In
front of me are temporary metal barricades arranged to herd multiple columns of
people. Beyond these stretch rows of long trestle tables, behind which are wide
utilitarian metal shelves that reach up into the ceiling and nearly across the
entire width of the space. The place is deserted. I quickly figure out that
everyone has already gone through processing. I must be the last one.
I
can’t stand here any longer so I shuffle forward, between the barriers, still
unsure if I’m doing the right thing. Any moment now I think a loud metallic
voice will tell me to halt and drop to the floor. I keep moving and pass
through the queuing arrangement. When I’m out the other side I hear somebody
clear their throat, but I can’t see anyone.
I’m at
the rows of tables. I look one way and then the other. Off in the distance to
the right I see a seated figure. He’s typing into his com screen. As I get
closer I see he’s playing some sort of game. He looks up startled and shuts the
game off. I sort of bow my head in submission, thinking he’s going to start
shouting at me like General Stone did.
“Name?”
he says. It’s not friendly but it’s not aggressive either.
“Wren,”
I say. The croakiness of my voice surprises me. “Wren Harper.”
His
fingers flick over his com screen and I see my name come up in reverse through
the back of his screen. His eyebrows raise. “Mmm, Alpha One. Well done.”
“Excuse
me?” I ask timidly, thinking he’s going to bite my head off. “What’s Alpha One?”
“You
don’t know?”
“No.
I, er, didn’t realize I’d be selected to be a cadet.”
“Okay,
well, all cadets on board ship are divided into groups or pods, there are
hundreds of pods on board. Your designated pod is Alpha One. Wait here a
second.”
I
still don’t understand as he turns and starts searching through metal shelves stacked
with clothing. He busily moves along the shelves until he finds what he’s
looking for and then returns with a pile of five crisp white t-shirts. Printed
across the front in a no-nonsense military style typeface are the words: Alpha
One. He hands them to me.
“I’m
afraid this is the smallest size we do; might be a bit baggy on you. Let me get
you the rest of your kit. What size shoe are you?”
“Four.”
“Four?
I think the smallest we do is a five, let me check.”
A few
seconds later he places five pairs of green combat pants in front of me, some
thick blue underwear, several pairs of woolen socks and two pairs of boots.
“These are size five but I’ve given you double the number of socks. If you wear
two pairs at a time it should take up the slack. Go behind the shelves and
change.”
I
clutch my new uniform with both hands and follow his directions. It takes me an
age to get around the giant metal shelves. On the other side is the strangest
sight I’ve ever seen. Gargantuan stacks of discarded civilian clothes, piled up
so high they form conical heaps. One is made entirely of shoes and sneakers.
Another is just pants and others are full of t-shirts and tops. These must have
been left by other cadets who came through here earlier today. Thousands of
them must have passed through here because the piles are mountainous. It’s a
surreal sight, seeing all this abandoned clothing. Reminds me of 20th
century concentration camps just before the prisoners were gassed. They were
told they were having showers and were made to dump their clothing before they
went in. The thought sends a shiver through me.
There
are no cubicles to change in so I just strip off where I stand and toss my old
clothes onto the piles. My new T-shirt is huge and so are my pants, it’s like
I’m wearing hand-me-down clothes. I decide to knot the back of my shirt to make
it look less ridiculous and move on to the next station. Even with two pairs of
socks the new boots slop up and down – I might have to add a third pair.
They’re as stiff as hell and creak when I walk.
Past
the piles of clothes are more barricades arranged to funnel people into
hundreds of different queues. I naturally follow the arrangement until I’m
faced with a row of medical screens stretching across the width of the vast
space. The screens form little cubicles and I peer into one of them. It has a
bed and some hi-tech medical equipment I don’t recognize. It’s military stuff
so you can’t get the details on a com chip. I know I should try and find
someone to help me, but curiosity gets the better of me. I step inside and begin
poking around. There’s a stack of computer panels and readouts, and hooked up
to this are two long snaking tubes, each with a gun on the end. These are not
firearms, as the General would say, and are made from sleek stainless steel. As
I pick one up it hisses with compressed air.
“Put
that down,” a firm voice says behind me.
I drop
the gun immediately and swing around to see a stern-faced doctor who wears a
white coat over his uniform. He’s flicking through his com screen.
“Harper,
Wren. Park yourself on the bed,” he says. I sit down and place my uniform next
to me and opt to sit on my hands to stop them shaking.
“Don’t
do that,” he says, “I’m going to need them.”
“Sorry?”
I say, uncomprehending.
“Your
hands. Hold them out. I’m going to be removing your domestic com chip and
replacing it with a military one. An upgrade, if you like.”
I nod.
He
takes my left hand and feels around near my wrist until he’s located the chip
underneath my skin.
“Ah,
there it is.” Then he takes one of the guns, the larger of the two and places
the nozzle over it. “You might feel a little scratch.” He pulls the trigger and
I hear the air pressure building in the gun, until suddenly there’s deep thud.
I feel the chip being ripped from my skin. Pain spreads across the top of my
hand like a giant bee sting. I bite my lip to stop from screaming. He takes the
gun away and I can see a small tear in my flesh. Almost immediately he picks up
the other gun and places it over the same spot. There’s a build up of air again
and then a higher pitched thud. I feel the cold metal chip as it’s rammed into
my hand. The pain has just increased ten times. I will not scream. I will not
scream. I try controlling my breathing, taking slow breaths in and out. This
helps a little. My hand feels like it’s been knifed all the way through. But
it’s okay, I think I can keep a lid on it. Just.
He
takes another gun-like object and waves it back and forward over the hole in my
hand.
“This
is a cellular accelerator to plug up the hole I’ve just made,” he says, as if
he’s a plumber fixing some pipework. There’s a pins-and-needles sensation
across the back of my hand. I watch in wonder as thin layers of skin build up,
closing the wound. First pink and fleshy, then white and smooth, until there’s
just a pale patch where the hole was. My head starts to swim so I concentrate
on a spot on the floor, focusing to stop myself fainting.
“Right,
now the other one.”
“What?”
“You
need a chip in both hands.” He tells me casually.
“Why?”
“In
case one hand gets blown off during battle.”
My day
keeps getting better and better.
Interview:
Where
did the idea for The Spiral Arm come from?
It started off as a TV script about seven
teenagers floating across the universe in an escape pod, a kind of Big Brother
in space. Getting TV made is notoriously difficult, so I tried adapting it into
a book. It didn’t work. So I rewound the story. Where did this escape pod come
from? Why were they all teenagers? The idea of a vast training ship full of
teenagers popped into my head, a kind of Hogwarts in space. That’s when the
Spiral Arm took shape.
Wren
Harper is an intriguing character
Yes, she’s shy and a bit of a loner. She
thinks she’s weak but there’s a thread of steel running through her. She’s a
fish out of water, surrounded by elite super fit, aggressive teenagers who are
all ultra-competitive. But Wren’s smart and uses her brain to get her out of
some pretty nasty situations.
How
many seasons of The Spiral Arm will there be?
Well, it takes four years for the training
ship to get to its destination, the planet Kepler. The cadets will be trained
along the way. When they finally get to Kepler, the cadets on board will be
young adults and expected to fight, so there’ll be at least four seasons, maybe
five.
About the Author
After studying to be an architect, Pete realised he wasn’t very good at it.
He liked designing buildings he just couldn’t make them stand up, which is a bit
of a handicap in an industry that likes to keep things upright. So he switched
to advertising, writing ads for everything from cruise lines to zombie video
games. After meeting his wife Shalini and having two boys, he was amazed when
she sat and actually wrote a book. Then another and another. They were good too.
Really good. So he thought, I’ll have a go at that. He soon realised there’s no
magic formula. You just have to put one word in front of the other (and keep
doing that for about a year). It also helps if you can resist the lure of
surfing, Taekwondo, playing Lego with the boys and drinking beer in front of the
TV.
Purchase:
Giveaway:
One ebook of The Spiral Arm. Open internationally.
