which had first undergone rigorous testing. The craft could carry four adults and a small amount of cargo, or six boys.

At present there were three Spitar craft out on test, each hovering at a different point some ten thousand miles from their Satellite base. Space being a vacuum did not allow stopping and starting in the same way as when flying within the gravity field of Earth, and to create their own gravity field all space craft generated the now well-proved holding rays.

These rays emanated from slots in the hull of all craft and formed a shield to protect them against any impact of cosmic-ray bombardment, or cosmic fragmentation capable of piercing even the tough uraniametal hull. The rays normally were invisible, but in order to make any failure of them immediately noticeable, a simple chemical was added to the generator and gave the rays a pinky-white colour. Thus the craft appeared to be haloed by colour, which was actually a wall of protection around it.

Apart from providing protection, the holding rays generated a considerable amount of gravity, and this particular force could be stepped up by adjusting instruments on the control panel. With the exhaust spume at full pressure, the operator would increase the gravity feed to the holding rays at the rear of the craft. By this means colossal speeds could be attained in a few seconds. Although the craft generated a gravity feed to obtain maximum benefit from its exhaust impulses, it had no obstruction in the void surrounding it—very different from conditions found within the gravity field of Earth, where atmospheric pressure, gravity pull, winds and cross currents helped to retard speed. All these facts had to be appreciated by anyone living on Earth before they were able to realise the tremendous difference in the speeds reached by space craft flying about a thousand miles above Earth.

Once Kemlo and Kerowski had retuned the controls, the lights and dials began to register across the curving bank of instruments, and in a few moments the voice of the Control technician from Satellite Belt K spoke briskly to them.

‘Calling Kemlo Craft Spitar. Prepare for first impulse check.’

‘Instruments and induction set for first impulse check,’ Kemlo replied. ‘Will release power on your instructions.’

‘Release power in five seconds from now—five, four, three, two, one!’

Kemlo’s hand moved the induction lever. Kerowski adjusted the gravity feed to the holding rays. There was a slight pause while the craft seemed to tremble; then with a zooming hiss it cleaved across the void in a wide arc.

After about two thousand miles of curving flight, Kemlo cut the induction and ejected the stabilisers, while Kerowski fed more gr. . .