Tales Told by an Idiot: Aurora Nova

It means more to me than it does to her. I’m talking about my life, naturally, not the pedantry. I daresay Heather doesn't even notice the pedantry. The trouble is: I don't know if she notices my life either. Inscrutable women. Aye, she's not the only one on board. Inscrutable, that's to say.

There's plenty of women, right enough: the mechanics of colonisation demand it. I like those odds, way better than back home. Some passengers have already paired off; some spoken for prior to signing on. Top-notch crew are a harder job to match: the space-faring profile doesn't readily fit the breeding dynamic. For some old space-dogs it’s the best shot they'll get at the latter. The psychologists had their work cut out winnowing through the applicants.

I don't see the crew that made it this far jumping ship now.

I think my magsoles on, descend to the deck and clink over to the pilots’ station. Below, the clearfloor now reveals a diminishing sliver of daytime Moon, cut rudely by the silhouettes of two of our rockets. The Moon in turn is advancing through the glory of Orion as the hunter slips further into our wake.

“Seven minutes.”

The co-pilot’s chair has been cradling Captain Cirino La Pietra’s eyes and nose. Leastways the Stygian gloom, and his magnificent beard and general swarthiness obscure the rest of him.

“Ark3?” he speaks. The Martian twang still throws me; with that name and those looks, well... the captain hasn't been nearer to a gondola than I have. In fact, I bet he doesn't even know what a gondola is. I've learned all kinds of shite system-testing Brains and Archive. There was this place called Venice –

“Ark3?”

“Just dandy. Mainframes hotsynched for launch one hour behind us; us one hour behind...” I look up again, where the brightest star in Virgo now tops the curving horizon. “Behind where the raven flies.”

The captain ignores my pun on our admiral’s name; I doubt he's been close to a raven either.

I could kick his head in from here. The pilot station is gimballed with its back on what will be the floor, ready for the thrust of acceleration. That way it’ll be facing the direction we're headed.

I follow the arc of that oh-so-Italian nose as La Pietra looks down to the dark side. “Two hundred years ago,” he says, “one small step...”

Heather can't resist. “Not yet two hundred years: Apollo 11 landed in July. And it landed round the other side.”

“Ah, yes, the sunny side.” Cirino chuckles.

Someone has got bored with the view. One of the smartpanes flicks into a schematic of lunar orbit with us sat just above the surface, Ark1 spiralling away and Enterprise following it. The display zooms in until arks 5, 8 and 11 begin to resolve around us, making four ships in each of three equally spaced slots round the orbit.

“Six minutes.”

The Enterprise cuts in, “Final Ark2 security sweep initiated.”

The constant background messaging stops. It’s like a breath being held. I don't know where to look. I daren’t even think.

No-one speaks either.

Safest to concentrate on the mundane. Away to my right, across metres of vacuum another transparent bubble protrudes from the ship and allows passengers their own view. Those who can stomach it, that is. One such is obvious from her height and blondeness. Aye, nothing more mundane than carnal. That'll do...

“Ark rotation recommence.”

I fancy I detect a collective exhalation but still no-one speaks as, one-by-one, the messages kick in again.

I’m still studying the passenger lounge, which means I get a shock from the French tones practically bellowed into my left ear.

“How is Monsieur Romeo today?”

“Very fucking funny, Therriault.”

“Admit it: you cannot take your eyes off her. I bet you wish you had that pretty, little derriere nestling –”

“Aye, alright, dirt-track mind.”

“And you are so pure?”

“I ken when I’m out of my league.”

You’d never think that Flight Technician Gabriel Therriault is my best pal.

“I see that our Ms Nova has pole position.”

And I just know that statement is stuffed full of innuendo too.