An excerpt from Ian Aisch’s upcoming sci-fi novel, Lost and Plooglitless:
ROSS BLAKEY COULD RUN NO MORE. He gasped for breath, and wiped rivulets of sweat from his forehead. He swore. There was a sliver of welcome shade at the foot of a steep, craggy hillock. He sought it, dropping heavily on to the stone-littered ground. The ruddy orange-grey landscape he surveyed was pockmarked by dumps of gravel, rocks and boulders, a dry and shallow gully and low, fractured, rock-strewn hillocks. Rising above was a long irregular plateau, furrowed by vertical fissures, carved by rain or landslides. Shielding his eyes from the alien orange sun, to his right, he could make out the upper portion of the Second Faceless Man, a feature of lighter rock exposed by an avalanche. The larger, First Faceless Man was hidden behind a jagged hill. The two formations looked down on the compound where Earth contractors mined minerals from the sand and gravel-strewn desert of Zygol III and sent the partly refined ore to planet Earth through the Chute. The residue came back the same route.
Blakey figured he was safe. If he wasn’t, he’d have to get on his knees and plead for mercy. He had stuffed up bad. He’d drunk way too much of his flask of whisky, all the while breathing the distortive vapours of the Swamp. It had addled his brain.
His wild, panicked dash had begun in speckled light, thrusting out his arms to crash through the encroaching vegetation. He’d disturbed a perched pair of vulture-like chageen with their large, blood-red eyes; they’d hissed at him as they slowly flapped away. Twice he’d leapt across narrow creeks. The lush vegetation had quickly given way to chest-high, blue-tinged, gnarly plants and bushes, and the sandy puddles of a stream bed.
Panting, snatching frantic glances behind him, Blakey plunged through thigh-high coarse bushes that cut at his legs. He clawed his way up from gullies and dry, stony creek beds, cursing, until he bent over, exhausted, at the edge of the desert.
At twenty-nine, Ross Blakey was tall and lean with thick, dark hair that touched the nape of his neck. He wore the uniform of the mining company: a brown cotton, short-sleeved shirt with its prominent green-and-red logo; loose, dark-brown pants; ankle-high boots.
His still-whirling mind managed to tick over a cog. The compound was on the opposite side of Channen village. Awkward. Getting to his sanctuary through the village came with a major risk. He’d have to pass close to Zglta’s hut. When Zglta went ballistic, Blakey had stuttered, palms out. “Let me explain…” But she was in no mood to listen. He would only have blustered, anyway. He’d been a bastard. Simple as that. Never had he seen such fury. He turned to run; she blocked his path. Blakey took off the opposite direction. One problem averted… a great big, new one now confronted him.
In the desert, Blakey managed to disentangle two options: either wait until dark and sneak past Zglta’s hut, or take the rougher, more time-consuming route, following the plateau to the compound’s rarely used north entrance.
Either way, if all went well, he’d be tucked in his bed before midnight. He’d get on the next Chute jump back to Earth.
The afternoon was cloudless. Good. For, later, the Zygol night sky would hold twice as many stars as the Earth sky. Also, Zygol III had two moons. He would most likely find some water at the base of the plateau to quench his raging thirst.
But his luck ended there.
The mining company forbade taking any device outside its gates. Not even a watch. Or a torch. That left him with no communicator and no stun gun. The communicator would have been useless anyway; rescue was impossible. No vehicle was permitted beyond the fenced perimeter, and a search party on foot was equally forbidden. Not having a stun gun was a huge drawback; ravenous predators lurked in the rocky desert. These predators generally steered clear of the villages, which were guarded by outposts of armed aktel. Guards. Yet the animals sometimes encroached. Worse, he now sat beyond any guarded outpost. There would be embarrassing questions to answer back at the compound, but that was the least of Blakey’s worries. Besides, he would be sacked regardless.
To think that the day had begun so very pleasantly. Attached to the mining compound is a self-contained fenced-off area, the size of a tennis court, located a forty-minute walk from Channen village. This area is dubbed the Airlock. The Zygols and mining employees meet there to sort out any issues that arise. But, mostly, it was where the mining company paid the Zygols their (absurdly cheap) monthly dues for rental of a segment of barren, stony desert. Payment is mostly by Earth-manufactured goods such as simple farming and kitchen implements or ornaments. But no devices. The goods are transported to one of the Three Villages, or beyond, on the broad backs of beasts that
have the bulk, but are longer than a bull, called uckliablahts. These beasts have six legs (the upper two being shorter, thinner, and more dexterous—more like claws—than the other four). Uckliablahts are short-haired animals, brown or black in colour, and somewhat resembled a camel, hippopotamus, gorilla and a hyena—only totally different.
The delivery of goods to the Zygols is presided over by one of the compound’s senior managers, in the company of an interpreter. The latter was usually the geologist, Ross Blakey. Blakey had been keenly anticipating the morning’s meeting; Zglta would be coming. Zglta, as with all Zygols, could be mistaken for someone of mixed Asian heritage. She and her male companion wore typical Zygol garb: knee-length tunics (in their case, orange; his was plain; hers had a green triangular pattern at the front) and uckliablaht-hide sandals.
‘Would you like me to take you to the Swamp after we finish our transaction?’ Zglta had a glint in her eye. ‘You enjoy being there a lot, I believe.’ The Swamp is where low-lying, sodden and rotting vegetation gives off vapours that bring about a pleasant lightness of mind.
‘I would love to come. Thank you for your invitation. I have a flask of Earth whisky in my pocket, which you enjoyed last time. I was hoping you’d invite me.’
‘What is she saying?’ pressed the mining manager.
There was a reason why Blakey did not offer language lessons to his fellow miners. ‘She is asking me if I want to check out a new farm located between two of the Three Villages. We might be able to get some useful produce if the farm does well, especially if we get more of the leaves the Zygols use as medicinal bandages. I said I’d go. I
wouldn’t like to risk insulting her by saying no.’
The manager stroked his chin. ‘I’m uncomfortable about you going off compound again, Ross. But we don’t want to be rude after you’ve been given an invitation. The farm sounds interesting. Ask her if I can come, too.’
Blakey nodded. ‘Zglta; look at my companion. Make a serious face and shake your head.’
She did so. Her male companion smiled. Hopefully, the mining manager was oblivious to why.
‘As you can see, sir, the answer is no. Sorry.’ Blakey shrugged. ‘Zygols get nervous about Earth people being away from the compound. They even get nervous about me, whom they know better than anyone.’
The last thing Blakey wanted was anyone else getting out of the compound. Someone might work out what he got up to on his visits to Channen village.
A few hours later, Ross Blakey’s pleasant little existence caved in.