Beached - J. Bell

We’re cruising above Mars at I don’t know how many feet, except it’s a lot. I’m not a soldier or a techie or staff. My dad is the commander.

I don’t care about space. I prefer to push my gaze down on the distant blue sphere. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful. Dad never lets me go there. I’ve got a big old photo book that’s dog-eared on account of me looking through it everyday.

Dad says "it’s not the same as in your book, son. The forests have mostly gone and where it’s all lush in the photos, it’s now desert in a lot of places."

I asked him "how did that happen?" but he half closed his eyes and turned his head away: the matter is closed.

This is the Mother Ship, the command centre, the hub. It’s full of important majors and officers and technicians and such. They all look at the battle, get the stats, the lowdown, the word. They decide what’s happening next, who’ll live and who’ll die.

There’s others watching it unfold with me, grown-ups. We’re in an outer corridor, one wall a window from floor to ceiling. The carpet is purple with little diamonds, it reminds me of the carpets in the old hotel back on Mars. The whole ship is tidy and smells clean like the hotel too, lit with warm low light in between the important bright rooms.

There’s a compressed sort of chatter in the corridor, like at school when you’re not meant to be talking but some people chat quietly anyway in voices that are so soft and secret that they are almost dissolved.

But these voices aren’t light like school chatter. These voices are harder, heavier and higher. They jolt. Panic rises into the air, fluttering like a bird stuck in a room. I stand away from the adults in a little bubble of my own, calm and unaffected by their hushed panic. Clutched against my side is my big Earth picture book.

I am watching the war that is happening outside the big wall window. Earth is distant and blue, Mars close and red. The sky between is littered with ships. They catch the sun as they spin. Flash, flash, flash. Its like me and Monty back in year four making mirror signals to each other across the Way.

Lasers flash back and forth, some crashing into metal and ripping it open. The explosions glitter, shimmer. It’s soundless. If I tune out the mumbling people around me then all I can hear is the faint hum of the ship’s interior. Without the sound it seems as if it’s all happening in a distant long ago place. I can disconnect myself and watch it as if whatever happens has no impact on me. There are silent explosions all around. Ship guts drift peacefully in space.

Our fleet is falling fast. Our soldiers are hungry and it addles their judgement. Space is bright and choking with smoke and fire and glinting metal. The crisp clarity of black is smudged soft with orange.

As I watch I think about the planet that we are defending and I wonder why we’re bothering. It’s not beautiful or lush. It’s dull and hot and we can’t ever go outside because of the radiation.

An enemy fighter breaks through our defenses. The muttering around me stops. Everyone stares at the fast approaching fighter. It’s getting bigger and bigger.

Breath gets stuck in my throat; my lungs pause and go tight like a coiled spring. The cold stony feeling in my belly gets bigger in sync with the approaching fighter ship. It fires two rockets, letting go of them one after the other. A few of our fighters zoom in behind him, shooting little lasers. But it’s too late.

My feet shuffle a little. The murmurs in the corridor swell and grow into a crescendo of shouting and screaming. Everyone peels away from their positions, at first with cautious slow backwards steps and wide staring eyes. But the first rocket is getting really close now and they push into a run. The doors slide open and closed, open and closed, until everyone is gone and it’s just me and my big Earth picture book.

I sit down and put my book on the floor in front of me. I leaf through a few pages. The first rocket hits. I look up and let go of a tiny ribbon of breath through dry stuck lips.

It’s like the mute button has been switched off and the volume is being clicked up at a steady rate. I can feel the floor beneath me rumble and shake, reaching up into my belly. The lights flicker. I’m no longer watching a faraway war. I’m in it.

I flip the pages back and forth in search of my favourite. The glossy paper makes a small satisfying womming sound, the edges clicking under my thumb as I flick through. The second rocket hits. I peel my eyes from the page. Metal rains in my corridor, falling everywhere like a mega hail storm. Thunk, thunk, thunk. The ship quakes and growls under me like a monster rudely awoken from slumber. The door opens with a hiss, but there’s no one there. I want someone to be there. But there’s no one. The door closes again, opens again, closes. There’s no one there; it’s broken.

I don’t know where my dad is and I haven’t got any time to find him. Half of me wants one thing, half wants the other. With a stiff shake of my head I press my attention back onto the book and dip my toe into the page. It slips in and feels warm like a shallow pool. I let my leg go further and further until I have to put the other one in.

The storm of debris is picking up in intensity. The lights constantly flicker. I can smell acrid fumes and melting metal. The ship is bubbling, about to blow. I let my torso ease smoothly into the book, letting it suck me in like quicksand. Soon it’s just my head left above the page. As I sink to eye-level I see the body of the ship rip. I can see out at the stars, no smudged window pane to dull the clarity. My hair pulls and flicks in the sucking wind. I am glad my mouth and nose are submerged in the book, otherwise I’d be dead. If even a small part of me is left here any longer I’ll pop from the pressure.

My ears and eyes lose the space scene. I fall from a small gentle height onto leafy soft ground. There’s a sweet smell in the air and tinkling chattering bird calls. I have never heard a real bird before, only recordings. It’s cleaner, crisper, closer in real life. I stare around me at the green, the moss, the towering tree trunks and dappled high canopy. Sunlight filters golden through the forest. The air is sweet and full, cool and clear and fresh. I can already feel the stiffness in my lungs begin to clear. The knots in my muscles and in my belly come undone, unravelling like an old woollen jumper. I spend a few minutes laying lazily in the lushness, listening to the bird chatter, soaking the sun, drinking the air.

My book is open beside me, open to a picture of a sleek space ship at the point of destruction, exploding its metal all over the nothingness. I sit up and flick through the pages. It’s all space and mars and the moon. All black and silver and red. I slam the book closed and turn my face towards the green canopy and dappled gold, and I smile. I feel like a whale born on a beach and I’ve finally been rolled into the sea.