What follows here is the first part of the first chapter of a story I am writing. It is still a bit raw and some parts still need fleshing out. I am posting it here in the hope of some feedback on style and content. Basically, do I carry on or do I ask for the day job back. :? Enjoy.

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“Well?” The mercenary looked over the table at the journalist. His blue eyes stared steadily back at her green over his glass of vodka. He sipped and put the glass on the table without taking his eyes from hers. Ice blue and hard as granite: eyes that had witnessed so much seemed to fill her vision. Her vision telescoped in until his eyes were all she could see. He seemed to be sucking her in. His head tilted a fraction to the right and his left eyebrow rose quizzically.

“Well?” He repeated, his voice little more that a whisper. The eyes drew her closer, she felt cold. She felt like he was stripping away her privacy layer by layer to reveal her inner most thoughts, even her very soul. She felt as if she would tell him anything he wanted to know. He did not even have to ask, she was there for the taking. Stop! With an inaudible snap her vision pulled back to view the whole man. The mercenary’s eyes softened slightly and, was that a twinkle? A small, mischievous lift to the mouth confirmed her suspicions. “Sorry,” he apologised “That was rude and unforgivable, I am sorry.” She nodded in acceptance; she was in no position to say any different. “Thank you. Your motives are unclear and I need to know but maybe now is not the time.”

In order to steady herself and recover her composure she raised her glass and took a sip of her wine and appraised the man opposite. The bottle said it was a Montrachet 1978 from Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. Although she knew that the contents had never seen the inside of a winery that did not lessen the pleasure. Unlike the wine he was unremarkable, except for the eyes, which had returned to their ice blue hardness, waiting. Close-cropped fair hair topped a slightly bulbous nose and ears that did not lay quite flat, lips that belied the hardness of his eyes by curled and twitched into an occasional smile. She estimated his age at no more than twenty-five although she knew it was at least double that. Around his throat a simple grey band of about two centimetres wide, as thin as paper, with a single blue stone. Simple? On closer inspection the band rippled in seemingly random patterns of every shade of grey. The stone had no setting but seemed to merge with the band and pulsated with intricate patterns of its own. In a similar fashion the band itself appeared to merge with his skin towards the nape of his neck. His gunmetal grey jumpsuit had no badges or marks of rank, or indeed any visible means of entry or exit.

“Well?” He repeated as he pushed his chair away from the table and readjusted his posture, leaning back with his hands behind his head. On first inspection, the chairs, table and floor appeared to be moulded from the same piece of translucent material, yet the chair moved, silently and smoothly. There was a slight pause before the chair modified itself slightly to accommodate the new pose. She searched for a beginning.

“How’s Star?” She said finally.
“She always did hate me calling her that. I don’t know,” he replied evenly, his eyes taking on a look of deep sorrow and regret.
“Will she die?”
“She’s already dead but that is the wrong question”
“Will she recover?”
“She must,” he finished simply, “but that’s not why we’re here is it?”

She took another drink and looked around the bar. It was starting to fill, as it always did just before a departure, especially one that included a hyper-spatial jump. Off duty crew drifted in, in small groups. Wherever they stopped, a table and the requisite number of chairs oozed out of the floor and became solid. A hovering ‘attendant’ floated in from an unseen room and dispensed drinks in a myriad of colours in drinking vessels of every conceivable shape. The bar ran the full width of the ship, about four hundred metres, and occupied the middle deck’s most forward position. Open on three sides and about four metres from floor to ceiling with one complete ‘picture window’, it commanded the best possible view of the void outside and the blue and green planet dominating the forward view. The journalist guessed that about four hundred people of nearly as many races now sat and chatted. An air of expectation was gathering and although the bar could be no more that ten percent full a party atmosphere was growing. Without exception the patrons were all bipeds and of humanoid construction, mostly discernable as male or female but each had unique attributes. Many wore a ‘breather’ under their nose. This device, she had been told, supplemented particular gasses that each crew member needed that were not available in the ship’s atmosphere and filtered any potentially poisonous ones. At the next table sat a veritable giant of a man, she guessed at two and a half metres, but painfully thin with pale yellow skin and eyes. He was sat with another of no more than one and a half metres but with a barrel of a chest and powerful arms and legs. Noticing her looking, they stopped talking and bowed gracefully. She and the mercenary returned the bow and they continued their conversation, glancing occasionally outside. Each crew member wore similar one piece jumpsuits as the mercenary with no adornments although the colour varied. She pulled her attention away from the surroundings and focused on the mercenary again.

“How did it all start?” She asked. She pushed a recording device between them.
“That’s a question with many answers.” He replied levelly, “Do you want me to begin with the dawn of time, how life evolved, my birth or how I got here?” He continued indicating the immediate surroundings. “They’re all linked, you know.” There was that twinkle again, then it was gone.
“It’s your story, you choose the appropriate beginning.” He nodded, satisfied and tossed off the rest of his vodka. Almost immediately an attendant appeared at his shoulder. The empty glass vanished and a fresh shot appeared on the table.

“I was born in England in 1959, the year Sputnik was launched. You could say I was born at the birth of the Space Age.”
“That makes you fifty five.”
“You win a cookie.” His head inclined in mock acknowledgement. “I was born to average parents and had an unremarkable childhood. I was one hundred percent average at school except for a hatred of mathematics that bordered of pathological. I took an instant liking to computers when, in my primary school, a forward thinking teacher remarked that one day computers would do all our work for us. It was then I resolved never to try at mathematics, there was no point.” The journalist smiled appropriately.

The blue green planet outside started to slip to the port side, slowly at first but gathering momentum as the great ship manoeuvred majestically on its axis. All sound in the bar ceased as all the assembled crew raised their drinks in a silent salute. Everyone except the mercenary, his stare fixed on the journalist, pointedly ignoring the events outside. The great ship moved out of orbit riding the surrounding magnetic fields provided by the planet and nearby star to propel it silently forwards. The mercenary glanced momentarily at the receding planet and gave a little snort. The planet’s single moon appeared and hung in the forward view.

“I left education in 1975 with hardly any qualifications; drifting from one dead end job to another.” He continued, oblivious to the external events. “Eventually I got a job selling computers. I earned good money; I had friends, girlfriends and even had sex occasionally. Life was good.” The Moon was now growing slowly in size and sliding slowly off the port side as the ship accelerated. A slight haze suddenly distorted the Moon’s features indicating that the ship’s ram scoop had been deployed. The scoop extended in a one thousand kilometre wide radius around the front of the ship, a prelude to the firing of the ship’s fusion engines.

The mercenary watched the Moon for a few moments. “I never did take you to dinner on the Moon.”
“I bet it would drive the scientists nuts if they found empty wine bottles and leftover food at Tranquillity Base next time they went up,” she smiled.
“No one will ever go back,” he replied with finality. She knew he was right but that simple phrase had a second meaning to her. She fought down the sudden wave of emotions that struck her: sorrow, bitterness, loss, loneliness, panic. What have I done? She had the sudden urge to beat on his chest and scream.

His eyes caught hers and held them. Calm, slight euphoria, the feeling of wanting to sink into goose down pillows…

“Better?”
“Yes, my turn to apologise, very unprofessional of me. You must teach me that sometime.”
“No need to apologise. You will learn, in time. You are a long way from home.” He finished, glancing momentarily at the vista outside before returning his cool, steady gaze to the journalist.

A very faint vibration indicated that two miles away at the stern of the ship the six massive fusion engines had ignited. The Moon began to grow visibly in size, the assembled throng watched in silence as was the custom that was carried out at each departure. The vibration faded as the ship continued to accelerate steadily and the engines reached their peak efficiency. There would be a point where the ram scoops would be gathering more hydrogen than the engines burned. This meant that the ship refuelled its self thus minimising the amount of bulky fuel carried. The remaining debris and gasses were broken down into elements and stored for recycling through the ship’s systems: water, atmosphere, metals for emergency repairs. There would be a delay of a couple of hours while the ship made a safe distance from the nearby planet before a jump to hyperspace could be made safely so the crew returned to drinking and chatting.

“You’re blocking me!” The accusation came from a lithe female that had just appeared at the table. Jet black shoulder length hair shot with blue gloss, her eyes covered by a one-piece, form hugging visor with a highly polished mirror finish. Her posture gave a haughty and superior air. She inclined her head towards the journalist in recognition and smiled with small pointed teeth. Without visible eyes to convey emotion she looked like a cobra preparing to strike. This one always unnerved the journalist.
“I’m blocking everyone Cat,” replied the mercenary, “what do you want?”
“The Hunab Ku is expecting us.” Her voice rolled smoothly, almost like a purr.
“Thank you. It’s going to be a long trip.”
“Time enough for healing.” The emotionless visor held the mercenary for a second before he looked away, pain and sorrow crossing his face once again. She smiled or was she about to strike, the journalist could not tell, before turning and walking away. The journalist watched her go, her stride long and stately, each step precise, perfect and unhurried.

“Did you ever marry?”
“No, I just never got round to it. Just as well really.”
“So, you are enjoying your life. What happened?”
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