Flower-of-Sands_The Extraordinary Adventures of a Female Astronaut

  Flower-of-Sands

  (The Extraordinary adventures of a female astronaut)

  Grahame R. Smith

  Cover Design Mike Watson

  Table Of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Prelude

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Other Books by Grahame R. Smith

  About the Author

  Contact Details

  Prelude

  Not just crash landing – crash landing into a red giant!

  Her ship’s intergalactic super-drive was absorbing heat like a sponge. Any remaining air was escaping through fissures in the so-called indestructible hull. The bridge and adjacent areas had vaporized. A major breach was seconds away. Death was not only imminent, it was overdue.

  She was twenty-five meters from the shuttle bay, which she could see at the far end of the ship’s internal tubing. Her smart-skin must have blacked her out to stop her panicking and manoeuvred her here. Now, knowing she was doomed, it was tranquillizing her in preparation for oblivion’s final embrace. Serenity, inappropriate under the circumstances, was cursing through her like a lullaby amidst the blare of a heavy-metal rock band.

  It was not working. Underneath, she was panicking, and that, so far, had kept her alive. If only she could black out again and wake up inside an escape pod. But that was not about to happen. The ship’s systems were down and her progress was too slow to reach the shuttle bay before the ship fell apart and surrendered to unimaginable heat. Her luck was out. She was finished.

  The ship lurched, pummelled by rogue gravitational winds. This threw her into a spin, crashed her against the tubing wall, and disrupted the ship’s already malfunctioning artificial gravity enough to catapult her towards the shuttle bay. Agony, but perhaps her luck was changing.

  The shuttle bay was in darkness, but her smart-skin steered her towards an escape pod. Barely conscious, she passed a hand over a dimly lit panel. A door slid open. She plunged in and immediately passed out.

  Her smart-skin rapidly engaged the pod’s AI which was still functioning. The door slid shut and the pod shot away, veering towards the red giant that filled all of space everywhere.

  The pod was equipped with an assembly of temporary-drives. Unlike the drives on the mother ship, they were still operational, but equipped to function only once. The pull of the red giant was overwhelming. She had only seconds of existence.

  The AI opened a hyperspace conversion and the pod plummeted into an energy vortex almost as lethal as the environment of the red giant. The AI then made a series of adjustments, each of which made the situation worse. Disaster. Finally, the AI made got it right and the pod pitched out of hyperspace. She woke and gazed at the screens above her. She was hurtling through the upper atmosphere of a planet.

  Reaching up to a control panel, she attempted a landing sequence. Her training had prepared her for extreme situations. One problem: extreme situations were supposed to be only theoretical. Another: she could hardly move.

  What had happened and why? An hour ago, a weapons grade magnetic wave had blasted her ship, which was supposed to be indestructible. Obviously, someone did not like her. In an alien galaxy, far from home, someone or something was trying to kill her.

  So far, they were succeeding. She was still crash landing, the pod was heating up, spinning rapidly, and the anti-grave programme, if it had ever existed, was malfunctioning. If hi-gees didn’t kill her, the landing would.

  She was in a tumble drier, with occasional glimpses of faraway blueness. ‘At least its blue, and soft, and cool,’ she thought has she lost consciousness.

  Chapter 1

  Earth: Kabul: Afghanistan 2836

  Jalaal Saleh Ali focused on his posture as he observed his ritual walk along the marble walkway leading to the entrance of the Kabul Academy of Music. It was a long walk and he was taking his time. Across his left shoulder, his smart-rubab swayed gently to the rhythm of his limbs. To his left, the Hindu Kush stretched white-blue into clouds. The blaze of morning sky, already alive with floating gardens and leisure parks, echoed with choruses of migrated birds and animals. Remains of the 23rd century city stood still and white in the shadow of the mountains as if preserved in translucent crystal. Also to his left, but closer, the Kabul River flowed deep and clear, alive with wild life and flora, winding through citrus groves and irrigated plantations. Here, advanced technology and natural farming complemented one another.

  His white robe fluttered in the breeze and wrapped around him, emphasising his muscular frame. His jet-black pleated hair flowed down to his waist. Tall and broad shouldered, he was an appealing figure, his green-brown, flecked eyes gazing into a world he commanded. Yet he wore a cloak of gentleness, of concern, even compassion. Somehow, he blended control with recklessness, strength of purpose with vulnerability.

  Kabul was a city of glass and transparent spires, a maze of symmetrical structures and theme parks. People floated, moved across invisible pathways, gathered around fountains and miniature gardens. Everywhere was colour. Refreshment outlets revealed exotic food combinations. Damp with dew, food stores were stacked high with multi-coloured fruit and vegetables, both natural and bio-engineered.

  Through the micro-chip implant at the base of his skull, he could connect to the walkway’s internal volition functions, designed to move him along at a selected speed, ranging from a little faster to express. He decided to continue walking, enjoying the slap of his bare feet on the marble surface of the walkway.

  He came to a small bend that ran close to a chuckling subsidiary of the Kabul River. To his right was a cluster of bushes and flora close to a group of semi-transparent, temporary habitats that glistened in the strengthening sunlight. Solitary figures worked a stretch of cultivated land that reached almost to the walkway.

  Three girls, a little younger than Jalaal, and making only a half-hearted attempt at concealment, squatted behind one of the bushes. Their poorly suppressed laughter intensified as Jalaal drew nearer. As usual, he ignored them, even when several tiny missiles hit him between his shoulders, on his neck, and the back of his head. The girl’s spoke in a local dialect exclusive to teenagers. Jalaal knew enough of it to recognize the explicit content of this mounting verbal tirade, which again, he chose to ignore.

  Then they were on the walkway behind him, speaking Pashto.

  ‘Jalaal, you look so handsome today. Will you play with us?’

  ‘Fariba wants to sing to you, amongst other things (hysterical laughter) … in a private session (more laughter). You can play together … privately.’

&nbs
p; ‘Can we tune your rubab? Safia is a great tuner. You don’t need the Academy with her around.’

  Rescue came in the form of a blur that solidified into the image of a girl with intense blue-grey eyes sparkling beneath a halo of red, green, and silver hair. Across her back, she carried a musical instrument encased in a semi-luminous sheath.

  ‘I see your morning ambush is in full flight … or was,’ she laughed looking back at the girls who were moving away, sensing the superiority of their competitor.

  Jalaal laughed softly and touched the girl’s arm in a gesture of friendship. ‘I ignore them.’

  ‘Which is part of your game, is it not? You walk past the area where they wait for you, purposely – don’t kid me – just so that you can ignore their flirting – which you enjoy. Poor things.’

  ‘Poor things? Are you kidding? You should hear what they say.’

  ‘I can imagine. And you like it. It makes you feel like a king – adored.’

  ‘It is part of my ritual of detachment, Rashida. My teacher advises me to separate from worldly desire that I may find true contemplation.’

  ‘Seriously? Your teacher? My teacher too, remember. Who would never say anything so silly, so you can’t fool me. You like ignoring them. It makes you feel powerful.’

  Jalaal laughed lightly. ‘Well, there is one over whom I do not have power, who, on the contrary, has power over me, with whom I argue at my peril.’

  Rashida gazed at the sky and laughed with mock triumph. ‘Very funny. And totally true.’ She took his arm and squeezed.

  ‘We should move.’ She leant towards him, allowing her hair to brush against his face. ‘We have a competition awaiting us. Rehearsals have already started, and we are late. Have you practised?’

  ‘Not really,’ he lied.

  ‘I have,’ she lied. ‘Day in and day out. Hour upon hour. But you are the one who will win.’

  ‘What? With you taking part? That is not a foregone conclusion.’

  ‘Yes, of course it is.’ She was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Listen, mighty one,’ she said in English. ‘I will allow you to win, if we can go to the Martian Floating Gardens together. I so want to go there.’

  ‘If I am to win, it will be from my own efforts.’ He spoke with mock self-importance.

  She spun around, grabbed his arm, gazing intently into his face, her eyes alive with passion. She spoke in Pashto.

  ‘You must win, Jalaal! It is for you to win. You are such an inspiration. Others are good, I am good, Leila is good, but you have a divine spark, you transcend. It is your destiny to win and lead others.’

  ‘Lead? How can I lead? Explain.’

  ‘You can lead others to overcome their limitations, reach for the sky.’ She waved her arms dramatically towards the clouds.

  Jalaal said nothing. He was always embarrassed when Rashida spoke in this way, even although he sensed truth in her words. By now, the gleaming towers and spires of Kabul stretched above them. They had reached an open space of fountains, pathways, seats, gardens, and meeting places. Giant mosaics and wall-gardens stretched into the rapidly warming sky. They entered a glass building of shifting spaces and entrances, boarded a lift-platform and ascended, passing level after level of buzzing, open-plan activity until they arrived at a roof air terminal.

  ‘I have never understood why the competition has to be held in Jalalabad when most of the participants are from the Kabul Academy,’ Jalaal complained.

  ‘Oh, you sound so grumpy. The girls on the walkway must have gotten to you. Look, the Jalalabad concert hall only happens to be the finest in the Middle East, South Asia, probably the world.’ Rashida waved to a group of fellow students who were boarding a silver-white mini-airbus.

  As soon as they were strapped in, the airbus took off, soaring into the sky, before plunging down into the valley that ran the length of the Hindu Kush Mountains between Kabul and Jalalabad.

  Rashida looked down at the winding road below them, weaving in and out of the majestic terrain.

  ‘That road was built in the 24th century and people still use it – tourists mostly,’ she said. ‘The views are awesome. We must do it one day.’

  A girl with dark skin, wearing a white silk hijab, whose eyes blazed obsidian black, turned from her seat in front of Jalaal and Rashida. ‘In ancient times, I mean 21st century or maybe the 22nd, the road beneath that road was considered one of the deadliest in the world. Many died. Vehicles plunged into the crevices below.’

  ‘Really!’ Jalaal looked down with wonder mixed with scepticism. ‘Are you sure that is not just a myth, like the stories of the Sands.’

  ‘Of course not. The Sands are superstition. What I am telling you now is history’ The girl spoke a variation of the teenage dialect.

  ‘Okay, Leila,’ Rashida laughed. ‘We all know you are an archaeology expert. We are so impressed.’

  Ignoring this, the girl looked seductively at Jalaal. ‘We are doing a dig soon, along that road, after the music competition. Maybe you would like to accompany us. We are each allowed a guest.’

  This was a blatant lie, and Rashida felt pangs of annoyance and jealousy as Leila’s eyes flashed barely concealed invitation at Jalaal. Rashida was accustomed to girls liking Jalaal and usually laughed it off. Leila’s heavenly beauty, however, was another matter. Rashida felt growing unease as Leila playfully chatted with Jalaal, slipping between Pashto and various local dialects, casually displaying the perfection of her teeth and lips.

  Rashida realized that it was she rather than Jalaal who was the target of Leila’s flirting. The name for it was pre-competition one-upmanship or psychological warfare. Those were the polite terms, but what competitors experienced was far from polite. The competitors generally accepted that Jalaal would take first prize. But the fight was on for the prestigious 2nd, 3rd and special commendation prizes. People regarded Leila and Rashida as virtuosi musicians of the highest order – and there were others. Pre-competition rivalry would be full on with no guarantees of fair play. From body language to mind games and verbal insults, all options were open. This did not normally worry Rashida, but Leila was subtle, got under the skin, had her ways, especially with men.

  Remembering her teacher’s instructions, Rashida pulled herself up from her slumped position, looked ahead with an expression of disdain, ignored Leila, and breathed deeply.

  Later, all competitors gathered in the principal auditorium of the Jalalabad Palace of Community, a three-mile-long and half-mile wide building of unique proportions. Layers of acoustic and designer excellence reached into the clouds and beyond, floor upon floor of magnificence and ornate interior architecture. On each side, labyrinths of passages and interconnecting chambers wove between practice rooms, conference halls, offices, more auditoriums, and minor halls for chamber music and private recitals.

  The competitors, whom the judges had whittled down to thirty-five finalists, had the main floor, overlooking water fountains, gardens, and, farther out, an arboretum. They placed themselves randomly across the empty audience area, facing a white curvature of stage that grew imperceptibly out of the floor. The competitors would perform here. Already an orchestra of actual and holographic musicians, displaying a variety of instruments, was tuning up – soft and enticing trills filling the auditorium with expectation.

  Rashida visited the bathroom to wash her face and collect her thoughts and get her feelings under control. She was upset. Her initial attempts at ignoring Leila were not working. Leila was so gorgeous, so unutterably attractive, and she was wrapping herself psychologically around Jalaal like a bloodsucking amoeba. And Jalaal didn’t seem to care, or was oblivious, which was just as bad. Rashida knew that Leila was aiming at her rather than Jalaal, undermining her confidence, making her jealous and vulnerable, and liable to make mistakes in her performance, lose focus, play without inspiration. And she was succeeding.

  Rashida splashed her face and took three deep breaths and walked back into auditorium.

  Only to find Leil
a sitting near to Jalaal, laughing, and speaking French. French! ‘Holy Sands,’ she whispered. Her French was not good, Jalaal’s was fluent, and so too, it seemed, was Leila’s. She felt herself trembling with frustration. Leila was hitting her exactly where it hurt, her love for Jalaal, and her vague, obscure insecurities. It was as if Leila had already won the 2nd prize.

  Someone touched her sleeve. It was Abdul-Rafi, her best male friend, like a cousin or brother. He smiled into her face and winked. ‘Don’t let her get to you,’ he said soothingly. ‘This is the only way she can beat you, by upsetting you and getting you to play below your usual standard. It will only work if you let it.’

  ‘Thanks, Abi, but she is so beautiful.’

  ‘And so are you, Rashida. Rise above it.’

  Rashida nodded and closed her eyes, then picked up her smart-lute, kissed her friend lightly on the forehead and made for the nearest exit. She crossed a sizeable lobby where guests, friends and family were queuing for access to the rehearsal. A few minutes later she found a practice room, slipped her lute out of its case, and began practising.

  Chapter 2

  Jalaal scanned the auditorium. Where was Rashida? He wanted her beside him. Hers was the only presence that soothed and prepared him for playing.

  He sighed. Rashida had fled. Leila had upset her. Well, he must not let that affect him. Rashida would have to deal with it, which he knew she would do - eventually. Now, all his efforts must go into his performance/rehearsal as he was first up and already the auditorium was filling with fans, friends, and people who had come specially to hear him rehearse. As always, his fame preceded him, and of this, as always, he was only half-aware.

  From her practice room, Rashida could hear the heavenly sounds of Jalaal’s instrument as it blended with the orchestra in a symphonic poem that transported all into an alternative world. Rivalry between the other musicians temporarily ceased as Jalaal’s virtuosity produced cascades of notation that burst like galaxies and nebula in an infinite sea of sound.