Page 46 of The Space Traveller's Lover

DEPARTURE

Oh, brothers! We are on our way. On to bigger things!

Kuzhma-Or and Athguer wait patiently at the departure-craft’s flight deck, watching the whole fighting spectacle unfold and come to an end.

But Kuzhma-Or is more focused on the precise alignment of The Prestige and the faultless formation of the destroyer-craft’s raiding network.

“Oishe” (Magnificent). “Superb job, Rothwen!” Kuzhma-Or roars, pacing in front of the flight panels, checking every detail in the packed rows of images and data.

Rothwen sends his message to Kuzhma-Or and Athguer as he approaches. I had to resolve a small problem, but all is fine now. As soon as he flies in, however, carrying Shaillah over his shoulders, her flaccid body shows otherwise.

“Was the fierce dogfight and the almighty fireball implosion anything to do with you and your ‘small problem’, Rothwen?” Athguer wryly asks.

“It’s a pity it had to end this way,” Kuzhma-Or adds in a markedly fake sorrowful tone. “What are you going to do with her?”

“Let her decide … when she wakes up,” Rothwen replies nonchalantly.

“How bad is it?” Athguer asks while walking towards Shaillah’s limp head and pressing his thumb against her pale neck .

“Nothing to worry about,” Rothwen states, looking in puzzlement at Shaillah’s angelic face. “But I had to squeeze the last bit of oxygen out of her lungs to make her stop.”

“I see her cells are starting to breathe again. Just starting, though. She won’t wake up until we get to The Prestige ,” Athguer concludes.

“Even better. I can concentrate on the important things then,” Rothwen shrugs dismissively. “Must go and change into a new flying gear.”

“ Ei Reishojen is ready to blast off. All engines on standby,” Kuzhma-Or grumbles while directing a pressing frown towards Rothwen, implying he should hurry up.

“I’ll be ready soon,” Rothwen nods as he veers into the side aisle while Kuzhma-Or keeps a piercing gaze on him, trying to probe what he’s thinking.

Rothwen momentarily stops and turns around to face Kuzhma-Or’s persistent glare.

The relentless glow from Rothwen’s pupils plainly shows the unmistakable signal of his ultimate decision.

There is no compromise, no backtracking either.

I’m going to walk away now , My Commander .

S top me now. Or let me deal with it myself.

Kuzhma-Or grits his teeth but does nothing as Rothwen walks away in fast strides, unimpeded.

Inside the changing cubicle, he carefully lays Shaillah’s body inside his own deep-sleep capsule.

He gets into the shower enclosure while keeping an eye on her through the soaked translucent screen.

The icy oxygenated liquid jets pierce and reinvigorate his body, but as the scattering droplets blur his vision, it seems that the spray is raining on her rather than on him.

He cannot stop imagining that, out of the blue, she will get up and join him.

The whole extent of what he had to do in order to have her here suddenly dawns on him.

He seethes inside as every past moment they spent together keeps flashing through his mind, crushing his indomitable ego.

He finally comes to grips with the fact that he would have never left her behind, and this unwelcome weakness infuriates him.

He slips into the glossy white-and-gold flying uniform, the sleek badges in the shape of The Prestige glowing on his vest. Then, he stands by Shaillah’s side and caresses her face while sending a message to Zula-Or.

“You were right, Zula. It would never have worked. ”

“But it was worth trying. And you gave it your best shot,” Zula-Or replies in a heartening tone.

“I did. I gave it my best shot,” he repeats as if doubting every word.

“She will make a fine space-traveller. I’m looking forward to welcoming her into our beautiful Rom-Enjie,” Zula-Or says enthusiastically.

“Yes. She’ll possibly decide to go straight to see you—as soon as she wakes up.”

“Or join other fleets, meet other space warriors. Who knows?” Zula-Or replies, purposely rubbing on Rothwen’s wounded ego.

“Sure. She’ll be free to choose her own destiny,” Rothwen sneers as he starts walking towards the exit in a daze.

“What am I doing?” he frets while pacing around before returning to Shaillah’s side and calling Athguer.

Rothwen senses Athguer entering the room and standing beside him, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Shaillah.

“As you correctly predicted, Athguer, her cells are too weak to … fully withstand this flight,” Rothwen states. Then, exhaling an impatient breath, he asks, “What can we do about it?”

“This will do it,” Athguer proudly announces as he produces a small square pouch from inside his coat and holds it by its top edge in front of Rothwen’s eyes, making him pay attention. “It’s a chain-reaction supercell gel. It will latch onto her cells, protecting them against any break-up.”

Athguer drops the pouch on Rothwen’s extending palm as Rothwen continues to gaze at him intensely.

“It works! I tested it on myself … several times—even under full space-time frame distortion,” Athguer says triumphantly.

“I thought so, Athguer.”

“Whatever you do, don’t let the gel touch your skin,” Athguer warns. “It’s highly reactive, and it will cover you instead. I only have this sample left.”

“Anything else?” Rothwen asks impatiently, rewarding Athguer with an appreciative glare.

“It lasts a short time, so you need to program the flight to reach The Prestige before the gel breaks down.”

“How long do I have?”

“T-600 ”

“Fine!” Rothwen thunders, abruptly closing his hand and making Athguer jolt in fear that the soft pouch would tear open. But ultimately, Rothwen keeps the pouch’s thin layer safe within his hollowed fist. “Thanks, Athguer. That’ll be all. I’ll be there shortly.”

As he watches Athguer leave and lock the door behind him, Rothwen casts the remnants of his tumultuous temper from his mind and concentrates solely on Shaillah.

With one hand, he slowly unclips her belt and takes off her boots and then unzips and pulls off her bodysuit.

As he drops the mangled clothes on the floor, he hears the clink of her necklace and belt hitting the steely surface.

He parts her hair away and straightens her arms alongside her gently breathing body.

As he speaks softly to her, he wonders if everything he ever wanted is right in front of him.

“Shaillah … your graceful figure, your beautiful face, your enticing eyes—it’s all there to deceive.

You may seem delicate … fragile. But you’re not fragile like a crumbling wandering comet.

No. You’re fragile like the runaway burst …

of a deadly supernova!” he smugly smiles as his fingers roam all over her smooth skin, leaving a shiny trail in their wake.

He takes a deep breath and carefully holds the pouch over her chest with his fingertips. As he presses along the sides, a translucent syrup pours over her skin. The glimmering gel rapidly absorbs into her pores, coalescing over every contour of her body and sticking on every thread of her hair.

When he is satisfied that she’s completely covered and the gel has settled into a jellylike thin layer, he tightly closes the capsule’s translucent lid, securing her body in place.

“Sleep tight, Shaillah, for when you wake up, that’ll be when our paths will diverge or intertwine—forever!” he professes while picking up her belt and necklace from the floor.

Rothwen hastily makes his way towards the front of the aircraft and inspects the cockpit holograms.

“My Supreme Commander, the great Kuzhma-Or, give me the order!” he roars, leaning over the dashboard, his hands resting on the engines panel.

Kuzhma-Or nods with a flagrant arrogant grin while puffing up his mighty chest .

Rothwen proudly watches as the calculated exit course swiftly sprawls across the dashboard holograms. “Oh, soyen” (brothers).

“We are on our way—on to bigger things,” he boasts.

Basking in their glory, they lean back into their body-shaped seats as he announces: “Time of arrival to The Prestige—T-130” (seconds).

“Estimated maximum distortion—one degree of full space-time frame.”

Rothwen unlocks the flying sequence, using the encrypted code from his unique brainwave frequency.

Instantly, the departure-craft’s aerodynamic body tilts to a vertical position, deftly pointing upwards while rapidly spinning on its axis over the displaced waters of the whirling ocean.

Like a fired-up missile, it shoots up, seamlessly breaking through the zenith of the high dome ceiling.

The engines’ buzzing sound changes into a high-pitched hiss as the aircraft pushes through the interlocked tunnels.

In a flash, it breaks through the Pacific Ocean’s deep waters and into the looming dark sky, amid the explosive rumble of successive sonic booms, swiftly disappearing from view behind its radiant fizzling trails.