30 years on
OK its been so long that I nearly forgot my password!
It's been a difficult couple of years but then I'm in good company I suppose. Some things are sort of sorted now so maybe I'll have time and energy to finish a few things I actually want to do - like write. Anyway, I have a holiday, a paid holiday! A very strange concept to me. Time that I don't need to feel guilty in taking, its been a while since there was any of that.
So I was looking at Lysator and there was a comment about it being 30 years since GP was first broadcast. This popped into my head pretty much straight away and for once I had some time to do something about it. Not particularly polished but if I put it on one side to do that I may never get around to finishing it, so apologies for the ragged edges. My take on 30 years after because I don't believe that pain lasts for ever.
Hope I can still make the cut work - sorry if I don't.
Thirty Years On
The forests were much as he remembered them, a little taller perhaps, a little denser, but otherwise unchanged. The thick carpet of fallen leaves still hissed beneath his feet and clung to his boots just as it had then, and the scent of leaf mold was still on the air, still mixed with the tang of some resin and the tell tale of threatened rain, just as it had been that day thirty years ago. Thirty years. Another world and another life. Thirty years.
The scars left by Scorpios demise were long since scabbed over, and though the scanner showed him where the bones remained there was no grave marker. Just trees, and birdsong and sense of peace, of isolation, as if the universe had passed by and passed on.
Which it had.
The base remained, or at least a shell of it remained. The walls still stood but the silo doors were not locked and the heart and organs of the place had long since been removed and transplanted elsewhere. Now there was nothing to tell of its place in history. He smiled to himself as he wandered the silent corridors, it had no place in history of course, because some things were better forgotten, even by those who were there at the time.
The odd discarded chair and battered table gave no hint as to the drama that had unfolded here and the shelves and cupboards had been cleared of any tell tale clue years ago. What remained could have been the relict of anything, a school, a hospital, a research station or a rebel base, no way of knowing which, if any of them. Anonymity had claimed it and whatever aura of drama or pain it had once held had long since seeped out and dissipated amongst the trees.
There was nothing left now to show where the tracking gallery had been, and only his memory to tell him that this shabby hall, this tattered space, was where his life had finally hit the wall all those years before. Nothing remained to link it to the picture in his mind, not even a trace of blood beneath the dust on the scuffed floor. He looked around him, trying to recapture the image of that moment and yet not really succeeding. Somehow he had always imagined that he would be able to see it, that if he stood here once again it would come back to him in all its awfulness, that every detail would become as bright and harsh as it had been that day. But it seemed that he had been wrong and the memories remained much as they were anywhere, shadows shot with moments of clarity. Distant and wavering. It had hurt somehow, he knew that, but the pain had died long ago and standing here did not shake it back to life. It was over, and had been for thirty years.
“Can we go now…. Please. I’m bored.”
The voice came from behind him. He smiled again.
“I thought I told you to stay in the flyer.” He said mildly.
He heard a small shoe scrape along the dust and he could imagine the line being drawn in that tantalising surface.
“I know,” there was no apology in the tone, “ but I wanted to see what it was you had come to look for. I thought it might be treasure.”
Eyes scanned the room with childish disgust and disappointment.
“Mama said it might be treasure.”
“Your mother should know better.” His voice fell to close to a whisper, “She knows better.”
He turned to meet the bright young eyes behind him and laughed slightly. “There never was any treasure on Gauda Prime, in fact there was never much of anything at all.”
“Then why did we come here?” Petulance appeared now that the threat of punishment seemed to be receeding.
His smile died and he held out his hand suddenly wishing to be gone.
“There was something I needed to be sure of.”
“What?”
“Nothing to concern you.” He said softly, suddenly very glad that was the truth.
He reached out and took a small hand in his, the flesh of it startling white against the black of his glove. For a moment he looked at that little hand, wondering at the size of it, at the existence of it in this place, then he tucked his fingers around it and turned around, towing its owner with him.
“Time to go.”
As the shuttle nose rose above the trees he examined his own feelings and was relieved to find them much as they had been before he arrived here. Thirty years was more than long enough it seemed. ‘Rest in peace’ he found himself thinking as they passed over Scorpio’s grave and then wondered where the phrase had come from. But the thought was as much for himself as the long grounded ship and he knew it. Why should he not?
After all he’d paid his debts, if there had been any to pay.
Blake’s rabble had their brave new world, he had seen to it with Oracs’ help. Servalan was long disappeared and Blake, emerging from obscurity to refute the rumours of his death, had found his way strangely smoothed, and was now retired from office. His companions of those long ago days had never known who freed them but freed they had been and they were comfortable enough. When he had walked out into the woods that day thirty years ago he had left them behind him and yet they had always been with him and he with them, if they had but known it.
Now one of them had found him again.
Thirty years.
Avon looked at the image of the planet disappearing below them as his daughter set a cup of coffee at his side and moved on to chivvy her son into his room and his bed. Thirty years. He leaned back into his seat and reached for his drink as the pale of the upper atmosphere gave way to the dark of space. As he stared at the dull surface of the control panel he caught a hint of his own smile, slightly mocking and yet somehow content. Thirty years was a lifetime ago, and the world he lived in was no longer the same place, and yet something remained, like the shell of that base, something else to be revisited perhaps.
Yes, he decided, he would accept Vila’s invitation after all.
It's been a difficult couple of years but then I'm in good company I suppose. Some things are sort of sorted now so maybe I'll have time and energy to finish a few things I actually want to do - like write. Anyway, I have a holiday, a paid holiday! A very strange concept to me. Time that I don't need to feel guilty in taking, its been a while since there was any of that.
So I was looking at Lysator and there was a comment about it being 30 years since GP was first broadcast. This popped into my head pretty much straight away and for once I had some time to do something about it. Not particularly polished but if I put it on one side to do that I may never get around to finishing it, so apologies for the ragged edges. My take on 30 years after because I don't believe that pain lasts for ever.
Hope I can still make the cut work - sorry if I don't.
Thirty Years On
The forests were much as he remembered them, a little taller perhaps, a little denser, but otherwise unchanged. The thick carpet of fallen leaves still hissed beneath his feet and clung to his boots just as it had then, and the scent of leaf mold was still on the air, still mixed with the tang of some resin and the tell tale of threatened rain, just as it had been that day thirty years ago. Thirty years. Another world and another life. Thirty years.
The scars left by Scorpios demise were long since scabbed over, and though the scanner showed him where the bones remained there was no grave marker. Just trees, and birdsong and sense of peace, of isolation, as if the universe had passed by and passed on.
Which it had.
The base remained, or at least a shell of it remained. The walls still stood but the silo doors were not locked and the heart and organs of the place had long since been removed and transplanted elsewhere. Now there was nothing to tell of its place in history. He smiled to himself as he wandered the silent corridors, it had no place in history of course, because some things were better forgotten, even by those who were there at the time.
The odd discarded chair and battered table gave no hint as to the drama that had unfolded here and the shelves and cupboards had been cleared of any tell tale clue years ago. What remained could have been the relict of anything, a school, a hospital, a research station or a rebel base, no way of knowing which, if any of them. Anonymity had claimed it and whatever aura of drama or pain it had once held had long since seeped out and dissipated amongst the trees.
There was nothing left now to show where the tracking gallery had been, and only his memory to tell him that this shabby hall, this tattered space, was where his life had finally hit the wall all those years before. Nothing remained to link it to the picture in his mind, not even a trace of blood beneath the dust on the scuffed floor. He looked around him, trying to recapture the image of that moment and yet not really succeeding. Somehow he had always imagined that he would be able to see it, that if he stood here once again it would come back to him in all its awfulness, that every detail would become as bright and harsh as it had been that day. But it seemed that he had been wrong and the memories remained much as they were anywhere, shadows shot with moments of clarity. Distant and wavering. It had hurt somehow, he knew that, but the pain had died long ago and standing here did not shake it back to life. It was over, and had been for thirty years.
“Can we go now…. Please. I’m bored.”
The voice came from behind him. He smiled again.
“I thought I told you to stay in the flyer.” He said mildly.
He heard a small shoe scrape along the dust and he could imagine the line being drawn in that tantalising surface.
“I know,” there was no apology in the tone, “ but I wanted to see what it was you had come to look for. I thought it might be treasure.”
Eyes scanned the room with childish disgust and disappointment.
“Mama said it might be treasure.”
“Your mother should know better.” His voice fell to close to a whisper, “She knows better.”
He turned to meet the bright young eyes behind him and laughed slightly. “There never was any treasure on Gauda Prime, in fact there was never much of anything at all.”
“Then why did we come here?” Petulance appeared now that the threat of punishment seemed to be receeding.
His smile died and he held out his hand suddenly wishing to be gone.
“There was something I needed to be sure of.”
“What?”
“Nothing to concern you.” He said softly, suddenly very glad that was the truth.
He reached out and took a small hand in his, the flesh of it startling white against the black of his glove. For a moment he looked at that little hand, wondering at the size of it, at the existence of it in this place, then he tucked his fingers around it and turned around, towing its owner with him.
“Time to go.”
As the shuttle nose rose above the trees he examined his own feelings and was relieved to find them much as they had been before he arrived here. Thirty years was more than long enough it seemed. ‘Rest in peace’ he found himself thinking as they passed over Scorpio’s grave and then wondered where the phrase had come from. But the thought was as much for himself as the long grounded ship and he knew it. Why should he not?
After all he’d paid his debts, if there had been any to pay.
Blake’s rabble had their brave new world, he had seen to it with Oracs’ help. Servalan was long disappeared and Blake, emerging from obscurity to refute the rumours of his death, had found his way strangely smoothed, and was now retired from office. His companions of those long ago days had never known who freed them but freed they had been and they were comfortable enough. When he had walked out into the woods that day thirty years ago he had left them behind him and yet they had always been with him and he with them, if they had but known it.
Now one of them had found him again.
Thirty years.
Avon looked at the image of the planet disappearing below them as his daughter set a cup of coffee at his side and moved on to chivvy her son into his room and his bed. Thirty years. He leaned back into his seat and reached for his drink as the pale of the upper atmosphere gave way to the dark of space. As he stared at the dull surface of the control panel he caught a hint of his own smile, slightly mocking and yet somehow content. Thirty years was a lifetime ago, and the world he lived in was no longer the same place, and yet something remained, like the shell of that base, something else to be revisited perhaps.
Yes, he decided, he would accept Vila’s invitation after all.